ON GRANITE
(1784)
Even in antiquity granite was recognized as a mineral worthy of note and it has drawn increased attention in modern times. The ancients knew it under another name; they called it syenite after Syene, a town located on the border of Ethiopia. The colossal masses of this stone served to inspire the Egyptians with the idea of creating monumental works. Their kings erected obelisks of it to honor the Sun, and because of its variegated red color it was soon named “the stone with flecks of fire.” Today the sphinxes, the statues of Memnon, the enormous columns still strike travelers with awe, and in our own time the powerless lord of Rome is even setting up the relics of an ancient obelisk which his omnipotent predecessors brought intact from foreign soil.
Modern observers have given this mineral its present name because of its granular appearance. In the recent past it was subjected to a moment of degradation before attaining the esteem in which informed scientists now hold it: the tremendous masses of those obelisks and the extraordinary variations in their granularity misled an Italian scientist into believing that the Egyptians had molded them artificially from a fluid mass.
But that view was soon abandoned, and the honor of this mineral was finally restored by a number of observant travelers. Every journey into uncharted mountains reaffirmed the long-standing observation that granite is the loftiest and deepest-lying substance, that this mineral, which modern research has made easier to identify, forms the fundament of our earth, a fundament upon which all other mountains rest. It lies unshakably in the deepest bowels of the earth; its high ridges soar in peaks which the all-surrounding waters have never risen to touch. This much we know of granite, and little else. Composed of familiar materials, formed in mysterious ways, its origins are as little to be found in fire as they are in water. Extremely diverse in the greatest simplicity, its mixtures are compounded in numberless variety. The position and relationship of its elements, its durability and its color vary from peak to peak, and the rock masses of each peak often exhibit variations every few feet although the whole remains homogeneous. And thus anyone who knows the fascination natural mysteries hold for man will understand why I have departed from my usual realm of observation and turned with passionate fervor to this one. I do not fear the accusation that a contrary spirit has led me away from my consideration and depiction of the human heart, the youngest, most diverse, most fluid, most changeable, most vulnerable part of creation, and has brought me to the observation of the oldest, firmest, deepest, most unshakable son of nature. It is evident that all things in nature have a clear relationship to one another, and that the questing spirit resists being denied what it can attain. I have suffered and continue to suffer much through the inconstancy of human opinion, through its sudden changes in me and in others, and I may be forgiven my desire for that sublime tranquillity which surrounds us when we stand in the solitude and silence of nature, vast and eloquent with its still voice. Let those who are aware of this feeling follow me on my journey.
Filled with these thoughts I approach you, the most ancient and worthiest monuments of time. As I stand high atop a barren peak and survey the wide expanse below, I can say to myself: “Here you stand upon ground which reaches right down into the deepest recesses of the Earth; no younger strata, no pile of alluvial debris comes between you and the firm foundation of the primal world. What you tread here is not the perpetual grave of those beautiful, fruitful valleys; these peaks have never given birth to a living being and have never devoured a living being, for they are before all life and above all life.”
In this moment, when the inner powers of the Earth seem to affect me directly with all their forces of attraction and movement, and the influences of heaven hover closer about me, I am uplifted in spirit to a more exalted view of nature. The human spirit brings life to everything, and here, too, there springs to life within me an image irresistible in its sublimity.
“This mood of solitude,” I say to myself as I gaze down from the barren peak and glimpse a faint patch of low-growing moss far below, “this mood of solitude will overcome all who desire to bring before their souls only the deepest, oldest, most elemental feeling for the truth. Such a one may truly say to himself: ‘Here, on this primal and everlasting altar raised directly on the ground of creation, I bring the being of all beings a sacrifice. I feel the first and most abiding origin of our existence; I survey the world with its undulating valleys and its distant fruitful meadows, my soul is exalted beyond itself and above all the world, and it yearns for the heavens which are so near.’”
But soon the burning sun will bring back thirst and hunger, the human necessities. Our observer’s gaze will seek out the very valleys over which his spirit had soared. He will envy the dwellers in those more abundant and plentifully watered plains, the inhabitants who have built their happy homes on the debris and ruin of error and opinion, who scratch in the dust of their ancestors and quietly meet the modest needs of their daily existence within those narrow confines. With these thoughts as an overture his soul will make its way into centuries past and recall all that was noted by careful observers, all that was imagined by fiery spirits.
“This crag,” I tell myself, “rose more steeply, more sharply, higher into the clouds when its summit still stood as a sea-girt isle in the ancient waters. Round about it streamed the spirit which moved on the face of the waters; in the vast depths the taller peaks were shaped from the debris of primeval mountains, while newer and more distant mountains were formed from the ruins of those peaks and the remains of what lived in the depths. Now the moss has started to spread, the shell-covered creatures of the sea become fewer, the water recedes, the taller peaks grow green, everywhere life begins to burgeon.
“But soon new scenes of devastation clash with this life. Raging volcanoes rise up in the distance, seeming to threaten the world with destruction. Yet the bedrock of my refuge remains unshaken, while those who live on distant shores and islands are buried beneath the faithless land.”
I return from these far-ranging thoughts and view the very rocks which have brought exaltation and assurance to my soul by their presence. I see their bulk shot through with cracks, here rising straight up, there askew, sometimes sharply layered, sometimes in formless heaps as though thrown together. At first glance I am tempted to exclaim: “Nothing here is in its primal, ancient state; everything is ruin, chaos, and destruction!” This is exactly the opinion we will meet when we turn from direct observation of these mountains and retreat to the library to delve into the books of our predecessors. Here we will find it asserted that the primeval mountains are an indivisible whole, seemingly cast in a single piece, or that they are divided by fissures into layers and strata which are crisscrossed by innumerable veins of rock; sometimes it is said that this mineral is not stratified, but occurs in individual masses which are intermixed in a completely irregular fashion, while another observer claims to have found strong stratification alternating with muddled confusion. How can we harmonize all these contradictions and find a guidepost for our further investigations?
This is a task which I presently intend to undertake. Though I may not be as fortunate in this as I would hope, my efforts will afford others the opportunity to go further—even errors in observation can serve to cultivate the quality of alertness and give those with sharp eyes reason to use them. Here, however, an admonition may be warranted, less for Germans than for those in other lands to whom this treatise might find its way. Learn how to distinguish this mineral clearly from other varieties. To this day the Italians confuse fine-grained granite with a type of lava, and the French confuse it with gneiss, which they call foliated granite or second-order granite. In fact even we Germans, as conscientious as we usually are in such things, have until recently confused granite with a useless rock chiefly found among layers of schist, a conglomerate of quartz and varieties of hornstone, as well as with the graywacke of the Harz mountains, a younger mixture of quartz and schist particles.
(C. 1785)
The concepts of being and totality are one and the same; when pursuing the concept as far as possible, we say that we are conceiving of the infinite.
But we cannot think of the infinite, or of total existence.
We can conceive only of things which are finite or made finite by our mind; i.e., the infinite is conceivable only insofar as we can imagine total existence—but this task lies beyond the power of the finite mind.
The infinite cannot be said to have parts.
Although all finite beings exist within the infinite, they are not parts of the infinite; instead, they partake of the infinite.
We have difficulty believing that something finite might exist through its own nature. Yet everything actually exists through its own nature, although conditions of existence are so linked together that one condition must develop from the other. Thus it seems that one thing is produced by another, but this is not so—instead, one living being gives another cause to be, and compels it to exist in a certain state.
Therefore being is within everything that exists, and thus also the principle of conformity which guides its existence.
The process of measuring is a coarse one, and extremely imperfect when applied to a living object.
A living thing cannot be measured by something external to itself; if it must be measured, it must provide its own gauge. This gauge, however, is highly spiritual, and cannot be found through the senses. Even in the circle the gauge of the diameter may not be applied to the periphery. There have been attempts to measure the human being mechanically: painters have chosen the head as the best portion to use for a unit of measurement. But this cannot be done without creating tiny, indefinable distortions in the other parts of the body.
The things we call the parts in every living being are so inseparable from the whole that they may be understood only in and with the whole. As we stated above, a finite living being partakes of infinity, or rather, it has something infinite within itself. We might better say: in a finite living being the concepts of existence and totality elude our understanding; therefore we must say that it is infinite, just as we say that the vast whole containing all beings is infinite.
The things which enter our consciousness are vast in number, and their relations—to the extent the mind can grasp them—are extraordinarily complex. Minds with the inner power to grow will begin to establish an order so that knowledge becomes easier; they will begin to satisfy themselves by finding coherence and connection.
Thus all of existence and totality must be made finite in our minds so that it conforms to our nature and our way of thinking and feeling. Only then will we say that we understand something, or enjoy it.
The mind may perceive the seed, so to speak, of a relation which would have a harmony beyond the mind’s power to comprehend or experience once the relation is fully developed. When this happens, we call the impression sublime; it is the most wonderful bestowed on the mind of man.
When we find a relation our mind is almost able to follow or grasp as it unfolds, we call the impression great.
We said above that all living things in existence have their relation within themselves; thus we call the individual or collective impression they make on us true—so long as it springs from the totality of their existence. We call the object beautiful when this existence is partially finite so that we grasp it easily, when it is related to our nature so that we grasp it with pleasure.
A similar thing may occur when a person (within the limits of his ability) has formed a whole—be it extensive or scanty—from the relationship of things, when he has finally closed the circle. He then believes that what is most comfortable to think, what brings pleasure, is also what is most sure and certain. Indeed, we often find him gazing with self-satisfied pity on those less easily contented, those who strive to discover and understand further relationships between things divine and human. At every opportunity he lets us know with self-deprecating arrogance: in the realm of truth he has found a certainty exalted beyond any need for proof and understanding. He cannot do enough in proclaiming the enviable peace and joy he feels, and in calling attention to this bliss as the ultimate goal for all. But because he can show neither how he arrived at this conviction nor what its real basis is, he offers little comfort to those seeking instruction. Instead, they will hear repeatedly that their minds must grow ever simpler, that they must focus on one point alone and dismiss all thought of complex and confusing relationships. Only then—but all the more certainly—will they find happiness in a state given freely by God as a gift and special boon.
Indeed, to our way of thinking this limitation is no boon, for a defect cannot be viewed as a boon. But we might see a blessing of nature in the fact that man, who is usually able to achieve only partial concepts, may nonetheless find such satisfaction in his narrowness.
THE METAMORPHOSIS OF PLANTS
(1790)
Introduction
1. Anyone who has paid even a little attention to plant growth will readily see that certain external parts of the plant undergo frequent change and take on the shape of the adjacent parts—sometimes fully, sometimes more, and sometimes less.
2. Thus, for example, the single flower most often turns into a double one when petals develop instead of stamens and anthers; these petals are either identical in form and color to the other petals of the corolla, or still bear visible signs of their origin.
3. Hence we may observe that the plant is capable of taking this sort of backward step, reversing the order of growth. This makes us all the more aware of nature’s regular course; we will familiarize ourselves with the laws of metamorphosis by which nature produces one part through another, creating a great variety of forms through the modification of a single organ.
4. Researchers have been generally aware for some time that there is a hidden relationship among various external parts of the plant which develop one after the other and, as it were, one out of the other (e.g., leaves, calyx, corolla, and stamens); they have even investigated the details. The process by which one and the same organ appears in a variety of forms has been called the metamorphosis of plants.
5. This metamorphosis appears in three ways: regular, irregular and accidental.
6. Regular metamorphosis may also be called progressive metamorphosis: it can be seen to work step by step from the first seed leaves to the last formation of the fruit. By changing one form into another, it ascends—as on a spiritual ladder—to the pinnacle of nature: propagation through two genders. I have observed this carefully for several years, and now propose to explain it in the present essay. Hence, in the following discussion we will consider only the annual plant which progresses continuously from seed to fruiting.
7. Irregular metamorphosis might also be called retrogressive metamorphosis. In the previous case nature pressed forward to her great goal, but here it takes one or more steps backward. There, with irresistible force and tremendous effort, nature formed the flowers and equipped them for works of love; here it seems to grow slack, irresolutely leaving its creation in an indeterminate, malleable state often pleasing to the eye but lacking in inner force and effect. Our observations of this metamorphosis will allow us to discover what is hidden in regular metamorphosis, to see clearly what we can only infer in regular metamorphosis. Thus we hope to attain our goal in the most certain way.
8. We will, however, leave aside the third metamorphosis, caused accidentally and from without (especially by insects). It could divert us from the simple path we have to follow, and confuse our purpose. Opportunity may arise elsewhere to speak of these monstrous but rather limited excrescences.
9. I have ventured to develop the present essay without reference to illustrations, although they might seem necessary in some respects. I will reserve their publication until later; this is made easier by the fact that enough material remains for further elucidation and expansion of this short preliminary treatise. Then it will be unnecessary to proceed in the measured tread required by the present work. I will be able to refer to related matters, and several passages gleaned from like-minded writers will be included. In particular, I will be able to use comments from the contemporary masters who grace this noble science. It is to them that I present and dedicate these pages.
I. Of the Seed Leaves
10. Since we intend to observe the successive steps in plant growth, we will begin by directing our attention to the plant as it develops from the seed. At this stage we can easily and clearly recognize the parts belonging to it. Its coverings (which we will not examine for the moment) are left more or less behind in the earth, and in many cases the root establishes itself in the soil before the first organs of its upper growth (already hidden under the seed sheath) emerge to meet the light.
11. These first organs are known as cotyledons; they have also been called seed lobes, nuclei, seed laps, and seed leaves in an attempt to characterize the various forms in which we find them.
12. They often appear unformed, filled with a crude material, and as thick as they are broad. Their vessels are unrecognizable and scarcely distinguishable from the substance of the whole; they have little resemblance to a leaf, and we could be misled into considering them separate organs.
13. In many plants, however, they are more like the leaf in form. They become flatter; their coloration turns greener when they are exposed to light and air; and their vessels become more recognizable, more like the ribs of a leaf.
14. In the end they appear as real leaves: their vessels are capable of the finest development, and their resemblance to the later leaves prevents us from considering them separate organs. Instead, we recognize them as the first leaves of the stem.
15. But a leaf is unthinkable without a node, and a node is unthinkable without an eye. Hence we may infer that the point where the cotyledons are attached is the first true node of the plant. This is confirmed by those plants which produce new eyes directly under the wings of the cotyledons, and develop full branches from these first nodes (as, for example, in Vicia faba).
16. The cotyledons are usually double, and here we must make an observation which will become more important later. The leaves of this first node are often paired whereas the later leaves of the stem alternate; i.e., here parts are associated and joined which nature later separates and scatters. Even more noteworthy is the appearance of the cotyledons as a collection of many small leaves around a single axis, and the gradual development of the stem from its center to produce the later leaves singly; this can be seen quite clearly in the growth of the various kinds of pines. Here a circle of needles forms something like a calyx—we will have occasion to remember this when we come to similar phenomena.
17. We will ignore for the moment the quite unformed, individual nuclei of those plants which sprout with but a single leaf.
18. We will, however, note that even the most leaflike cotyledons are always rather undeveloped in comparison to the later leaves of the stem. Their periphery is quite uniform, and we are as little able to detect traces of serration there as we are to find hairs on their surfaces, or other vessels peculiar to more developed leaves.
II. Development of the Stem Leaves from Node to Node
19. Now that the progressive effects of nature are fully visible, we can see the successive development of the leaves clearly. Often one or more of the following leaves were already present in the seed, enclosed between the cotyledons; in their closed state they are known as plumules. In different plants their form varies in relation to that of the cotyledons and the later leaves; most often they differ from the cotyledons simply in being flat, delicate, and generally formed as true leaves. They turn completely green, lie on a visible node, and are undeniably related to the following stem leaves, although they usually lag behind in the development of their periphery, their edge.
20. But further development spreads inexorably from node to node through the leaf: the central rib lengthens, and the side ribs along it reach more or less to the edges. These various relationships between the ribs are the principal cause of the manifold leaf forms. The leaves now appear serrated, deeply notched, or composed of many small leaves (in which case they take the shape of small, perfect branches). The date palm presents a striking example of such successive and pronounced differentiation in the most simple leaf form. In a sequence of several leaves, the central rib advances, the simple fanlike leaf is torn apart, divided, and a highly complex leaf is developed which rivals a branch.
21. The development of the leaf stalk keeps pace with that of the leaf itself, whether the leaf stalk is closely attached to the leaf or forms a separate, small, easily-severed stalk.
22. In various plants we can see that this independent leaf stalk has a tendency to take on the form of a leaf (e.g., in the orange family). Its structure will give rise to certain later observations, but for the moment we will pass them by.
23. Neither can we enter here into further consideration of the stipules; we will simply note in passing that they share in the later transformation of the stalk, particularly when they form a part of it.
24. Although the leaves owe their initial nourishment mainly to the more or less modified watery parts which they draw from the stem, they are indebted to the light and air for the major part of their development and refinement. We found almost no structure and form, or only a coarse one, in those cotyledons produced within the closed seed covering and bloated, as it were, with a crude sap. The leaves of underwater plants likewise show a coarser structure than those of plants exposed to the open air; in fact, a plant growing in low-lying, damp spots will even develop smoother and less refined leaves than it will when transplanted to higher areas, where it will produce rough, hairy, more finely detailed leaves.
25. In the same way, more rarefied gases are very conducive to, if not entirely responsible for, the anastomosis of the vessels which start from the ribs, find one another with their ends, and form the leaf skin. The leaves of many underwater plants are threadlike, or assume the shape of antlers; we are inclined to ascribe this to an incomplete anastomosis. This is shown at a glance by the growth of Ranunculus aquaticus, where the leaves produced underwater consist of threadlike ribs, although those developed above water are fully anastomosed and form a connected surface. In fact, we can see the transition clearly in the half-anastomosed, half-threadlike leaves found in this plant.
26. Experiments have shown that the leaves absorb different gases, and combine them with the liquids they contain; there is little doubt that they also return these refined juices to the stem, and thereby help greatly in the development of the nearby eyes. We have found convincing evidence for this in our analysis of gases developed from the leaves of several plants, and even from the hollow stems.
27. In many plants we find that one node arises from another. This is easy to see in stems closed from node to node (like the cereals, grasses, and reeds), but not so easy to see in other plants which are hollow throughout and filled with a pith or rather, a cellular tissue. This substance, previously called pith, was considered to occupy an important position among the inner parts of the plant, but its importance has recently been disputed, and with good cause in my opinion (Hedwig, Leipzig Magazine, no. 3). Its supposed influence on growth has been flatly denied; the force for growth and reproduction is now ascribed wholly to the inner side of the second bark, the so-called liber. Since the upper node arises from the node below, and receives sap from it, we can easily see that the node above must receive a sap which is finer and more filtered; it must benefit from the effect of the earlier leaves, take on a finer form, and offer its own leaves and eyes even finer juices.
28. As the coarser liquids are continually drawn off and the purer ones introduced, as the plant refines its form step by step, it reaches the point ordained by nature. We finally see the leaves in their maximum size and form, and soon note a new phenomenon which tells us that the previous stage is over and the next is at hand, the stage of the flower.
III. Transition to Flowering
29. The transition to flowering may occur quickly or slowly. In the latter case we usually find that the stem leaves begin to grow smaller again, and lose their various external divisions, although they expand somewhat at the base where they join the stem. At the same time we see that the area from node to node on the stem grows more delicate and slender in form; it may even become noticeably longer.
30. It has been found that frequent nourishment hampers the flowering of a plant, whereas scant nourishment accelerates it. This is an even clearer indication of the effect of the stem leaves discussed above. As long as it remains necessary to draw off coarser juices, the potential organs of the plant must continue to develop as instruments for this need. With excessive nourishment this process must be repeated over and over; flowering is rendered impossible, as it were. When the plant is deprived of nourishment, nature can affect it more quickly and easily: the organs of the nodes are refined, the uncontaminated juices work with greater purity and strength, the transformation of the parts becomes possible, and the process takes place unhindered.
IV. Formation of the Calyx
31. We often find this transformation occurring rapidly. In this case the stem, suddenly lengthened and refined, shoots up from the node of the last fully formed leaf and collects several leaves around the axis at its end.
32. The leaves of the calyx are the same organs which appeared previously as the leaves of the stem; now, however, they are collected around a common center, and often have a very different form. This can be demonstrated in the clearest possible way.
33. We already noted a similar effect of nature in our discussion of the cotyledon, where we found several leaves, and apparently several nodes, gathered together around one point. As the various species of pine develop from the seed, they display a rayed circle of unmistakable needles which, unlike other cotyledons, are already well developed. Thus in the earliest infancy of this plant we can already see a hint, as it were, of the power of nature which is to produce flowering and fruiting in later years.
34. In several flowers we find unaltered stem leaves collected in a kind of calyx right under the flower. Since they retain their form clearly, we can rely on the mere appearance in this case, and on botanical terminology which calls them folia floralia (flower leaves).
35. We must now turn our attention to the instance mentioned above, where the transition to flowering occurs slowly as the stem leaves come together gradually, transform, and gently steal over, as it were, into the calyx. This can be observed quite clearly in the calyxes of the compositae, especially in sunflowers and calendulas.
36. Nature’s power to collect several leaves around one axis can create still closer connections, rendering these clustered, modified leaves even less recognizable, for it may merge them wholly or in part by making their edges grow together. The crowded and closely packed leaves touch one another everywhere in their tender state, anastomose through the influence of the highly purified juices now present in the plant, and produce a bell-shaped or (so-called) single-leaf calyx which betrays its composite origins in its more or less deep incisions or divisions. We can see this if we compare a number of deeply incised calyxes with multi-leaved ones, and especially if we examine the calyxes of several compositae. Thus, for example, we will find that a calendula calyx (noted in systematic descriptions as simple and much divided) actually consists of many leaves grown into one another and over one another, with the additional intrusion, so to speak, of contracted stem leaves (as noted above).
37. In many plants, the arrangement of individual or merged sepals around the axis of the stalk is constant in number and form; this is also true of the parts which follow. Biological science, which has developed significantly in recent years, has relied heavily on this consistency for its growth, stability, and reputation. The number and formation of these parts is not as constant in other plants, but even this inconsistency has not deceived the sharp eyes of the masters in this science; through exact definition they have sought to impose stricter limits, so to speak, on these aberrations of nature.
38. This, then, is how nature formed the calyx: it collected several leaves (and thus several nodes) around a central point, frequently in a set number and order; elsewhere on the plant these leaves and nodes would have been produced successively and at a distance from one another. If excessive nourishment had hampered flowering, they would have appeared in separate locations and in their original form. Thus, nature does not create a new organ in the calyx; it merely gathers and modifies the organs we are already familiar with, and thereby comes a step closer to its goal.
V. Formation of the Corolla
39. We have seen that the calyx is produced by refined juices created gradually in the plant itself. Now it is destined to serve as the organ of a further refinement. Even a simple mechanical explanation of its effect will convince us of this. For how delicate and suited for the finest filtration must be those tightly contracted and crowded vessels we have seen!
40. We can note the transition from the calyx to the corolla in several ways. Although the calyx is usually green like the stem leaves, the color of one or another of its parts often changes at the tip, edge, back, or even on the inner surface of a part where the outer surface remains green. We always find a refinement connected with this coloration. In this way, ambiguous calyxes arise which might equally well be called corollas.
41. In moving up from the seed leaves, we have observed that a great expansion and development occurs in the leaves, especially in their periphery; from here to the calyx, a contraction takes place in their circumference. Now we note that the corolla is produced by another expansion; the petals are usually larger than the sepals. The organs were contracted in the calyx, but now we find that the purer juices, filtered further through the calyx, produce petals which expand in a quite refined form to present us with new, highly differentiated organs. Their fine structure, color, and fragrance would make it impossible to recognize their origin, were we not able to get at nature’s secret in several abnormal cases.
42. Within the calyx of a carnation, for example, there is often a second calyx: one part is quite green, with a tendency to form a single-leaf, incised calyx; another part is jagged, with tips and edges transformed into the delicate, expanded, colored, true beginnings of petals. Here we can again recognize the relationship between corolla and calyx.
43. The relationship between the corolla and the stem leaves is also shown in more than one way, for in several plants the stem leaves show some color long before the plant approaches flowering; others take on full coloration when flowering is near.
44. Sometimes nature skips completely over the organ of the calyx, as it were, and goes directly to the corolla. We then have the opportunity to observe how stem leaves turn into petals. Thus, for example, an almost fully formed and colored petal often appears on tulip stems. It is even more remarkable when half of this leaf is green and attached as part of the stem, while its other, more colorful half rises up as part of the corolla, thereby dividing the leaf in two.
45. It is probable that the color and fragrance of the petals are attributable to the presence of the male germ cell. Apparently it is still insufficiently differentiated in these petals, where it is combined and diluted with other juices. The beautiful appearance of the colors leads us to the notion that the material filling the petals has attained a high degree of purity, but not yet the highest degree (which would appear white and colorless).
VI. Formation of the Stamens
46. This becomes even more probable when we consider the close relationship between the petals and the stamens. Were the relationship between the other parts so striking, well-known, and undeniable, there would be no need for this discourse.
47. Sometimes nature shows us this transition in an orderly way (e.g., in the canna and other plants of this family). A true petal, little changed, contracts at its upper border, and an anther appears, with the rest of the petal serving in place of the filament.
48. In flowers which frequently become double we can observe every step of this transition. Within the fully formed and colored petals of several rose species there appear others which are partly contracted in the middle and partly at the side. This contraction is the result of a small thickened wale which somewhat resembles a perfect anther; the leaf likewise begins to assume the simpler form of a stamen. In some double poppies, fully formed anthers rest on almost unaltered petals in the corolla (which is completely double); in others, the petals are more or less contracted by antherlike wales.
49. If all the stamens are transformed into petals, the flowers will be seedless; but if stamens develop even when a flower becomes double, fructification may occur.
50. Thus a stamen arises when the organs, which earlier expanded as petals, reappear in a highly contracted and refined state. This reaffirms the observation made above: we are made even more aware of the alternating effects of contraction and expansion by which nature finally attains its goal.
VII. Nectaries
51. However rapid the transition from corolla to stamens in many plants, we nonetheless find that nature cannot always achieve this in a single step. Instead, it produces intermediate agents which sometimes resemble the one part in form and purpose, and sometimes the other. Although they take on quite different forms, almost all may be subsumed under one concept: they are gradual transitions from the petals to the stamens.
52. Most of these variously formed organs (which Linnaeus calls nectaries) may be subsumed under this concept. Here we are again bound to admire the intelligence of that extraordinary man: without any clear understanding of their purpose, he followed his intuition and ventured to use one name for such seemingly different organs.
53. Some petals show their relationship to the stamens without any perceptible change in form: they contain tiny cavities or glands which secrete a honeylike juice. In the light of our previous discussion, we may infer that this is an undeveloped and incompletely differentiated fluid of fertilization; our inference will be further justified in the discussion to follow.
54. The so-called nectaries may also appear as independent parts; these sometimes resemble the petals in form, and sometimes the stamens. Thus, for example, the thirteen filaments (each with a tiny red ball) on the nectaries of Parnassia have a striking resemblance to stamens. Other nectaries appear as stamens without anthers (as in Val-lisneria or Fevillea); in Pentapetes we also find them, in leaf form, alternating with the stamens in a whorl; in addition, systematic descriptions describe them as filamenta castrata petaliformia. We find equally unclear formations in Kiggelaria and the passion flower.
55. The word nectary (in the sense indicated above) seems equally applicable to the distinctive secondary corolla. The formation of petals occurs by expansion, but secondary corollas are formed by contraction (i.e., in the same way as the stamens). Within full, expanded corollas we therefore find small, contracted secondary corollas, as in the narcissus, Nerium, and Agrostemma.
56. We see even more striking and remarkable changes in the leaves of other species. At the base of the leaf in some flowers we find a small hollow filled with a honeylike juice. This little cavity is deeper in other species and types; it creates a projection shaped like a spur or horn on the back of the leaf, thus producing an immediate modification in the form of the rest of the leaf. We can observe this clearly in different types and varieties of the columbine.
57. This organ is most transformed in the aconite and Nigella, for example, but even here its resemblance to the leaf is not hard to see. In Nigella, especially, it has a tendency to form again as a leaf, and the flower becomes double with the transformation of the nectaries. Careful examination of the aconite will show the similarity between the nectaries and the arched leaf under which they are hidden.
58. We said above that the nectaries are transitional forms in the change from petal to stamen. Here we can make a few observations about irregular flowers. Thus, for example, the five outer leaves of Melianthus might be called true petals, but the five inner leaves could be described as a secondary corolla consisting of six nectaries; the upper nectary is closest to the leaf in form, while the lower one (now called a nectary) is least like the leaf. In the same sense, we might say that the carina of the papilionaceous flowers is a nectary: of all the flower’s leaves, it most resembles the stamens in form, and is quite unlike the leaf form of the so-called vexilla. This also explains the brushlike appendages attached to the end of the carina in some species of Polygala, and thus it gives us a clear idea of the purpose these parts serve.
59. It should be unnecessary to state here that these remarks are not intended to confuse the distinctions and classifications made by earlier observers and taxonomists. Our only purpose is to help explain variations in plant form.
VIII. Further Remarks on the Stamens
60. Microscopic examination has shown beyond a doubt that the plant’s reproductive organs are brought forth by spiral vessels, as are the other organs. We will use this to support the argument that the different plant parts with their apparent variety of forms are nonetheless identical in their inner essence.
61. The spiral vessels lie amid the bundles of sap vessels, and are enclosed by them. We can better understand the strong force of contraction mentioned earlier if we think of the spiral vessels (which really seem like elastic springs) as extremely strong, so that they predominate over the expansive force of the sap vessels.
62. Now the shortened vessel bundles can no longer expand, join one another, or form a network by anastomosis; the tubular vessels which usually fill the interstices of the network can no longer develop, and there is nothing left to cause the expansion of stem leaves, sepals, and petals; thus a frail, very simple filament arises.
63. The fine membranes of the anther are barely formed, and the extremely delicate vessels terminate between them. Previously the vessels grew longer, expanded, and joined one another, but now we will assume that these same vessels are in a highly contracted state. We see a fully formed pollen emerge from them; in its activity this pollen replaces the expansive force taken from the vessels which produced it. Now released, it seeks out the female parts which the same effect of nature brings to meet it; it attaches itself to these parts, and suffuses them with its influence. Thus we are inclined to say that the union of the two genders is anastomosis on a spiritual level; we do so in the belief that, at least for a moment, this brings the concepts of growth and reproduction closer together.
64. The fine matter developed in the anthers looks like a powder, but these tiny grains of pollen are just vessels containing a highly refined juice. We therefore subscribe to the view that this juice is absorbed by the pistils to which the pollen grains cling, thereby causing fructification. This is made even more likely by the fact that some plants produce no pollen, but only a liquid.
65. Here we recall the honeylike juice of the nectaries, and its probable relationship to the fully developed liquid of the pollen grains. Perhaps the nectaries prepare the way; perhaps their honeylike liquid is absorbed by the pollen grains, and then further differentiated and developed. This opinion is made more plausible by the fact that this juice can no longer be seen after fructification.
66. We will not forget to mention in passing that the filaments grow together in a variety of ways, as do the anthers. They offer the most wonderful examples of what we have often discussed: the anastomosis and union of plant parts which were, at first, strictly separate.
IX. Formation of the Style
67. Earlier I tried to make as clear as possible that the various plant parts developed in sequence are intrinsically identical despite their manifold differences in outer form. It should come as no surprise that I also intend to explain the structure of the female parts in the same way.
68. We will first examine the style apart from the fruit (as often found in nature). This will be all the easier since it is distinct from the fruit in this form.
69. We observe, then, that the style is at the same stage of growth as the stamens. We noted that the stamens are produced by a contraction; this is also true of the styles, and we find that they are either the same size as the stamens, or only a little longer or shorter in form. In many instances the style looks almost like a filament without anthers; the two resemble one another in external form more than any of the other parts. Since both are produced by spiral vessels, we can see plainly that the female part is no more a separate organ than the male part. When our observation has given us a clearer picture of the precise relationship between the female and male parts, we will find that the idea of calling their union an anastomosis becomes even more appropriate and instructive.
70. We often find the style composed of several individual styles which have grown together; its parts are scarcely distinguishable at the tip, and sometimes not even separate. This is the most likely stage for this merger to occur; we have often mentioned its effects. Indeed, it must occur because the delicate, partially developed parts are crowded together in the center of the blossom, where they can coalesce.
71. In various cases of regular metamorphosis, nature gives a more or less clear indication of the close relationship between the style and the previous parts of the blossom. Thus, for instance, the pistil of the iris, with its stigma, appears in the full form of a flower leaf. The umbrella-shaped stigma of Sarracenia shows (although not so clearly) that it is composed of several leaves, and even the green color remains. With the aid of the microscope we will find the stigma of several flowers formed as full single-leaved or multi-leaved calyxes (e.g., the crocus; or Zannichellia).
72. In retrogressive metamorphosis nature frequently shows us instances where it changes the styles and stigmas back into flower leaves. Ranunculus asiaticus, for example, becomes double by transforming the stigmas and pistils of the fruit vessel into true petals, while the anthers just behind the corolla are often unchanged. Several other noteworthy cases will be discussed later.
73. Here we will repeat our earlier observation that the style and the stamens are at the same stage of growth; this offers further evidence for the basic principle of alternation in expansion and contraction. We first noted an expansion from the seed to the fullest development of the stem leaf; then we saw the calyx appear through a contraction, the flower leaves through an expansion, and the reproductive parts through a contraction. We will soon observe the greatest expansion in the fruit, and the greatest concentration in the seed. In these six steps nature steadfastly does its eternal work of propagating vegetation by two genders.
X. Of the Fruits
74. Now we come to the fruits. We will soon realize that these have the same origin as the other parts, and are subject to the same laws. Here we are actually speaking of the capsules formed by nature to enclose the so-called covered seeds, or, more precisely, to develop a small or large number of seeds by fructification within these capsules. It will not require much to show that these containers may also be explained through the nature and structure of the parts discussed earlier.
75. Retrogressive metamorphosis again makes us aware of this natural law. Thus, for example, in the pinks—these flowers known and loved for their irregularity—we often find that the seed capsules are changed back into leaves resembling those in the calyx, and the styles are accordingly shortened. There are even pinks in which the fruit capsule is completely transformed into a true calyx. The divisions at the tips of the calyx still bear delicate remnants of the styles and stigmas; a more or less full corolla develops instead of seeds from the very center of this second calyx.
76. Even in regular and constant formations, nature has many ways of revealing the fruitfulness hidden in a leaf. Thus an altered but still-recognizable leaf of the European linden produces a small stalk from its midrib, and grows a complete flower and fruit on this stalk. The disposition of blossoms and fruits on the leaves of Ruscus is even more remarkable.
77. In the ferns we see still stronger—we might even say enormous—evidence of the sheer fruitfulness inherent in the stem leaves: these develop and scatter innumerable seeds (or rather, germs) through an inner impulse, and probably without any well-defined action by two genders. Here the fruitfulness of a single leaf rivals that of a wide-spreading plant, or even a large tree with its many branches.
78. With these observations in mind, we will not fail to recognize the leaf form in seed vessels—regardless of their manifold formations, their particular purpose and context. Thus, for example, the pod may be viewed as a single, folded leaf with its edges grown together; husks, as consisting of leaves grown more over one another; and compound capsules may be understood as several leaves united round a central point, with their inner sides open toward one another and their edges joined. We can see this for ourselves when these compound capsules burst apart after maturation, for each part will then present itself as an open pod or husk. We may also observe a similar process taking place regularly in different species of the same genus: the fruit capsules of Nigella orientalis, for instance, are partially merged pods grouped around an axis; but in Nigella damascena they are fully merged.
79. Nature masks the resemblance to the leaf mainly by forming soft, juicy seed vessels, or hard, woody ones. But this similarity will not escape our attention if we know how to follow it carefully through all its transitions. Here we will have to be content with having given a description of the general concept along with several examples of nature’s consistent behavior. The great variety in seed capsules will provide material for a great many other observations in the future.
80. The relationship between the seed capsules and the previous parts also appears in the stigma, situated right on top of the seed capsule and inseparably joined to it. We have already demonstrated the relationship of the stigma to the leaf form, and here we may note it again: in double poppies we find that the stigmas of the seed capsules are changed into delicate, colored leaflets which look exactly like petals.
81. The last and most pronounced expansion in the growth of the plant appears in the fruit. This expansion is often very great—even enormous—in inner force as well as outer form. Since it usually occurs after fertilization, it seems likely that as the developing seed draws juices from the entire plant for its growth, the flow of these juices is directed into the seed capsule. The vessels of the seed capsule are thereby nourished and expanded, often becoming extremely gorged and swollen. It can be inferred from our earlier discussion that purer gases play a part in this, an inference supported by the discovery that the distended pods of Colutea contain a pure gas.
XI. Of the Coverings Lying Next to the Seed
82. By way of contrast, the seed is in the most extreme state of contraction and inner development. In various plants we can observe that the seed transforms leaves into an outer covering, adapts them more or less to its shape, and often has the power to annex them fully, completely changing their form. We saw above that many seeds can develop in and from a single leaf; hence it will come as no surprise to find a single embryo clothed in a leaf covering.
83. We can see the traces of such incompletely adapted leaf forms in many winged seeds (e.g., the maple, the elm, the ash, and the birch). The calendula’s three distinct rings of differently formed seeds offer a remarkable example of how the embryo pulls broad coverings together, gradually adapting them to its shape. The outer ring is still related to the petals in form, except that a rudimentary seed swells the rib, causing a fold in the leaf; a small membrane also runs lengthwise along the inside of the crease, dividing the leaf in two. The next ring shows further changes: the broad form of the leaf has entirely disappeared, along with the membrane; but its shape is somewhat less elongated, while the rudimentary seed on the back has become more visible, and the small raised spots on the seed have grown more distinct. These two rows appear to be either unfructified or only partially fructified. They are followed by a third row of seeds in their true form: strongly curved, and with a tightly fitted involucre which is fully developed in all its ridges and raised portions. Here we again see a powerful contraction of broad, leaflike parts, a contraction produced by the inner power of the seed, just as we earlier saw the flower leaf contracted by the power of the anthers.
XII. Review and Transition
84. Thus we have sought to follow as carefully as possible in the footsteps of nature. We have accompanied the outer form of the plant through all its transformations, from the seed to the formation of a new seed; we have investigated the outer expression of the forces by which the plant gradually transforms one and the same organ, but without any pretense of uncovering the basic impulses behind the natural phenomena. So as not to lose the thread which guides us, we have limited our discussion entirely to annual plants; we have noted only the transformation of the leaves accompanying the nodes, and have derived all the forms from them. But to lend our discussion the required thoroughness, we must now speak of the eyes hidden beneath each leaf; under certain circumstances these develop, and under others they seem to disappear entirely.
XIII. Of the Eyes and their Development
85. Nature has given each node the power to produce one or more eyes; this process takes place near its companion leaves, which seem to prepare the way for the formation and growth of the eyes, and help in their production.
86. The primary, simple, slow process of plant reproduction is based on the successive development of one node from the other, and the growth of an eye close to it.
87. We know that such an eye is similar to the ripe seed in its effect; in fact, we can often recognize the whole shape of the potential plant more easily in the eye than in the seed.
88. Although the root point is hard to find in the eye, it is just as much there as in the seed, and will develop quickly and easily, especially in the presence of moisture.
89. The eye needs no cotyledon because it is connected to the fully-developed parent plant, and receives adequate nourishment as long as the connection remains. Once separated, it will draw nourishment from the plant to which it is grafted, or from the roots developed as soon as a branch is planted in the earth.
90. The eye consists of more or less developed nodes and leaves which have the task of enhancing the future growth of the plant. Thus the side branches growing from the nodes of the plant may be considered separate small plants placed on the parent in the same way that the parent is attached to the earth.
91. The two have often been compared and contrasted, most recently in such an intelligent and exact way that we will simply refer to it here with our unqualified admiration (Gaertner, De fructibus et seminibus plantarum, Chapt. I).
92. We will say only the following on this point. Nature makes a clear distinction between eyes and seeds in plants with a highly differentiated structure. But if we descend to plants with a less differentiated structure, the two become indistinguishable, even for the sharpest observer. There are seeds which are clearly seeds, and gemmae which are clearly gemmae, but it takes an act of reason rather than observation to find the connection between the seeds, which are actually fertilized and separated from the parent plant by the reproductive process, and the gemmae, which simply grow out of the plant and detach without apparent cause.
93. With this in mind, we may conclude that the seeds are closely related to the eyes and gemmae, although they differ from the eyes in being enclosed, and from the gemmae in having a perceptible cause for their formation and separation.
XIV. Formation of Composite Flowers and Fruits
94. Thus far we have focused on the transformation of nodal leaves in our attempt to explain the development of simple flowers, as well as the production of seeds enclosed in capsules. Closer examination will show that no eyes form in these cases, and moreover, that the formation of such eyes is utterly impossible. We must look to the formation of eyes, however, to explain the development of composite flowers or compound fruit arranged around a single cone, a single spindle, a single disk, etc.
95. Certain stems do not gradually prepare the way for a single flower by saving their energies; instead, they produce their flowers directly from the nodes, and frequently continue this process without interruption to their very tip. This phenomenon may be explained, however, through the theory presented earlier. All flowers developed from the eyes must be considered whole plants situated on the parent, just as the parent is situated on the earth. Since they now receive purer juices from the nodes, even the first leaves of the tiny twig appear much more fully developed that the first leaves (following the cotyledons) of the parent; in fact, it is often possible to develop the calyx and flower immediately.
96. With an increase in nourishment, the flowers developed from the eyes would become twigs; they are necessarily subject to the same conditions as the parent stem, and share in its fate.
97. As these flowers develop from node to node, we also find that the stem leaves undergo the same changes seen previously in the gradual transition to the calyx. They contract more and more, finally disappearing almost completely, and they are called bracts when their form has become somewhat different from a leaf. The stem likewise grows thinner, the nodes crowd closer together, and all the phenomena noted earlier take place, but there is no decisive formation of a flower at the end of the stem because nature has already exercised its rights from node to node.
98. Having examined the stem adorned with a flower at every node, we will soon arrive at an explanation of the composite flower, especially if we recall what was said before about the creation of the calyx.
99. Nature forms a composite calyx out of many leaves compacted around a single axis. Driven by the same strong growth impulse, it suddenly develops an endless stem, so to speak, with all its eyes in the form of flowers and compacted as much as possible; each small flower fertilizes the seed vessel standing ready below. The nodal leaves are not always lost in this enormous contraction; in the thistles, the little leaves faithfully accompany the floret developed from the eye next to them (compare the form of Dipsacus laciniatus). In many grasses, each flower is accompanied by such a little leaf (called a glume).
100. Thus we now realize that the seeds developed around a composite flower are true eyes created and formed by the reproductive process. With this concept firmly in mind, we may compare a variety of plants, their growth and their fruits, and find convincing evidence in what we see.
101. Hence, it will not be hard to explain the covered or uncovered seeds produced in the center of a single flower, often in a group around a spindle. For it is all the same, whether a single flower surrounds a common ovary where the merged pistils absorb the reproductive juices from the flower’s anthers and infuse them into the ovules, or whether each ovule has its own pistil, its own anthers, and its own petals around it.
102. We are convinced that with a little practice the observer will find it easy to explain the various forms of flowers and fruits in this way. To do so, however, requires that he feel as comfortable working with the principles established above—expansion and contraction, compaction and anastomosis—as he would with algebraic formulas. Here it is crucial that we thoroughly observe and compare the different stages nature goes through in the formation of genera, species, and varieties, as well as in the growth of each individual plant. For this reason alone, it would be both pleasant and useful to have a collection of properly arranged illustrations labeled with the botanical terms for the different parts of the plant. In connection with the above theory, two kinds of proliferous flowers would serve as especially useful illustrations.
XV. Proliferous Rose
103. The proliferous rose offers a very clear example of everything we sought earlier through our power of imagination and understanding. The calyx and corolla are arranged and developed around the axis, but the seed vessel is not contracted in the center with the male and female organs arranged around it. Instead, the stem, half reddish and half greenish, continues to grow, developing a succession of small, dark red, folded petals, some of which bear traces of anthers. The stem grows further; thorns reappear on it; one by one, the colored leaves which follow become smaller; and finally we see them turn into stem leaves, partly red and partly green. A series of regular nodes forms, and from their eyes small but imperfect rosebuds once again appear.
104. This example also gives visible evidence of another point made earlier; i.e., that all calyxes are only contracted folia floralia. Here the regular calyx gathered around the axis consists of five fully developed, compound leaves with three or five leaflets, the same sort of leaf usually produced by rose branches at their nodes.
XVI. Proliferous Carnation
105. After spending some time with this phenomenon, we may turn to another which is still more remarkable: the proliferous carnation. We see a perfect flower equipped with a calyx as well as a double corolla and completed in the center with a seed capsule, although this is not fully developed. Four perfect new flowers develop from the sides of the corolla; these are separated from the parent flower by stalks having three or more nodes. They have their own calyxes, and double corollas formed not so much by individual leaves as by leaf crowns merged at the base, or more often by flower leaves which have grown together like little twigs around a stem. Despite this extreme development, filaments and anthers are found in some. We see fruit capsules with styles, and seed receptacles which have grown back into leaves; in one such flower the seed envelopes had joined to create a full calyx containing the rudiments of another perfect double flower.
106. In the rose we have seen a partially defined flower, as it were, with a stem growing again from its center, and new leaves developing on this stem. But in this carnation, with its well-formed calyx, perfect corolla, and true seed capsules in the center, we find that eyes develop from the circle of petals, producing real branches and blossoms. Thus both instances illustrate that nature usually stops the growth process at the flower and closes the account there, so to speak; nature precludes the possibility of growth in endless stages, for it wants to hasten toward its goal by forming seeds.
XVII. Linnaeus’ Theory of Anticipation
107. If I have stumbled here and there on the path which a predecessor described as terrifying and dangerous, even though he attempted it under the guidance of his great teacher (Ferber, Diss. de prolepsi plantarum); if I have not done enough to pave the way for those who follow; if I have not cleared every obstacle from the path—nonetheless, I hope that this effort will not prove altogether fruitless.
108. It is now time to consider a theory proposed by Linnaeus to explain these phenomena. The things discussed here could not have escaped his sharp eyes; if we have made progress where he faltered, it is only because of a concerted effort by other observers and thinkers to clear the way and eliminate prejudice. A full comparison between his theory and the above discussion would be too time-consuming here. The knowledgeable reader can make the comparison himself, but it would require too much detailed explanation to clarify it here for those who have not yet studied these things.
109. He started with an observation of trees, those complex and long-lived plants. He observed that a tree planted in a wide pot and overfertilized would produce branch after branch for several years, while the same tree in a smaller pot would quickly bear blossoms and fruits. He saw that the successive development of the first tree was suddenly compressed in the second. He called this effect of nature prolepsis (anticipation) since the plant seemed to anticipate six years’ growth in the six steps noted above. He therefore developed his theory from tree buds; he did not pay much attention to annual plants, for he could see that these did not fit his theory as well. His theory would have us assume that nature really intended every annual plant to grow for six years, but the plant forestalled this maturation period by quickly blossoming, bearing fruit, and then dying.
110. We, however, began by following the growth of annual plants. Our approach is readily applicable to longer-lived plants, for a bud opening on the oldest tree may be considered an annual plant even though it develops on a long-existent stem and may itself last for a longer time.
111. There was a second reason for Linnaeus’ lack of progress: he mistakenly viewed the various concentric parts of the plant (the outer bark, the inner bark, the wood, the pith) as similar in their effect, similar in the way they participated in the life of the plant. He identified the various rings of the stem as the source of blossom and fruit because the latter, like the former, enclose one another and develop out of one another. But this was merely a superficial observation which closer examination shows to be false. The outer bark is unsuited to yield anything further; in the long-lived tree it is too separate and too hardened on the outside, just as the wood becomes too hard on the inside. In many trees the outer bark drops away, and in others it can be peeled without causing damage; thus it produces neither calyx nor any other living part of the tree. It is the second bark that contains all the power of life and growth; to the extent it is damaged, the tree’s growth is also hindered. After examining all the external parts of the tree, we will discover that this is the part which brings growth gradually in the stem, and quickly in the flower and fruit. Linnaeus assigned it the mere secondary task of producing petals. By contrast, he assigned to the wood the important job of producing stamens, although we can see that the wood is rendered inactive by its solidity; it is durable but too dead to produce life. He supposed the pith to have the most important function: production of the pistils and numerous offspring. Yet doubts about the great importance of the pith seem to me significant and conclusive, as do the reasons for raising them. The style and fruit merely appear to develop from the pith because our first impression is of soft, ill-defined, pithlike, parenchymatous formations gathered together in the center of the stem where we usually see only the pith.
112. I hope that this attempt to explain the metamorphosis of plants may contribute something to the resolution of these doubts, and lead to further findings and conclusions. The observations which serve as the basis for my work were made at various times, and have already been collected and organized (Batsch, Introduction to the Identification and History of Plants, Part I, Chapt. 19). It should not be long before we discover whether the step taken here brings us any closer to the truth. We will summarize the principal results of the foregoing treatise as briefly as possible.
113. If we consider the plant in terms of how it expresses its vitality, we will discover that this occurs in two ways: first, through growth (production of stem and leaves); and secondly, through reproduction (culminating in the formation of flower and fruit). If we examine this growth more closely, we will find that as the plant continues from node to node, growing vegetatively from leaf to leaf, a kind of reproduction also takes place, but a reproduction unlike that of flower and fruit; whereas the latter occurs all at once, the former is successive and appears as a sequence of individual developments. The power shown in gradual vegetative growth is closely related to the power suddenly displayed in major reproduction. Under certain circumstances a plant can be made to continue its vegetative growth, and under others the production of flowers can be forced. The former occurs when cruder juices accumulate; the latter, when more rarefied juices predominate.
114. In saying that vegetative growth is successive reproduction, while flowering and fruiting are simultaneous reproduction, we are also describing how each occurs. A vegetating plant expands to some extent, developing a stalk or stem; the intervals between nodes are usually perceptible, and its leaves spread out on all sides. A blossoming plant, on the other hand, shows a contraction of all its parts; the dimensions of length and breadth are canceled out, as it were; all its organs develop in a highly concentrated state and lie next to one another.
115. Whether the plant grows vegetatively, or flowers and bears fruit, the same organs fulfill nature’s laws throughout, although with different functions and often under different guises. The organ which expanded on the stem as a leaf, assuming a variety of forms, is the same organ which now contracts in the calyx, expands again in the petal, contracts in the reproductive apparatus, only to expand finally as the fruit.
116. This effect of nature is accompanied by another: the gathering of different organs in set numbers and proportions around a common center. Under certain conditions, however, some flowers far exceed these proportions, or vary them in other ways.
117. Anastomosis also plays a part in the formation of flowers and fruits; the extremely crowded and delicate organs of fructification are merged during the whole of their existence, or at least some part of it.
118. The phenomena of convergence, centering, and anastomosis are not peculiar to flower and fruit alone. We can discover something similar in the cotyledons, and ample material will be found in other parts of the plant for further observations of this sort.
119. We have sought to derive the apparently different organs of the vegetating and flowering plant from one organ; i.e., the leaf normally developed at each node. We have likewise ventured to find in the leaf form a source for the fruits which completely cover their seed.
120. Here we would obviously need a general term to describe this organ which metamorphosed into such a variety of forms, a term descriptive of the standard against which to compare the various manifestations of its form. For the present, however, we must be satisfied with learning to relate these manifestations both forward and backward. Thus we can say that a stamen is a contracted petal or, with equal justification, that a petal is a stamen in a state of expansion; that a sepal is a contracted stem leaf with a certain degree of refinement, or that a stem leaf is a sepal expanded by an influx of cruder juices.
121. We might likewise say of the stem that it is an expanded flower and fruit, just as we assumed that the flower and fruit are a contracted stem.
122. At the conclusion of the treatise I also took the development of eyes into account, and attempted thereby to explain composite flowers as well as uncovered fruits.
123. Thus I have tried to be as clear and thorough as I could in presenting a view I find rather convincing. Nonetheless, the evidence may still seem insufficient, objections may still arise, and my explanations may sometimes not seem pertinent. I will be all the more careful to note any suggestions in the future, and will discuss this material in a more precise and detailed way so that my point of view becomes clearer; perhaps then it will be more deserving of applause than at present.
TOWARD A GENERAL COMPARATIVE THEORY
(1790–94)
When a science falters and comes to a standstill despite the best efforts of many researchers, it can often be seen that the fault lies in a certain traditional concept of things, a conventional terminology, which the great majority accepts and follows unconditionally, and from which even thoughtful people depart only occasionally and under limited circumstances.
To be as clear as possible I will proceed from this general observation directly to the point: the progress of natural philosophy has been obstructed for many centuries by the conception that a living being is created for certain external purposes and that its form is so determined by an intentional primal force. This idea still holds us back, although some have voiced vehement opposition to it and drawn attention to the stumbling blocks it creates.
In itself this way of thinking may be full of piety, give pleasure to people of a certain temperament, and be indispensable for certain ways of thought. I find it neither advisable nor possible to refute it as a whole. It is, if I may say so, a trivial idea; like all such things it is trivial precisely because human nature finds it comfortable and satisfying.
Man is in the habit of valuing things according to how well they serve his purposes. It lies in the nature of the human condition that man must think of himself as the last stage of creation. Why, then, should he not also believe that he is its ultimate purpose? Why should his vanity not be allowed this small deception? Given his need for objects and his use for them, he draws the conclusion that they have been created to serve him. Why should he not resolve the inner contradictions here with a fiction rather than abandon the claims he holds so dear? Why should he not ignore a plant which is useless to him and dismiss it as a weed, since it really does not exist for him? When a thistle springs up to increase his toil in the fields he blames it on the curse of an angry god or the malice of a spiteful demon rather than considering it a child sprung from all of nature, one as close to her heart as the wheat he tends so carefully and values so highly. Indeed it may be noted that even the most just of men, those who believe they are the most selfless, are often able to rise only to the point of expecting all things to benefit man in some indirect form rather than directly, e.g., through the discovery of a natural force which has applications in medicine or some other area.
Moreover, in himself and others he justifiably puts the greatest value on actions and deeds which are intentional and purposeful. It follows that he will attribute intent and purpose to nature, for he will be unable to form a larger concept of nature than of himself.
He further believes that everything that exists is there for him, is there only as a tool and aid to his own existence. It follows as a matter of course that when nature provides tools for him, it acts with an intention and purpose equal to his own in manufacturing them. The sportsman who has a hunting rifle made will praise the forethought shown by Mother Nature in preparing the dog to fetch his prey.
There are other reasons for man’s general difficulty in abandoning this concept. However, the simple example of botany will show that the scientist must leave this view behind if he wishes to make progress in thinking about things in general. The brightest and fullest flowers, the most delicious and attractive fruits, have no more value to the science of botany than a lowly weed in its natural setting or a dried and useless seed capsule, and may even be of less value in a certain sense.
Thus the scientist will have to rise above this trivial concept. Even if he cannot rid himself of it as a human being, he must at least make every effort to shed it as a scientist.
Here this observation about the scientist has only a general application. However, another observation based on the first will have a more specific application. In relating all things to himself man is forced to lend these things an inner purpose which is manifested externally, and all the more so because nothing alive can be imagined as existing without a complete structure. Since this complete structure develops inwardly in a fully specialized and specific way, it needs an external environment which is just as specialized. It can only exist in the outer world under certain conditions and in certain contexts.
Thus we find the most varied forms of animal life stirring on the earth, in the water, and in the air. The common view is that these creatures have received their appendages for the purpose of making various movements and thereby supporting their particular form of existence. But will we not show more regard for the primal force of nature, for the wisdom of the intelligent being usually presumed to underlie it, if we suppose that even its power is limited, and realize that its forms are created by something working from without as well as from within? The statement “The fish exists for the water” seems to me to say far less than “The fish exists in the water and by means of the water.” The latter expresses more clearly what is obscured in the former; i.e., the existence of a creature we call “fish” is only possible under the conditions of an element we call “water,” so that the creature not only exists in that element, but may also evolve there.
The same principle holds true of all other creatures. An initial and very general observation on the outer effect of what works from within and the inner effect of what works from without would therefore be as follows: the structure in its final form is, as it were, the inner nucleus molded in various ways by the characteristics of the outer element. It is precisely thus that the animal retains its viability in the outer world: it is shaped from without as well as from within. And this is all the more natural because the outer element can shape the external form more easily than the internal form. We can see this most clearly in the various species of seal, where the exterior has grown quite fishlike even though the skeleton still retains all the features of a quadruped.
We show disrespect neither for the primal force of nature nor for the wisdom and power of a creator if we assume that the former acts indirectly, and that the latter acted indirectly at the beginning of all things. Is it not fitting that this great force should bring forth simple things in a simple way and complex things in a complex way? Do we disparage its power if we say it could not have brought forth fish without water, birds without air, other animals without earth, that this is just as inconceivable as the continued existence of these creatures without the conditions provided by each element? Will we not attain a more satisfactory insight into the mysterious architecture of the formative process, now widely recognized to be built on a single pattern, by examining and comprehending this single pattern more fully and then looking into the following question: how does a surrounding element, with its various specific characteristics, affect the general form we have been studying? How does the form, both determined and a determinant, assert itself against these elements? What manner of hard parts, soft parts, interior parts, and exterior parts are created in the form by this effect? And, as indicated before, what is wrought by the elements through all their diversity of height and depth, region and climate?
Much research has already been done on these points. This needs only to be brought together and applied, but in accordance with the method described above.
How admirable that nature must use the same means to produce a creature as it does to sustain it! We progress on our path as follows: first we viewed the unstructured, unlimited element as a vehicle for the unstructured being, and now we will raise our observation to a higher level to consider the structured world itself as an interrelationship of many elements. We will see the entire plant world, for example, as a vast sea which is as necessary to the existence of individual insects as the oceans and rivers are to the existence of individual fish, and we will observe that an enormous number of living creatures are born and nourished in this ocean of plants. Ultimately we will see the whole world of animals as a great element in which one species is created, or at least sustained, by and through another. We will no longer think of connections and relationships in terms of purpose and intention. This is the only road to progress in understanding how nature expresses itself from all quarters and in all directions as it goes about its work of creation. As we find through experience, and as the advance of science has shown, the most concrete and far-reaching benefits for man come from an intense and selfless effort which neither demands its reward at week’s end like a laborer, nor lies under any obligation to produce some useful result for mankind after a year, a decade, or even a century.
THE EXPERIMENT AS MEDIATOR BETWEEN OBJECT AND SUBJECT
(1792)
As the human being becomes aware of objects in his environment he will relate them to himself, and rightly so since his fate hinges on whether these objects please or displease him, attract or repel him, help or harm him. This natural way of seeing and judging things seems as easy as it is essential, although it can lead to a thousand errors—often the source of humiliation and bitterness in our life.
A far more difficult task arises when a person’s thirst for knowledge kindles in him a desire to view nature’s objects in their own right and in relation to one another. On the one hand he loses the yardstick which came to his aid when he looked at things from the human standpoint; i.e., in relation to himself. This yardstick of pleasure and displeasure, attraction and repulsion, help and harm, he must now renounce absolutely; as a neutral, seemingly godlike being he must seek out and examine what is, not what pleases. Thus the true botanist must remain unmoved by beauty or utility in a plant; he must explore its formation, its relation to other plants. Like the sun which draws forth every plant and shines on all, he must look upon each plant with the same quiet gaze; he must find the measure for what he learns, the data for judgment, not in himself but in the sphere of what he observes.
The history of science teaches us how difficult this renunciation is for man. The second part of our short essay will discuss how he thus arrives (and must arrive) at hypotheses, theories, systems, any of the modes of perception which help in our effort to grasp the infinite; the first part of the essay will deal with how man sets about recognizing the forces of nature. Recently I have been studying the history of physics and this point arose frequently—hence the present brief discourse, an attempt to outline in general how the study of nature has been helped or hindered by the work of able scientists.
We may look at an object in its own context and the context of other objects, while refraining from any immediate response of desire or dislike. The calm exercise of our powers of attention will quickly lead us to a rather clear concept of the object, its parts, and its relationships; the more we pursue this study, discovering further relations among things, the more we will exercise our innate gift of observation. Those who understand how to apply this knowledge to their own affairs in a practical way are rightly deemed clever. It is not hard for any well-organized person, moderate by nature or force of circumstance, to be clever, for life corrects us at every step. But if the observer is called upon to apply this keen power of judgment to exploring the hidden relationships in nature, if he is to find his own way in a world where he is seemingly alone, if he is to avoid hasty conclusions and keep a steady eye on the goal while noting every helpful or harmful circumstance along the way, if he must be his own sharpest critic where no one else can test his work with ease, if he must question himself continually even when most enthusiastic—it is easy to see how harsh these demands are and how little hope there is of seeing them fully satisfied in ourselves or others. Yet these difficulties, this hypothetical impossibility, must not deter us from doing what we can. At any rate, our best approach is to recall how able men have advanced the sciences, and to be candid about the false paths down which they have strayed, only to be followed by numerous disciples, often for centuries, until later empirical evidence could bring researchers back to the right road.
It is undeniable that in the science now under discussion, as in every human enterprise, empirical evidence carries (and should carry) the greatest weight. Neither can we deny the high and seemingly creative independent power found in the inner faculties through which the evidence is grasped, collected, ordered, and developed. But how to gather and use empirical evidence, how to develop and apply our powers—this is not so generally recognized or appreciated.
We might well be surprised how many people are capable of sharp observation in the strictest sense of the word. When we draw their attention to objects, we will discover that such people enjoy making observations, and show great skill at it. Since taking up my study of light and color I have often had opportunity to appreciate this. Now and then I discuss my current interests with people unacquainted with the subject: once their attention is awakened they frequently make quick note of phenomena I was unaware of or had neglected to observe. Thus they may be able to correct ideas developed in haste, and even produce a breakthrough by transcending the inhibitions in which exacting research often traps us.
Thus what applies in so many other human enterprises is also true here: the interest of many focused on a single point can produce excellent results. Here it becomes obvious that the researcher will meet his downfall if he has any feeling of envy which seeks to deprive others of the discoverer’s laurels, any overwhelming desire to deal alone and arbitrarily with a discovery.
I have always found the cooperative method of working satisfactory, and I intend to continue with it. I am aware of the debts I have incurred along the way, and it will give me great pleasure later to acknowledge these publicly.
If man’s natural talent for observation can be of such help to us, how much more effective must it be when trained observers work hand in hand. In and of itself, a science is sufficient to support the work of many people, although no one person can carry an entire science. We may note that knowledge, like contained but living water, rises gradually to a certain level, and that the greatest discoveries are made not so much by men as by the age; important advances are often made by two or more skilled thinkers at the same time. We have already found that we owe much to the community and our friends; now we discover our debt to the world and the age we live in. In neither case can we appreciate fully enough our need for communication, assistance, admonition, and contradiction to hold us to the right path and help us along it.
Thus in scientific matters we must do the reverse of what is done in art. An artist should never present a work to the public before it is finished because it is difficult for others to advise or help him with its production. Once it is finished, however, he must consider criticism or praise, take it to heart, make it a part of his own experience, and thereby develop and prepare himself for new works. In science, on the other hand, it is useful to publish every bit of empirical evidence, even every conjecture; indeed, no scientific edifice should be built until the plan and materials of its structure have been widely known, judged and sifted.
I will now turn to a point deserving of attention; namely, the method which enables us to work most effectively and surely.
When we intentionally reproduce empirical evidence found by earlier researchers, contemporaries, or ourselves, when we re-create natural or artificial phenomena, we speak of this as an experiment.
The main value of an experiment lies in the fact that, simple or compound, it can be reproduced at any time given the requisite preparations, apparatus, and skill. After assembling the necessary materials we may perform the experiment as often as we wish. We will rightly marvel at human ingenuity when we consider even briefly the variety of arrangements and instruments invented for this purpose. In fact, we can note that such instruments are still being invented daily.
As worthwhile as each individual experiment may be, it receives its real value only when united or combined with other experiments. However, to unite or combine just two somewhat similar experiments calls for more rigor and care than even the sharpest observer usually expects of himself. Two phenomena may be related, but not nearly so closely as we think. Although one experiment seems to follow from another, an extensive series of experiments might be required to put the two into an order actually conforming to nature.
Thus we can never be too careful in our efforts to avoid drawing hasty conclusions from experiments or using them directly as proof to bear out some theory. For here at this pass, this transition from empirical evidence to judgment, cognition to application, all the inner enemies of man lie in wait: imagination, which sweeps him away on its wings before he knows his feet have left the ground; impatience; haste; self-satisfaction; rigidity; formalistic thought; prejudice; ease; frivolity; fickleness—this whole throng and its retinue. Here they lie in ambush and surprise not only the active observer but also the contemplative one who appears safe from all passion.
I will present a paradox of sorts as a way of alerting the reader to this danger, far greater and closer at hand than we might think. I would venture to say that we cannot prove anything by one experiment or even several experiments together, that nothing is more dangerous than the desire to prove some thesis directly through experiments, that the greatest errors have arisen just where the dangers and shortcomings in this method have been overlooked. I will explain this assertion more clearly lest I merely seem intent on raising a host of doubts. Every piece of empirical evidence we find, every experiment in which this evidence is repeated, really represents just one part of what we know. Through frequent repetition we attain certainty about this isolated piece of knowledge. We may be aware of two pieces of empirical evidence in the same area; although closely related, they may seem even more so, for we will tend to view them as more connected than they really are. This is an inherent part of man’s nature; the history of human understanding offers thousands of examples of this, and I myself make this error almost daily.
This mistake is associated with another which often lies at its root. Man takes more pleasure in the idea than in the thing; or rather, man takes pleasure in a thing only insofar as he has an idea of it. The thing must fit his character, and no matter how exalted his way of thinking, no matter how refined, it often remains just a way of thinking, an attempt to bring several objects into an intelligible relationship which, strictly speaking, they do not have. Thus the tendency to hypotheses, theories, terminologies, and systems, a tendency altogether understandable since it springs by necessity from the organization of our being.
Every piece of empirical evidence, every experiment, must be viewed as isolated, yet the human faculty of thought forcibly strives to unite all external objects known to it. It is easy to see the risk we run when we try to connect a single bit of evidence with an idea already formed, or use individual experiments to prove some relationship not fully perceptible to the senses but expressed through the creative power of the mind.
Such efforts generally give rise to theories and systems which are a tribute to their author’s intelligence. But with undue applause or protracted support they soon begin to hinder and harm the very progress of the human mind they had earlier assisted.
We often find that the more limited the data, the more artful a gifted thinker will become. As though to assert his sovereignty he chooses a few agreeable favorites from the limited number of facts and skillfully marshals the rest so they never contradict him directly. Finally he is able to confuse, entangle, or push aside the opposing facts and reduce the whole to something more like the court of a despot than a freely constituted republic.
So deserving a man will not lack admirers and disciples who study this fabric of thought historically, praise it, and seek to think as much like their master as possible. Often such a doctrine becomes so widespread that anyone bold enough to doubt it would be considered brash and impertinent. Only in later centuries would anyone venture to approach such a holy relic, apply common sense to the subject, and—taking a lighter view—apply to the founder of the sect what a wag once said of a renowned scientist: “He would have been a great man if only he hadn’t invented so much.”
It is not enough to note this danger and warn against it. We need to declare our own views by showing how we ourselves would hope to avoid this pitfall, or by telling what we know of how some predecessor avoided it.
Earlier I stated my belief that the direct use of an experiment to prove some hypothesis is detrimental; this implies that I consider its indirect use beneficial. Here we have a pivotal point, one requiring clarification.
Nothing happens in living nature that does not bear some relation to the whole. The empirical evidence may seem quite isolated, we may view our experiments as mere isolated facts, but this is not to say that they are, in fact, isolated. The question is: how can we find the connection between these phenomena, these events?
Earlier we found those thinkers most prone to error who seek to incorporate an isolated fact directly into their thinking and judgment. By contrast, we will find that the greatest accomplishments come from those who never tire in exploring and working out every possible aspect and modification of every bit of empirical evidence, every experiment.
It would require a second essay to describe how our intellect can help us with this task; here we will merely indicate the following. All things in nature, especially the commoner forces and elements, work incessantly upon one another; we can say that each phenomenon is connected with countless others just as we can say that a point of light floating in space sends its rays in all directions. Thus when we have done an experiment of this type, found this or that piece of empirical evidence, we can never be careful enough in studying what lies next to it or derives directly from it. This investigation should concern us more than the discovery of what is related to it. To follow every single experiment through its variations is the real task of the scientific researcher. His duty is precisely the opposite of what we expect from the author who writes to entertain. The latter will bore his readers if he does not leave something to the imagination, while the former must always work as if he wished to leave nothing for his successors to do. Of course, the disproportion between our intellect and the nature of things will soon remind us that no one has gifts enough to exhaust the study of any subject.
In the first two parts of my Contributions to Optics I sought to set up a series of contiguous experiments derived from one another in this way. Studied thoroughly and understood as a whole, these experiments could even be thought of as representing a single experiment, a single piece of empirical evidence explored in its most manifold variations.
Such a piece of empirical evidence, composed of many others, is clearly of a higher sort. It shows the general formula, so to speak, that overarches an array of individual arithmetic sums. In my view, it is the task of the scientific researcher to work toward empirical evidence of this higher sort—and the example of the best men in the field supports this view. From the mathematician we must learn the meticulous care required to connect things in unbroken succession, or rather, to derive things step by step. Even where we do not venture to apply mathematics we must always work as though we had to satisfy the strictest of geometricians.
In the mathematical method we find an approach which by its deliberate and pure nature instantly exposes every leap in an assertion. Actually, its proofs merely state in a detailed way that what is presented as connected was already there in each of the parts and as a consecutive whole, that it has been reviewed in its entirety and found to be correct and irrefutable under all circumstances. Thus its demonstrations are always more exposition, recapitulation, than argument. Having made this distinction, I may now return to something mentioned earlier.
We can see the great difference between a mathematical demonstration which traces the basic elements through their many points of connection, and the proof offered in the arguments of a clever speaker. Although arguments may deal with utterly separate matters, wit and imagination can group them around a single point to create a surprising semblance of right and wrong, true and false. It is likewise possible to support a hypothesis or theory by arranging individual experiments like arguments and offering proofs which bedazzle us to some degree.
But those who wish to be honest with themselves and others will try by careful development of individual experiments to evolve empirical evidence of the higher sort. These pieces of evidence may be expressed in concise axioms and set side by side, and as more of them emerge they may be ordered and related. Like mathematical axioms they will remain unshakable either singly or as a whole. Anyone may examine and test the elements, the many individual experiments, which constitute this higher sort of evidence; it will be easy to judge whether we can express these many components in a general axiom, for nothing here is arbitrary.
The other method which tries to prove assertions by using isolated experiments like arguments often reaches its conclusions furtively or leaves them completely in doubt. Once sequential evidence of the higher sort is assembled, however, our intellect, imagination and wit can work upon it as they will; no harm will be done, and, indeed, a useful purpose will be served. We cannot exercise enough care, diligence, strictness, even pedantry, in collecting basic empirical evidence; here we labor for the world and the future. But these materials must be ordered and shown in sequence, not arranged in some hypothetical way nor made to serve the dictates of some system. Everyone will then be free to connect them in his own way, to form them into a whole which brings some measure of delight and comfort to the human mind. This approach keeps separate what must be kept separate; it enables us to increase the body of evidence much more quickly and cleanly than the method which forces us to cast aside later experiments like bricks brought to a finished building.
The views and examples of the best men give me reason to hope that this is the right path, and I trust my explanation will satisfy those of my friends who ask from time to time what I am really seeking to accomplish with my optical experiments. My intention is to collect all the empirical evidence in this area, do every experiment myself, and develop the experiments in their most manifold variations so that they become easy to reproduce and more accessible. I will then attempt to establish the axioms in which the empirical evidence of a higher nature can be expressed, and see if these can be subsumed under still higher principles. If imagination and wit sometimes run impatiently ahead on this path, the method itself will fix the bounds to which they must return.
APRIL 28, 1792
THE EXTENT TO WHICH THE IDEA “BEAUTY IS PERFECTION IN COMBINATION WITH FREEDOM” MAY BE APPLIED TO LIVING ORGANISMS
(C. 1794)
An organic being is so multifaceted in its exterior, so varied and inexhaustible in its interior, that we cannot find enough points of view nor develop in ourselves enough organs of perception to avoid killing it when we analyze it. I will attempt to apply the idea “Beauty is perfection in combination with freedom” to living organisms.
The members of every creature are formed so that it may enjoy its existence, and maintain and propagate itself; in this sense everything alive deserves to be called perfect. Here I will turn immediately to the so-called more perfect animals.
If the members of an animal are so formed that the creature can give expression to its being only in a limited way, we will find the animal ugly; limitation of organic nature to a single purpose will produce a preponderance of one or another of its members, rendering the free use of the remaining members difficult.
When I look at this animal my attention will be drawn to the parts which predominate—the creature cannot make a harmonious impression because it has no harmony. Thus the mole is perfect but ugly because its form permits only a few, limited actions, and the preponderance of certain parts renders him misshapen.
Therefore, if an animal is to satisfy even its most limited basic needs without difficulty, it must be perfectly organized. After satisfying its needs, however, it may have enough strength and power left to initiate voluntary actions which are somewhat without purpose; in this case its exterior will also yield an impression of beauty.
Thus if I say this animal is beautiful I am unable to prove my assertion by using some proportion of number or measure. Instead I am stating only: in this animal all the members are so related that none hinders the action of another; compulsion and need are entirely hidden from my sight by a perfect balance so that the animal seems free to act and work just as it chooses. We may recall the sight of a horse using its limbs in freedom.
If we now rise to man, we will find that he is at last almost free of the fetters of animality; his limbs are in a delicate state of subordination and coordination, governed by his will more than those of any other animal, and suited not only to any application but also an expression of the mind. Here I allude to the language of gesture which is restrained in well-bred people, and which, I believe, does as much as the language of words to elevate man above the animal.
To develop the concept of a beautiful human in this manner would require that we take countless matters into consideration; there is clearly much to be done before the exalted concept of freedom can crown human perfection, even in the physical sense.
Here I must note a further point. We call an animal beautiful when it gives the impression that it could use its limbs at will, but when it really uses them as it chooses, the idea of the beautiful is immediately lost in feelings of the pretty, the pleasant, the easy, the splendid, etc. Thus we see that beauty actually calls for repose together with strength, inaction together with power.
If the notion of asserting the power of a body or some limb is too closely associated with the being’s physical existence, the spirit of the beautiful seems to take flight immediately: the ancients depicted even their lions in the greatest degree of repose and neutrality in order to draw forth the feeling with which we grasp beauty.
I would say that we consider a perfectly organized being beautiful if, in beholding it, we can believe it capable of manifold and free use of all its members whenever it wishes. Thus the most intense feeling of beauty is connected with feelings of trust and hope.
It seems to me that an essay on the animal and human form viewed in this way might yield agreeable insights and show some interesting relationships.
In particular, this would elevate the concept of proportion (which we usually try to express through number or measure, as mentioned above) to more spiritual principles, and it is my hope that these spiritual principles might at last come to agree with the approach used by the great artists whose works have come down to us, and also encompass those beautiful products of nature which appear among us from time to time in living form.
Especially interesting would be a discussion of how distinctive features could be generated without going beyond the bounds of beauty, how limitation and specialization could appear without impairing freedom.
To be unique and truly helpful to future friends of nature and art, this treatise would have to be based on anatomy and physiology. However, it is not easy to imagine a form of discourse suitable for the presentation of such a varied and wondrous whole.
OBSERVATION ON MORPHOLOGY IN GENERAL
(C. 1795)
Morphology may be viewed as a theory in and of itself, or as a science in the service of biology. As a whole it is based on natural history, drawing from it the phenomena with which it works. It is also based on the anatomy of all living bodies, and especially on zootomy.
Since its intention is to portray rather than explain, it draws as little as possible on the other sciences ancillary to biology, although it ignores neither the relationships of force and place in physics nor the relationships of element and compound in chemistry. Through its limitations it becomes, in fact, a specialized set of principles. Without exception it considers itself the handmaiden of biology, working together with other subsidiary sciences.
In morphology we propose to establish a science new not because of its subject matter, which is already well known, but because of its intention and method, which lends its principles their unique form and gives it a place among the other sciences. Since this is a new science we will start with a discussion of the latter point, the connection of morphology with other related sciences. We will then set forth its content and the method used in presenting this content.
Morphology may be said to include the principles of structured form and the formation and transformation of organic bodies; thus it belongs to a particular group of sciences, each of which has its own purpose. We will now review these sciences.
Natural history assumes that the variety of forms in the organic world is a known phenomenon. It recognizes that this great variety also shows a certain consistency which is partly universal and partly specific. It not only records the bodily structures known to it, but it arranges them, sometimes in groups and sometimes in sequence, according to the forms that are observed and the characteristics that are sought out and recognized. Thus it enables us to survey an enormous mass of material. Its work has two goals: partly to pursue the discovery of new subjects, and partly to arrange these subjects more in conformity with nature and their own characteristics, eliminating all that is arbitrary insofar as possible.
While natural history concentrates on the surface appearance of forms and views them as a whole, anatomy requires a knowledge of the inner structure; it treats the human body as the most worthy subject for dissection, and the one most in need of the aid only a thorough knowledge of structure can offer. A certain amount of work has been done on the anatomy of other living structures, but this is so scattered, so incomplete, and even so erroneous in many cases, that the collection of material remains almost useless to the scientific researcher.
In seeking to pursue and broaden the empirical observations of natural history, or draw them together for use, researchers have called on other areas of science, turned to closely related fields, or even formulated their own approaches. All this has been done and is still being done to fulfill the need for a general overview in biology (although, as human nature would have it, in a manner which is too one-sided). Nonetheless, an excellent foundation has been laid for the biologist of the future.
From the physicist (in the strictest sense of the word) the theory of organic nature has been able to acquire only a knowledge of the general relationship between forces, and the location and orientation of these forces in the particular area under study. The application of mechanical principles to organisms has merely made us all the more aware of the perfection of living beings, and we might almost say that the less applicable mechanical principles become, the more an organism grows in perfection.
In this area, as in others, we owe much to the chemist who sets form and structure aside and simply observes the character of materials and how they form compounds. Our debt to him will increase in the future, for recent discoveries have made the most refined analyses and syntheses possible, thus holding out the hope that we will be able to approximate the infinitely subtle processes of the living organism itself. Just as we have already created an anatomical biology through careful observation of structure, we may also look forward to a physical-chemical biology in the course of time. We may hope that these two sciences will progress so that each becomes capable of achieving this goal independently.
However, since both sciences are altogether analytical in character, and chemical compounds are based only on processes of separation, it is natural that these approaches to the study and understanding of organisms do not satisfy everyone. Many will prefer to start with a unified whole, develop the parts from it, and then retrace the parts directly to the whole. The nature of the organism supplies us with the best reason for doing this: the most perfect organism appears before us as a unified whole, discrete from all other beings. We know that we ourselves are such a whole; we experience the fullest sense of well-being when we are unaware of our parts and conscious only of the whole itself. The existence of organic nature is possible only insofar as organisms have structure, and these organisms can be structured and maintained as active entities solely through the condition we call “life.” Thus it was natural that a science of physiology should be established in an attempt to discover the laws an organism is destined to follow as a living being. For the sake of argument this life was quite properly viewed as derived from a force, an assumption justified and even necessary because life in its wholeness is expressed as a force not attributable to any individual part of an organism.
In thinking of an organism as a whole, or of ourselves as a whole, we will shortly find two points of view thrust upon us. At times we will view man as a being grasped by our physical senses, and at times as a being recognized only through an inner sense or understood only through the effects he produces.
Thus physiology falls into two parts which are not easily separated, i.e., into a physical part and a spiritual part. In reality these are inseparable, but the researcher in this field may start out from one side or the other and thus lend the greater weight to one or the other.
However, any of the sciences listed here would require our full attention; indeed, the pursuit of a specific area in just one of them would take an entire lifetime. An even greater difficulty lies in the fact that these sciences are cultivated almost exclusively by physicians, and although they address a certain aspect of their science by adding to its store of empirical observation, the need for application prevents them from extending its frontiers.
Thus we realize that much remains to be done before the biologist who seeks to combine all these views can consolidate them into one and achieve an understanding commensurate with his grand subject, insofar as this is permitted to the human spirit. To achieve this requires a focused activity on all sides, an activity which has been and continues to be in evidence. Progress in this activity would be more rapid and certain if each researcher would pursue it in his own way (but not one-sidedly), if he would joyfully acknowledge his colleagues’ every accomplishment instead of putting his own views uppermost, as is usually the case.
Now that we have presented the various sciences contributing to the work of the biologist, and shown their relationship, it is time for morphology to prove its legitimacy as a science in its own right.
Others agree with this. It must prove its legitimacy as an independent science by choosing a subject other sciences deal with only in passing, by drawing together what lies scattered among them and establishing a new standpoint from which the things of nature may be readily observed. The advantages of morphology are that it is made up of widely recognized elements, it does not conflict with any theory, it does not need to displace something else to make room for itself, and it deals with extremely significant phenomena. Its arrangement of phenomena calls upon activities of the mind so in harmony with human nature, and so pleasant, that even its failures may prove both useful and charming.
POLARITY
(C. 1799)
Two needs arise in us when we observe nature: to gain complete knowledge of the phenomena themselves, and then to make them our own by reflection upon them. Completeness is a product of order, order demands method, and method makes it easier to perceive the concept. When we are able to survey an object in every detail, grasp it correctly, and reproduce it in our mind’s eye, we can say that we have an intuitive perception of it in the truest and highest sense. We can say that it belongs to us, that we have attained a certain mastery of it. And thus the particular always leads us to the general, the general to the particular. The two combine their effects in every observation, in every discourse.
We will begin with some general notions.
Duality of the phenomenon as opposites:
We and the objects
Light and dark
Two souls
Spirit and matter
God and world
Thought and extension
Ideal and real
Sensuality and reason
Fantasy and practical thought
Being and yearning
Two halves of the body
Right and left
Breathing.
Physical experiment:
Magnet.
Our ancestors admired the economy of nature. She was thought to have a practical character, inclined to do much with small means where others produce little with great means. As mere mortals, we stand even more in admiration of the skill with which she is able to produce the widest variety of things while restricted to only a few basic principles.
To do this she uses the principle of life, with its inherent potential to work with the simplest phenomenon and diversify it by intensification into the most infinite and varied forms.
Whatever appears in the world must divide if it is to appear at all. What has been divided seeks itself again, can return to itself and reunite. This happens in a lower sense when it merely intermingles with its opposite, combines with it; here the phenomenon is nullified or at least neutralized. However, the union may occur in a higher sense if what has been divided is first intensified; then in the union of the intensified halves it will produce a third thing, something new, higher, unexpected.
FROM THEORY OF COLOR
(1791–1807)
Part Five: Relationship to Other Fields
RELATIONSHIP TO PHILOSOPHY
716. We cannot require a physicist to be a philosopher, but we can expect him to have enough philosophical knowledge to make a fundamental distinction between himself and the world, and then come to terms with the world again in a higher sense. He ought to shape a method consistent with intuitive perception; he must avoid turning the perception into concepts, the concept into words, avoid using and treating these words as if they were objects. He should be familiar with the philosopher’s task so that he can pursue phenomena to the borders of the philosophical realm.
717. We cannot ask a philosopher to be a physicist, and yet his influence on the area of physics is necessary and desirable. Knowledge of every detail is not required, only an insight into the end point where the details converge.
718. Earlier (§§175 ff.) we mentioned this important observation in passing, and we are now at an appropriate place to repeat it. There is no worse mistake in physics or any other science than to treat secondary things as basic and (since basic things cannot be derived from what is secondary) to seek an explanation for the basic things in secondary ones. This gives birth to endless confusion, jargon, and a constant effort to find a way out when the truth begins to emerge and assert itself.
719. Here the observer, the scientific researcher, will be bothered by the fact that the phenomena always contradict his notions. The philosopher, however, can continue to operate with a false conclusion in his own sphere, for no conclusion is so false that it could not somehow be valid as a form without content.
720. But the physicist who can come to an understanding of what we have called an archetypal phenomenon will be on safe ground, and the philosopher with him. The physicist will find safety in the conviction that he has reached the limit of his science, the empirical summit from which he can look back over the various steps in empirical observation, and glance forward into the realm of theory, if not enter it. The philosopher finds safety in accepting from the hand of the physicist results which can serve as his starting point. He will now be justifiably indifferent to phenomena insofar as they are secondary effects organized by science or scattered and disorganized in the empirical state. If he wishes, he may easily examine these phenomena in detail instead of conducting his own research, lingering too long in the intermediate realm, or touching upon the phenomena superficially and without exact knowledge.
721. It has been the author’s wish to present the principles of color to the philosopher in this way. For various reasons he may not have succeeded in the discourse itself, but he will pursue this in his revision of the work, in his summary of the discussion, and in the polemic and historical sections. Later, in stating several points more clearly, he will return to this observation.
RELATIONSHIP TO MATHEMATICS
722. Since the physicist deals with the principles of nature as a whole, we can expect him to be a mathematician. In the Middle Ages mathematics was the principal means for seeking mastery over the secrets of nature, and even today geometry properly has an important place in certain areas of natural science.
723. The author cannot boast of any accomplishment in this field, and therefore restricts himself to those areas which involve no geometry; in recent times such areas have been opened up far and wide.
724. Who would deny that mathematics, one of the most splendid of human gifts, has served physics well in its way? But the false application of the mathematical method has undoubtedly harmed this science as well; here and there we will find this fact grudgingly admitted.
725. The theory of color, in particular, has been hurt and greatly hindered in its progress by being lumped with the area of optics dependent on geometry. It may, in fact, be considered entirely separate from geometry.
726. Another problem arose because a fine mathematician had adopted a completely false concept of the physical origin of color; his great accomplishments as a geometrician long served to sanction his scientific error in a world ruled by constant prejudice.
727. The author of the present work has sought throughout to keep the principles of color apart from mathematics, although at certain points the help of geometry would obviously have been desirable. Had other matters not kept unprejudiced mathematicians of the author’s acquaintance from working with him, his discussion would not lack merit in this regard. But this failing might be turned to good advantage if the gifted mathematician will discover where his help is needed in the theory of color, and how he can contribute to the perfection of this branch of science.
728. In general, Germans have achieved much while accepting the achievements of other nations—it would be well if they could also become accustomed to working together. We live, however, in an age altogether opposed to this aspiration. Each wishes to be original in his views and independent of other efforts in his life and work, or at least think that he is. We often find that those who have, in fact, accomplished something quote only themselves, their own writings, journals and compendiums, although it would be much better for them and the world if others were called upon to join in the work. The conduct of our neighbors, the French, is exemplary in this regard, as we may note with pleasure in the instance of Cuvier’s preface to his Tableau élémentaire de l’Histoire naturelle des animaux.
729. Close observers of the sciences and their progress might even ask whether it is advantageous for such disparate (but related) efforts and goals to be united in one person. Given the limitations of human nature would it not be more appropriate, for example, to make a distinction between those who pursue and discover phenomena, and those who work with them in an applied way? In recent times astronomers who observe the heavens in the search for stars have been somewhat separate from those who calculate orbits, consider the laws of the universe, and formulate them more precisely. We will return to these points often in the history of the theory of color.
RELATIONSHIP TO THE TECHNOLOGY OF DYEING
730. Our research has given the mathematician wide berth, but we have sought to meet the practical needs of the dyer. Although our section on the chemical aspect of colors is not fully detailed, it and our general observations on color will say far more to the dyer than the earlier theory which offered him nothing at all.
731. Treatises on dyeing are remarkable in this regard. The Catholic may enter his temple, sprinkle himself with holy water, kneel before the priest, and then with no special piety conduct a business discussion with friends or pursue affairs of the heart. Similarly, every treatise on dyeing begins with respectful mention of color theory without any later evidence that something has come of this theory, that this theory has explained or clarified anything, or yielded anything of value for practical application.
732. Those who fully understand the practical needs of dyeing, however, are forced to disagree with the traditional theory, to expose some of its weaknesses and seek a general approach more in keeping with nature and empirical observation. We will say more about this in the historical section when we come to the work of Castel and Gülich. This will also allow us to show how an expanded empiricism comprehending every accident of nature may actually go beyond its own limits and be taken up and used as a highly developed whole by the theoretician who is clear-sighted and honest of character.
RELATIONSHIP TO PHYSIOLOGY AND PATHOLOGY
733. Although almost all the phenomena in the section dealing with the physiological and pathological aspects of color are well known, there are some new views which the physiologist will welcome. In particular, we hope to have satisfied him by connecting certain isolated phenomena with similar and like phenomena, thus laying part of the groundwork for his further studies.
734. The pathological supplement is admittedly scanty and disconnected. However, we have outstanding experts who are quite experienced and knowledgeable in this area, and so respected intellectually that they would have little difficulty in revising my discussion, completing what I began, and connecting it with higher levels of insight into organisms.
RELATIONSHIP TO NATURAL HISTORY
735. The author hopes to have done some preliminary work for natural history insofar as we expect this field gradually to become the study of how natural phenomena derive from phenomena of a higher type. Color in all its variety shows on the surface of living beings as a significant outer sign of what is happening within.
736. In one respect, of course, it is not altogether trustworthy because of its uncertainty and changeability, but to the extent it appears as a constant effect, this mutability will itself serve as a criterion for the mutable qualities of life. The author could wish for nothing more than to be given the time to develop his observations on this subject, although this is not the place for such a discussion.
RELATIONSHIP TO GENERAL PHYSICS
737. The present state of general physics seems especially favorable for our work; constant and wide-ranging research have brought natural philosophy to such a high level that it now seems possible to relate the endless realm of empirical phenomena to one central method.
738. Without going too far afield, we will find a certain common tendency in the formulas used—if not dogmatically, then at least for didactic purposes as an expression of elementary natural phenomena. This accord in the outward signs must point to an accord in their inner sense.
739. No matter how different their opinions, faithful observers of nature will agree that anything that appears and meets us as phenomenon necessarily implies an original division capable of union or an original unity capable of division, and that the phenomenon must present itself accordingly. To make two of what is one, to unify what is divided—this is the life of nature, the eternal systole and diastole, the eternal syncrisis and diacrisis, the inhaling and exhaling of the world in which we live, weave, and exist.
740. It should be obvious that what we express here through number, through one and two, must be understood as a higher process, just as the appearance of a third or fourth stage of development is always to be taken in a higher sense. It is especially important, however, that true intuitive perceptions underlie all these expressions.
741. Although we recognize iron as a separate and individual substance, it is neutral, worthy of note only in certain situations and applications. But how little is needed to transform this neutrality! A division takes place; in seeking to reunite and find itself, it develops an almost magical connection to its own kind. This division, in reality a reuniting, spreads throughout its species. Here we recognize the neutral substance, iron; we see the division arise in it, spread and disappear, only to begin again. In our opinion this is an archetypal phenomenon which borders upon the idea and acknowledges nothing earthly above it.
742. Electricity has its own peculiarities. We know nothing of electricity’s essence, for it is neutral. To us it is nothing, a zero, a zero point, a neutral point, but one present in every corporeal substance, a point of origin for a double phenomenon which will emerge at the least provocation and appear only as it disappears again. The conditions under which this appearance occurs are endlessly varied, and depend on the character of the particular bodies involved. From the grossest mechanical friction between altogether different bodies to the subtlest proximity of two similar bodies only slightly unalike in quality, the phenomenon is present and active, even striking and powerful. Its definition and form are such that we properly and naturally apply the formulas of polarity, plus and minus, in the terms north and south, glass and resin.
743. Although this phenomenon takes place especially on the surface, it is by no means superficial. It influences the characteristics of objects, and in its effect it has a direct relationship to the great double phenomenon so prevalent in chemistry, oxidation and deoxidation.
744. It has been our goal to relate the effects of color to this series, this circle, this garland of phenomena, and make a place for it there. Where we have failed, others will succeed. We found a tremendous, primal opposition between light and dark, or to put it more generally, between light and nonlight. We sought to mediate this opposition and thus to build the visible world out of light, shadow, and color. As we developed these phenomena we made use of various formulas drawn from the principles of magnetism, electricity, and chemistry. We had to go beyond these principles, however, for we found ourselves in a higher sphere where the relationships requiring expression were more complex.
745. As general forces, electricity and galvanism are superior to magnetic effects, which are more specialized. We may say likewise that color is governed by the same laws, but rises much higher in displaying its qualities to good advantage through its effect on the eye, a noble sensory organ. Compare the various qualities created in the intensification of yellow and blue in red, the union of the two higher extremes in purple, and the mixture of the two lower extremes in green. This system is far more complex than that for magnetism and electricity. There is another reason these latter phenomena are at a lower level: although they permeate and quicken the world as a whole, they are unable to rise to the level of man in a higher sense, for they cannot be used esthetically. A general, simple, physical system must itself reach a higher level and become more complex if it is to serve loftier purposes.
746. In this sense the reader may recall what we have set forth generally as well as in detail about color; he will then be able to expand and develop for himself the slight indications found here. It would greatly benefit knowledge, science, technology, and art if the beautiful subject of color theory could be freed from its traditional atomistic restraints and isolation, and returned to the general, dynamistic flow of life and activity in which the present age takes such delight. These sentiments will be strengthened when our historical section introduces us to many a brave and insightful man who failed to persuade his contemporaries of his convictions.
RELATIONSHIP TO THE THEORY OF TONE
747. We will proceed to the sensory-moral effects of color, and the esthetic effects arising from them, but this is an appropriate place to say something of their relationship with tone.
It has long been felt that color is related in a certain way to tone; this is shown by the frequent comparisons, some in passing and some in great detail. For the following simple reason, this is an error.
748. Color and tone may in no wise be compared to one another, but both may be related to a higher formula, both may be derived from a higher formula, each in its own way. Color and tone are like two rivers which arise on a single mountain but flow differently through completely opposite regions, so that no two points are comparable as we follow their separate courses. Both are general, basic effects acting in accord with universal law (separation and tendency to union, rising and falling, weight and counterweight), but in quite different directions, in different ways, through different media, on different senses.
749. If some researcher could really take hold of the method we have used in connecting the theory of color with general natural philosophy, and if he could correct our omissions and errors by chance or by insight, we are convinced that the theory of tone could be incorporated fully into general physics; at present its separation is only historical.
750. But herein lies the greatest difficulty: should we destroy the special character of present-day music with its odd practical, accidental, mathematical, esthetic, and creative impulses, could we dissolve it into its basic physical elements and treat it in a purely physical way? This might be possible because of the point we have reached in science and art, and the fine preliminary studies already available.
CONCLUDING OBSERVATION ON LANGUAGE AND TERMINOLOGY
751. We are insufficiently aware that a language is, in fact, merely symbolic, merely figurative, never a direct expression of the objective world, but only a reflection of it. This is especially so when we speak of things which only touch lightly upon our empirical observation, things we might call activities rather than objects. In the realm of natural philosophy such things are in constant motion. They cannot be held fast and yet we must speak of them; hence we look for all sorts of formulas to get at them, at least metaphorically.
752. Metaphysical formulas have great breadth and depth, but a rich content is required to fill them in a worthy way; otherwise they remain empty. Mathematical formulas are often convenient and useful, but they always have a certain stiffness and awkwardness; we soon feel their inadequacy, for even in elementary instances we will quickly recognize the presence of an incommensurable quality. Furthermore, they are intelligible only to a narrow circle of specially trained minds. Mechanical formulas speak more to ordinary understanding, but are themselves ordinary and always retain a touch of crudity. They transform living things into dead ones; they kill the inner life in order to apply an inadequate substitute from without. Corpuscular formulas are similar; they have the effect of rigidifying things in motion, coarsening idea and expression. In contrast, moral formulas express more delicate relationships but take the form of simple metaphors, and may finally lose themselves in a display of wit.
753. However, the scientist might make conscious use of all these modes of thought and expression to convey his views on natural phenomena in a multifold language. If he could avoid becoming one-sided, and give living expression to living thought, it might be possible to communicate much that would be welcome.
754. How difficult it is, though, to refrain from replacing the thing with its sign, to keep the object alive before us instead of killing it with the word. In recent times this danger has been heightened as expressions and terms are drawn from all areas of knowledge and science to express perceptions of simple natural phenomena. We call on the aid of astronomy, cosmology, geology, natural history, even religion and mysticism; and often the particular, the derived, will hide and obscure the general, the elementary, instead of illuminating and revealing it. We are quite aware of the necessity responsible for such a language and its widespread use, and we know that it has made itself indispensable in a certain sense. But this language will be of service only when more moderately and modestly applied in a conscious and sure way.
755. It would be most desirable, however, to base the language for the details of a particular area on the area itself, to treat the simplest phenomenon as the basic formula and develop the more complex formulas out of it.
756. Scientists have obviously felt that it would be necessary and suitable to use a figurative language in which the basic sign expresses the phenomenon itself, for the formula of polarity has been borrowed from magnetism and extended to electricity, etc. The concepts of plus and minus, which represent this formula, have found suitable application to many a phenomenon. Even the musician, apparently unconcerned with other fields, has been led by nature to express the principal difference between keys as major and minor.
757. We, too, have long wished to introduce the term polarity into the theory of color, and the present work will show our justification and purpose in doing so. Later we may have an opportunity to link the elementary phenomena of nature in our own way by using this approach, this symbolism always accompanied by the intuitive perception belonging to it. Thus we will be able to clarify and define more adequately the general indications given here.
Part Six: Sensory-Moral Effect of Color
758. Color is ranked high among the primal natural phenomena, for it fills out its own unique sphere in the most various ways. Color is chiefly meant for the sense of vision, the eye; in its most general and basic form, without regard to the character or shape of the surface on which it appears, it acts on man’s inner nature through the mediation of the eye. Hence we will not be surprised to find that its effect has a direct connection with the moral realm. A single color acts specifically, while a combination of colors has an effect which is partly harmonious, partly individual, even inharmonious, but always distinct and significant. Thus color, as an element of art, may serve the highest esthetic purposes.
759. People generally take great pleasure in color. The eye needs color as it needs light. We may recall our feeling of refreshment when the sun breaks through the clouds to flood a part of the landscape with light and make its colors visible. The belief that colored jewels have healing powers may be a result of the deep feelings aroused by this inexpressible delight.
760. The colors seen in objects are not entirely external to the eye, are not imprinted on the eye from without. No—the eye itself has a constant predisposition to bring forth colors, and feels pleasure when something in harmony with its own nature comes to it, when its ability to respond is evoked strongly in a certain direction.
761. The idea of opposition between phenomena, and what we now know of particular modifications in this opposition, will lead us to conclude that the impressions made by individual colors are not interchangeable, that they have specific effects and must produce decidedly specific states in the living organ which is the eye.
762. They have a similar effect on man’s inner nature. Observation will tell us that each color brings its particular mood. It is told of a witty Frenchman: “Il prétendoit que son ton de conversation avec Madame étoit changé depuis qu’elle avoit changé en cramoisi le meuble de son cabinet qui étoit bleu.”
763. To experience these specific, strong effects the eye must be entirely surrounded by one color; e.g., we must be in a room of one color, or look through a colored piece of glass. We will then identify ourselves with the color; our eye and spirit will be brought into unison with it.
764. The colors on the plus side are yellow, red-yellow (orange), and yellow-red (minium, cinnabar). They bring on an active, lively, striving mood.
YELLOW
765. Yellow is the color nearest light. It arises from very slight moderation of light, whether through turbid media or weak reflection from a white surface. In prismatic experiments it extends far into the bright area, where it can be seen in its greatest purity when the two poles are still separate and yellow is not yet mixed with blue to create green. We have already described in detail how the chemical yellow develops in and across the white.
766. In its greatest purity it always conveys the quality of brightness, and has a cheerful, vivacious, mildly exciting character.
767. In this form it makes a pleasant surrounding, whether in clothing, curtains, or wallpaper. Gold in its unalloyed state brings us a new and exalted idea of this color, especially when enhanced by the metal’s gleam. Similarly, a strong yellow on lustrous silk (e.g., satin) has a magnificent and noble effect.
768. We also experience a very warm and cozy impression with yellow. Thus in painting, too, it belongs among the luminous and active colors.
769. This warming effect is most vivid when we look at a landscape through a piece of yellow glass, especially on a gray wintery day. The eye is gladdened, the heart expands, the feelings are cheered, an immediate warmth seems to waft toward us.
770. In its pure and bright state this color is pleasurable and cheering, with an element of vivacity and nobility in the force with which it works. It is extremely delicate, however, and makes a very unpleasant impression when muddied or drawn a little toward the minus side; hence the unpleasant quality in the color of sulfur, which tends toward green.
771. On impure and coarse surfaces, like woolen cloth, felt, etc., where it cannot appear with its full energy, yellow creates an unpleasant effect of this sort. A tiny, imperceptible shift changes the beautiful impression of fire and gold into a muddy one. The color of honor and joy becomes the color of shame, loathing, and disquiet. This may explain the yellow hat of the bankrupt and the yellow circles on the Jew’s mantle; even the so-called cuckold’s color is actually just a muddy yellow.
RED-YELLOW
772. No color may be considered fixed; it is quite easy to intensify and heighten yellow to a reddish hue by condensing and darkening it. As red-yellow, the color increases in energy and seems to grow in power and magnificence.
773. What was said about yellow will be even more applicable here. Red-yellow brings the eye a strong feeling of warmth and joy, for it represents the intense glow of fire as well as the softer refulgence of the setting sun. Hence it also gives pleasure in our surroundings and is rather joyous or magnificent in clothing. A slight reddish cast immediately lends a different appearance to yellow; as Father Castel has noted, the English and Germans are content with bright pale yellow tones in leather, but the French love yellow intensified to red. In fact, the French generally take pleasure in any color on the active side.
774. Pure yellow passes very easily into red-yellow, and the intensification of the latter to yellow-red is equally inevitable. The pleasant, cheerful feeling created by red-yellow is intensified in deep yellow-red to a feeling of unbearable power.
775. Here the active side displays its highest degree of energy, and it is no wonder that robust, healthy, rough people take special pleasure in this color. A preference for it has frequently been noted in primitive peoples. And when children are left to paint on their own, they make lavish use of cinnabar and minium.
776. If we stare at a uniformly yellow-red surface, the color will actually seem to bore its way into our eye. It produces an incredible shock, and retains its effect even in a degree of darkness.
The sight of a yellow-red cloth upsets and maddens animals. I have also known educated people who could not bear to meet someone wearing a scarlet cloak on a gray day.
777. The colors on the minus side are blue, red-blue, and blue-red. They bring an anxious, tender, longing mood.
BLUE
778. Just as yellow always conveys something of light, we can also say that blue always conveys something of darkness.
779. This color has a strange and almost inexpressible effect on the eye. As color it has its own energy, but on the negative side; in its purest form it is like a stimulating nullity. Its appearance brings a sense of contradiction between stimulation and ease.
780. We see the heights of heaven and the distant mountains as blue. Likewise, a blue surface seems to recede from us.
781. Just as we like to pursue a pleasant object retreating into the distance, we also like to look at blue—not because it attacks us but because it draws us along.
782. Blue brings a feeling of cold and reminds us of shadow. We have already learned how it is derived from black.
783. Rooms decorated only in blue seem rather expansive but quite empty and cold.
784. Blue glass shows objects in a sad light.
785. Blue mixed to some extent with the plus side has an agreeable effect. In fact, sea green is a lovely color.
RED-BLUE
786. We found that yellow intensifies easily, and we will note the same characteristic with blue.
787. Blue intensifies delicately toward the red, thus gaining somewhat in power even though it belongs on the passive side. Its effect, however, is quite different from that of red-yellow. It does not enliven so much as it unsettles.
788. Just as the intensification itself is inexorable, so, too, will we feel a need to make our way through this color—not, as with red-yellow, because we wish to take active strides, but because we seek a resting point.
789. In a very dilute form this color is called lilac; even in this form it has an element of liveliness but lacks gaiety.
BLUE-RED
790. The unsettling effect increases with further intensification, and we can say that wallpaper in a very pure, saturated blue-red would seem unbearable. This is why a very dilute and light form of this color is used in clothing, ribbons, and other ornamentation; there it has a special charm in keeping with its nature.
791. The higher clergy has taken this uneasy color as its own; we might say that it seeks to climb the unsteady ladder of incessant intensification to achieve the cardinal’s purple.
RED
792. Under this heading we must exclude anything which leaves an impression of yellow or blue in red. We may think of a very pure red, a perfect carmine dried on a white porcelain saucer. Because of its exalted nature we have frequently called this color purple, although we know that the purple of the ancients tended more to the blue side.
793. Those familiar with the origin of prismatic purple will find no paradox in the statement that this color contains all other colors, in part manifest, in part latent.
794. With yellow and blue we noted an incessant intensification to red, and we observed our feelings as this took place. It will come as no surprise that a genuine resolution occurs in the union of the intensified poles, a satisfaction in the ideal realm. Among physical colors, then, this most exalted of color phenomena arises from the merger of two opposites which have been gradually prepared for union.
795. As a pigment, however, it seems fixed, and appears in cochineal as the most perfect red. Although it is possible to shift this material chemically to the plus or minus side, we may consider it fully balanced in the best carmine.
796. The effect of this color is as unique as its character. It may make a serious and dignified impression, or one of grace and charm; the first effect arises when it is dark and condensed, the second when light and dilute. Thus the dignity of age and the charm of youth may be clad in a single color.
797. History provides many examples of how rulers have coveted the purple. Surroundings in this color are always serious and magnificent.
798. Purple glass shows a well-lit landscape in an awe-inspiring and terrible light. This must be the color cast over heaven and earth on the day of judgment.
799. The two materials used to produce this color in dyeing, kermes and cochineal, have a certain tendency toward the plus and minus sides; by treating them with acids and alkalis we can shift them back and forth. Thus we will find that the French prefer the active side (e.g., French scarlet), while the Italians remain on the passive side with a scarlet retaining a hint of blue.
800. A similar treatment with alkalis produces crimson, a color apparently despised by the French since they apply the expressions sot en cramoisi and méchant en cramoisi to things they find extremely silly or bad.
GREEN
801. We have characterized yellow and blue as the simplest and most basic colors. The color called green arises when yellow and blue are joined where they first appear and create their impression.
802. The eye finds a physical satisfaction in green. When the mixture of the two colors which yield green is so evenly balanced that neither color predominates, the eye and the soul come to rest on the mixture as if it were something simple. We cannot and will not go beyond it. Thus green is often chosen for rooms where we spend all our time.
TOTALITY AND HARMONY
803. For the purposes of discussion we have assumed it is possible to force the eye to identify itself with a single color, but this identification will last but an instant.
804. When a color around us creates its characteristic effect in the eye and forces us by its presence to remain identified with it, we are under a compulsion which the eye will not willingly accept.
805. Upon perceiving a color the eye immediately becomes active; by nature it unconsciously and necessarily produces another color on the spot, and the two colors together will contain the whole circle of colors. The specific sensation aroused by one color will stimulate the eye to seek a totality.
806. To perceive this totality and find satisfaction, the eye looks around each colored space for a colorless one where it can produce the complementary color.
807. Here we find the basic law governing all harmony of colors. The reader may discover this for himself by becoming thoroughly familiar with the experiments described in the section on physiological colors.
808. When presented with the totality of colors in an external object, the eye will rejoice because the result of its own activity stands before it as a reality. Hence we will begin with a discussion of this harmonious juxtaposition.
809. To understand this most easily we may think of the diameter of our color circle as a movable line; when rotated through the entire circle the two ends will eventually indicate all the complementary colors. These, of course, may be reduced to the three simple opposite pairs:
810. Yellow demands red-blue,
Blue demands red-yellow,
Purple demands green,
and vice versa.
811. As we move our imaginary pointer away from the midpoint in this natural order of colors, the other end will also move, but along the opposite series of colors. Such an arrangement will make it possible to find the required complement of every color. We have shown the colors and their transitions as discrete, but for this purpose it would be helpful to construct a color circle with continuous gradations. Here we have arrived at an important point, one deserving our fullest attention.
812. Previously we were affected in a somewhat pathological way when viewing single colors, for we were swept up in specific sensations: we felt lively and active, passive and anxious, lifted to exalted heights, or reduced to the mundane. But the eye’s inborn need for totality allows us to escape this limitation; it finds its freedom by creating the opposite of the color forced on it, thus producing a satisfying whole.
813. These truly harmonious opposites are simple but important as evidence that nature is inclined to set us free through totality, for here we are the direct beneficiaries of a natural phenomenon with esthetic implications.
814. Now we can say that our color circle will have a pleasing effect, if only because of the colors it contains. Here we may note that past observers have mistakenly used the rainbow as an example of color totality although a major color—pure red or purple—is missing; this color cannot appear because, as in the usual prismatic image, yellow-red and blue-red cannot merge.
815. In fact, no general phenomenon in nature manifests the totality of colors. We can produce this totality in all its beauty by experiments, but pigments on paper serve best to show how the phenomenon as a whole forms a circle—at least until our natural gifts, a multitude of observations, and much practice imbue us with the idea of this harmony so that it stands before our mind’s eye.
COMBINATIONS WITH CHARACTER
816. Besides the purely harmonious, self-generated combinations which always contain a totality, we can identify arbitrary combinations produced along the chords rather than the diameters of our color circle, i.e., so that the color lying between any two other colors is skipped.
817. We say these combinations have character because they possess a distinctive quality: they make a certain impression without satisfying us. Character appears only when the part stands out from the whole, when it is related to the whole without being lost in it.
818. Based on our knowledge of how colors arise and are related through harmony, we will expect to find a particular impression associated with the character of each arbitrary combination. We will review them one by one.
YELLOW AND BLUE
819. This is the simplest of these combinations. We might say it lacks content, for there is no trace of red and therefore too little of the totality. In this sense we may call it impoverished; it is also mundane since the two poles are at their lowest level. Nonetheless, it has the advantage of being close to green and thus close to a physical satisfaction.
YELLOW AND PURPLE
820. This is rather one-sided, although it has an element of brightness and magnificence. We see the two extremes of the active side together, but without any sense of progressive development.
Since mixing yellow and purple pigments yields yellow-red, they may to some extent represent this color.
BLUE AND PURPLE
821. These are the two extremes of the passive side, but with the upper extreme’s tendency toward the active side predominant. Mixing the two yields blue-red; the combination will resemble blue-red in its effect.
YELLOW-RED AND BLUE-RED
822. These are the intensified extremes of the two sides and have a somewhat exciting, exalted quality in combination. They hint at the purple created by their merger in prismatic experiments.
823. When mixed, any of these four combinations would produce the color between them on the color circle; combinations composed of small bits of color viewed from afar will also produce this intermediate color. A surface with narrow blue and yellow stripes will look green at a distance.
824. Looking at blue and yellow together, however, will involve the eye in a futile struggle to produce green; i.e., it will never come to rest in one color or reach a sense of totality in the whole.
825. Thus we can say with justification that these combinations have character; the character of each is related to the character of the single colors in the combination.
COMBINATIONS WITHOUT CHARACTER
826. Now we will turn to the last set of combinations. These are easy to find on the circle: they are indicated by the lesser chords formed by passing over the point of transition between each color rather over than an entire intermediate color.
827. We may say that these combinations are without character because they lie too close to one another to make a particular impression. Yet several deserve attention as indicators of a certain progressive development, even though the steps in this development remain almost imperceptible.
828. Thus yellow and yellow-red, yellow-red and purple, blue and blue-red, blue-red and purple, contain successive stages of intensification and culmination. In certain proportions their effect will not be unpleasant.
829. Yellow with green is always mundane but cheerful, while blue with green is always mundane but disagreeable; this is why our forebears called the latter “fool’s colors.”
RELATIONSHIP OF THE COMBINATIONS TO LIGHT AND DARK
830. We can vary these combinations greatly by using a light shade of each color, or a dark shade, or a light shade of one and a dark shade of the other. In each case, however, the general impression will remain the same. We will mention only the following among the infinite variety of effects possible.
831. With black, the active side becomes more energetic and the passive side less so. With white and bright shades, the active side loses power and the passive side becomes more lively. With black, purple and green look dark and somber; with white, they look more cheerful.
832. A color may also be muddied or rendered somewhat unrecognizable and then combined with its own kind or with pure colors. Although this will create infinite degrees of variety, the principles found with the pure colors remain generally valid.
HISTORICAL OBSERVATIONS
833. We dealt with the principles of color harmony above, but it will be useful to add several observations and examples to that discussion.
834. These principles were derived from man’s own nature and the relationships we have recognized in color phenomena. Empirical observation brings us many things in accord with these principles and some things which are not.
835. Aborigines, uncivilized nations, and children favor color at its most energetic, hence yellow-red in particular. They also like brightly variegated colors; i.e., combinations of colors at their most energetic but without harmonic balance. If, however, such a balance is found by instinct or accident, a pleasant effect will result. I recall a Hessian officer back from America who painted his face with pure colors like the Indians, thus producing a totality of sorts which was not unpleasant in its effect.
836. The people of southern Europe dress in very lively colors; the easy availability of silk fabrics favors this tendency. Especially the women with their vivid bodices and ribbons seem always to be in harmony with the landscape, although they cannot outshine the brilliance of the sky and earth.
837. The history of dyeing shows that certain technical considerations and advantages have greatly influenced the costume of various nations. Thus the Germans often wear blue because of its durability in cloth. In many regions the country folk wear green twill because twill takes green well. Any alert traveler will soon observe such things to his amusement and edification.
838. Just as colors create moods, they may also fit moods and situations. Lively nations (the French, for example) love intensified colors, especially those on the active side. More subdued nations (the English or Germans, for example) prefer straw yellow or leather yellow, which they wear with dark blue. Nations which cultivate dignity (like the Italians and Spanish) wear cloaks in a red which tends more to the passive side.
839. In clothing we associate the character of the color with the character of the person. Thus we can observe how single colors and combinations of color are related to complexion, age, and social class.
840. Young women prefer rose and sea-green, older women like violet and dark green. Blonds tend toward violet and light yellow, brunets toward blue and yellow-red; in both cases with good reason.
The Roman emperors were extremely jealous of their purple. The robe of the Chinese emperor is orange embroidered with purple. His servants and members of religious orders are allowed to wear lemon-yellow.
841. Cultivated people tend to shy away from color. This may result partly from weakness of the eye and partly from a lack of certainty in taste which prefers to take refuge in no color at all. In our day women almost always choose white, and men wear black.
842. Here it would not be inappropriate to observe that although people like to be noticed they also like to blend in with their own kind.
843. Black was supposed to remind the Venetian nobleman of republican equality.
844. The extent to which the gray Northern skies have gradually banished colors might be a matter for further research.
845. Absolute colors are naturally quite limited in their use, but muddied, quenched colors (the so-called fashionable colors) create endless varieties of degree and shade, most of which are not without charm.
846. We must also note that ladies wearing absolute colors risk making a rather somber complexion even plainer, and that women who must hold their own in brilliant surroundings generally need to heighten the color of their complexion with cosmetics.
847. Here it would be amusing to apply the above principles to a critique of uniforms, liveries, cockades, and other insignia. In general we might say that these forms of dress or insignia should not consist of harmonious colors. Uniforms ought to have character and dignity; liveries could strike us as common. It would not be hard to find examples both good and bad, since the circle of colors is limited and has been used often enough.
ESTHETIC EFFECT
848. Above we presented the sensory and moral effect of individual colors and color combinations; on that basis we will now develop their esthetic effect for the artist. We will indicate the most essential points of this effect after first discussing the general requirements for pictorial representation, i.e., light and shadow, which bring us directly to the appearance of color.
CHIAROSCURO
849. Chiaroscuro (light-dark) is the term applied to the appearance of physical objects observed solely through the effect of light and shadow.
850. In a narrower sense this term is often applied to a dark area lit by reflection, but here we will use the word in its original and broader sense.
851. It is possible—and necessary—to separate chiaroscuro from any color effect. The artist will more easily resolve the riddle of depiction by thinking of chiaroscuro as independent of color, and becoming thoroughly familiar with it.
852. Chiaroscuro brings out substance as substance, for light and shadow tell us something about density.
853. Here we must consider the highlight, the neutral tint, and the shadow; in connection with the latter we must also consider the shadow belonging to the object itself, the shadow cast on other objects, and the illuminated shadow (or reflex).
854. The sphere might serve as a natural example on which to base a general understanding of chiaroscuro, but it is inadequate for esthetic purposes. The flowing unity of such a round form creates a nebulous quality. To achieve an artistic effect, surfaces must be brought out so that the sections in shadow and light take on more definition within the whole.
855. The Italians call this il piazzoso; in German we could say das Flächenhafte [quality of surface]. Thus, although the best example of natural chiaroscuro is the sphere, artistic chiaroscuro would be represented by a polyhedron in which all kinds of lights, half-lights, shadows, and reflexes were seen.
856. A bunch of grapes is considered a good model for artistic composition in chiaroscuro, especially since its shape can produce an excellent grouping; but this subject is suitable only for a master who knows how to find what he can use in it.
857. To understand our basic concept more fully—for it is difficult to grasp even in a polyhedron—we would suggest considering the cube: its three visible sides bring together a clear representation of light, neutral tint, and shadow.
858. But to proceed to a more complex figure in chiaroscuro, we would select an open book as an example offering more diversity.
859. We will find that antique statuary from the classical age is worked quite skillfully to produce such effects. The parts that catch the light are treated simply while the sections in shadow are more broken up so they can receive a variety of reflections—here we may recall the example of the polyhedron.
860. The paintings from Herculaneum and the Aldobrandini Marriage offer examples of this in antique painting.
861. Modern examples are found in single figures by Raphael, and in complete paintings by Correggio and the Flemish School, especially Rubens.
TENDENCY TO COLOR
862. We seldom find pictures done in black and white. A few works by Polidoro offer examples, as do our copperplate engravings and mezzotints. This style has some value insofar as it deals with form and position, but offers little to please the eye for it depends upon forced abstraction.
863. An element of color will assert itself when the artist lets his feelings guide him. The instant black picks up a bit of blue, there will arise a need for yellow to which the artist will instinctively respond. To enliven the whole he will add yellow as he deems best: pure yellow in the highlights, yellow reddened and muddied to brown in the shadows.
864. All types of camaïeu or monochrome lead ultimately to the introduction of a complementary opposite or some sort of color effect. Thus Polidoro often added a yellow vase or the like to his black and white frescoes.
865. People have always striven instinctively for color in their practice of art. We see every day how amateur artists begin drawing in ink or black crayon on white paper, progress to colored paper, then various crayons, and finally pastels. In our own time we have seen portraits drawn in silverpoint with cheeks touched with red and clothing in color, and even silhouettes with brightly colored uniforms. Paolo Uccello painted colored landscapes with monochrome figures.
866. Even ancient sculpture was unable to resist this urge. The Egyptians painted their bas-reliefs. Statues were given eyes of colored stones. Marble heads and limbs were draped in porphyry garments, and busts were placed on pedestals of calcite in variegated colors. The Jesuits did not miss this opportunity in fashioning their St. Aloysius in Rome, and modern sculpture uses a stain to differentiate flesh from clothing.
867. Linear perspective shows the effect of distance through a progressive gradation in the apparent size of objects; aerial perspective likewise lets us see the effect of distance through a gradation in the clarity of objects.
868. Although the eye, by its nature, sees nearby objects more clearly than distant ones, aerial perspective is actually based on the important principle that all transparent media are somewhat turbid.
869. Thus the atmosphere is always more or less turbid. It shows this characteristic especially well in southern regions when the barometric pressure is high, the weather dry, and the sky clear; then we may note a distinct gradation between objects which are not very far from one another.
870. In general this phenomenon is familiar to everyone, but the painter sees the gradation even when the separation is quite small—or at least has the impression that he sees it. In practice he represents it by a progressive gradation in the parts of an object (a completely frontal face, for example). Here lighting requires attention; this has an effect from the side just as position does from foreground to background.
COLORATION
871. In proceeding to the matter of coloring we will assume that the painter is generally acquainted with our theory of color in outline, and has familiarized himself thoroughly with the sections and principles most pertinent to him. He will then find it easy to deal with the theoretical elements as well as the practical ones as he studies them in nature and applies them to his art.
COLORATION OF PLACEMENT
872. In nature, coloration first appears in connection with position, for aerial perspective depends on the principle of turbid media. We see the sky, distant objects, and even nearby shadows as blue. At the same time, sources of illumination and illuminated objects appear in gradations from yellow to purple. In many cases, a physiological need for color will immediately arise, and an entirely colorless landscape will seem fully colored because these effects act both with and against one another in the eye.
COLORATION OF OBJECTS
873. Local colors are basic and general colors, but defined by the characteristics of an object and its surfaces. This definition can be endlessly varied.
874. Colored silk looks quite different from colored wool. Each type of preparation and weaving produces its own variation. Roughness, smoothness, and sheen play a role.
875. Thus it is prejudicial to good art to say that the painter should ignore the material in garments and merely paint something like abstract folds. Doesn’t this deny all characteristic variation? Is the portrait of Leo X any less excellent because velvet, satin, and moreen are depicted together?
876. In products of nature, the colors appear more or less modified, defined, even individualized; this may be observed in stones and plants, as well as bird feathers and animal fur.
877. The painter’s art lies mainly in imitating the actual appearance of particular materials, thus eliminating the general and basic element in color phenomena. In doing so, he will find the greatest difficulty lies in the surface of the human body.
878. Flesh is generally on the active side, but a bluish tinge plays into it from the passive side. The color is completely changed from its basic state, neutralized by the high degree of structure in the human organism.
879. After some reflection on what has been said in this theory of color, the skillful artist will find it easier to bring coloration of placement and coloration of objects into harmony; he will be in a position to depict things infinitely beautiful, varied, and true as well.
CHARACTERISTIC COLORATION
880. The juxtaposition of colored objects as well as the coloration of the space around them should conform to the artist’s purpose. This requires knowledge of how our feelings are affected by colors, both singly and in combination. Hence the painter should become thoroughly familiar with the general dualism of color and the colors of each individual object; he should also be familiar with what we have said about the qualities of the colors.
881. We can divide characteristic coloration into three categories, which we may call the powerful, the gentle, and the brilliant.
882. The first of these is produced by a predominance of the active side; the second, by a predominance of the passive side; and the third, by a totality, a balanced presentation of the color circle.
883. The powerful effect is produced by yellow, yellow-red, and purple (when the latter is still on the plus side). Very little violet or blue may be used, and even less green. The gentle effect is created by blue, violet, and purple (when shifted to the minus side). Little yellow or yellow-red should be present, but large amounts of green may be used.
884. To achieve these two effects in their purest form we should keep the complementary colors to a minimum, using only what is absolutely required to satisfy our sense for the totality.
885. The two characteristic qualities noted above may be called harmonious to some extent, but the true effect of harmony arises only when all the colors are brought together in a balanced way.
886. This allows us to create an effect both brilliant and pleasant, but rather general and thus somewhat characterless.
887. This is why most modern painters use coloration lacking in character. They follow only their instinct, and the goal to which it leads them is a totality; they attain their goal with varying degrees of success, thereby losing the character the picture might otherwise have had.
888. But with our earlier principles in mind, we see how we can be confident in choosing a different color mood for every subject. Of course, the application of these principles demands endless modifications which our creative spirit can achieve only when it is permeated by these principles.
GENUINE TONE
889. We may wish to continue borrowing the word tone (or rather tonality) from music and apply it to coloration; now we can make better use of the term than earlier.
890. We would be justified in drawing a comparison between a picture with a powerful effect and a musical work in a major key, or a painting with a gentle effect and a work in a minor key. We might also find other comparisons to describe modifications of these two basic effects.
FALSE TONE
891. Until now, the word tone has been used to describe a veil in a single color spread over the whole picture. This is usually done in yellow, since we instinctively try to shift the picture to the powerful side.
892. We will see a painting in this tone if we look at it through yellow glass. It is worthwhile to do this repeatedly, for the experiment shows the exact effect of such a process: a kind of nocturnal illumination, an intensification, but with the plus side darkened and the minus side muddied.
893. This false tone arose instinctively out of uncertainty about how to proceed; it produces uniformity instead of totality.
WEAK COLORATION
894. This very uncertainty led to such broken use of colors in the painting that the painter simply paints out of gray and into gray, treating colors as delicately as possible.
895. The harmonic contrasts in such a painting are often successful, but they lack boldness because the painter is afraid of producing a multicolored effect.
THE MULTICOLORED EFFECT
896. A painting may easily become multicolored if the painter has an uncertain impression and merely paints an empirical juxtaposition of the colors in their full force.
897. On the other hand, a juxtaposition of weak colors, even ugly ones, will not have a particularly striking effect. The painter transfers his uncertainty to the viewer, who can then offer neither praise nor criticism.
898. It is also important to note that a multicolored effect will be created if properly arranged colors are misused in regard to light and shadow.
899. This is all the more likely to happen because light and shadow are prescribed by the drawing—they are a part of it, so to speak—but color is still subject to choice and caprice.
FEAR OF THE THEORETICAL
900. Until now painters have shown a dread of any theoretical consideration of color and the like; they have even exhibited a decided aversion to it. This was not altogether unjustified, for up to now so-called theoretical considerations have been without foundation, ill-defined, and rather empirical. We hope that our efforts may somewhat allay these fears, inspiring the artist to test our principles in a practical way and call them to life.
ULTIMATE GOAL
901. For it is impossible to attain the ultimate goal without an overview of the whole. Let the artist familiarize himself thoroughly with what we have discussed. Given what we have said, it is only the agreement of light and shadow, position, and true and characteristic coloration that will lend the painting the appearance of perfection.
GROUNDS
902. Earlier artists made a practice of painting on a light ground. It consisted of gesso thickly applied to canvas or wood and then smoothed. An outline was drawn and the picture was given a blackish or brownish wash. We still have pictures prepared in this way for the addition of color by Leonardo da Vinci, Fra Bartolommeo, and also several by Guido.
903. When the artist was adding color and needed to depict white clothing, he sometimes left this ground untouched. Titian did this in his later years, when he was quite sure of himself and knew how to accomplish much with little effort. The whitish ground was treated as a middle shade; then the shadows were added and the highlights brushed on.
904. Even after color was added, the underlying picture (washed on, as it were) continued to have an effect. A garment, for instance, was painted in a transparent color so that the white shone through and enlivened the color, while the section prepared for shadow muted the color without contaminating or muddying it.
905. This method had many advantages. The lighter parts of the picture had a light ground; and the shaded parts, a dark ground. The entire picture was already prepared; the artist could paint with thin colors, certain that the light and the colors would be in agreement. In our time, water color painting is based on these principles.
906. In any case, modern oil painting always uses a light ground. Middle shades are more or less transparent and therefore enlivened by a light ground; even the shadows are less apt to become dark.
907. Dark grounds were also used for a time; apparently Tintoretto introduced these. It is not known whether Giorgione used them, but Titian’s best pictures were not painted on a dark ground.
908. Such a ground was reddish brown, and when the picture was sketched on it the darkest shadows were laid on. The light colors were heavily impasted on the brighter sections, and thinned out toward the shadows; the dark ground then shone through the thinner color as a middle shade. The final effect was achieved by painting over the light sections several times and further adding highlights.
909. Although this method helps speed the work, its results are not beneficial. The energetic ground becomes darker and more prominent; as the light colors lose their clarity, the shadow side grows more overpowering. The middle shades turn darker and darker, and the shadows finally become quite black. Only the thickly applied highlights remain bright, and these bright spots are all that remains to be seen in the picture. The paintings of the school of Bologna and of Caravaggio offer many examples of this.
910. Perhaps it would be well to conclude by mentioning painting with glazes. In such painting the previously applied color is considered a light ground. This method can yield an impression of color mixture, intensification, or so-called tone, but the colors darken in the process.
PIGMENTS
911. We receive these from the hand of the chemist and the scientist. Much has already been said and published about this subject, but it deserves to be reconsidered from time to time. Meanwhile, the master passes his knowledge of it down to the student, and one artist shares it with another.
912. The longest-lasting pigments are preferable, but the way they are used also has a great effect on the longevity of the picture. Thus the fewest possible coloring materials should be used, and the simplest method of application is highly recommended.
913. The large number of pigments has led to many harmful results in coloration. Each pigment has its own way of affecting the eye, and also its own peculiarities in regard to technical application. The former explains why it is harder to achieve harmony with many pigments than with few; and the latter, why chemical reactions occur among coloring materials.
914. Let us recall some other false paths which may seduce the artist. Painters are always looking for new coloring materials, and believe it represents progress in art when they find them. They also long to master the mechanical techniques of earlier periods, thus wasting much time; e.g., our lengthy and laborious efforts to learn wax painting at the end of the last century. Others set out to invent new techniques, which also accomplishes nothing. It is, after all, only the spirit which brings life to any technique.
ALLEGORICAL, SYMBOLIC, MYSTICAL USE OF COLOR
915. We have shown in detail that each color makes its own impression on the human being, thereby revealing its nature to the eye as well as to the spirit. It follows that color may be used for certain sensory, moral, and esthetic purposes.
916. When this use is completely consistent with nature, we may call it symbolic; the color’s function would correspond with its effect, and its true quality would give direct expression to the intended meaning. For instance, the use of purple to represent majesty no doubt represents the right form of expression (as noted earlier).
917. Closely related is another use which could be called allegorical. This is more fortuitous and capricious; we might even say conventional, for the significance of the emblem must be learned before its meaning is clear. This is the case, for instance, with green, which has been assigned the meaning of hope.
918. We can also sense that color is open to mystical interpretation. The scheme depicting the multiplicity of colors points to archetypal relationships which are as much a part of human intuitive perception as they are of nature. These associations could no doubt be used as a language to express archetypal relationships which are not so powerful and diverse in their effect on us. The mathematician values the worth and utility of the triangle, but the mystic venerates it. Much may be schematized in the triangle, and in the phenomena of color as well, for by pairing and converging we may derive the ancient and mystical hexagram.
919. We must grasp how yellow and blue diverge, and should reflect especially on the intensification in red where the opposites incline to one another and merge to create a third element. Then we will certainly arrive at the mystical and intuitive perception that a spiritual meaning can be found in these two separate and opposite entities. When we see them bring forth green below and red above, it will be hard to resist the thought that the green is connected with the earthly creation of the Elohim, and the red with their heavenly creation.
920. But we had best not expose ourselves to suspicions of fantastic imaginings at the end; all the more so since a favorable reception of our color theory will enable allegorical, symbolic, and mystical applications and interpretations to emerge in keeping with the spirit of our age.
FROM ON MORPHOLOGY
(1807–17)
The Enterprise Justified
When in the exercise of his powers of observation man undertakes to confront the world of nature, he will at first experience a tremendous compulsion to bring what he finds there under his control. Before long, however, these objects will thrust themselves upon him with such force that he, in turn, must feel the obligation to acknowledge their power and pay homage to their effects. When this mutual interaction becomes evident he will make a discovery which, in a double sense, is limitless; among the objects he will find many different forms of existence and modes of change, a variety of relationships livingly interwoven; in himself, on the other hand, a potential for infinite growth through constant adaptation of his sensibilities and judgment to new ways of acquiring knowledge and responding with action. This discovery produces a deep sense of pleasure and would bring the last touch of happiness in life if not for certain obstacles (within and without) which impede our progress along this beautiful path to perfection. The years, providers at first, now begin to take; within our limits we are satisfied with what we have gained and enjoy it all the more quietly since it seldom meets with any genuine, open and cordial expression of interest from without.
How few are those who feel themselves inspired by what is really visible to the spirit alone! Our senses, our feelings, our temperament exercise far greater power over us—and rightly so, since life is our lot rather than reflection.
Unfortunately, however, even those devoted to cognition and knowledge rarely display the degree of interest we would hope to find. Anything arising from an idea and leading back to it is viewed as something of an encumbrance by the man of a practical mind who notes details, observes precisely, and draws distinctions. In his own way he feels at home in his labyrinth and has no interest in a thread that might more quickly lead him through it; a substance uncoined and uncountable seems a burdensome possession to such a person. On the other hand, one who has a higher vantage point is quick to disdain detail and create a lethal generality by lumping together things which live only in separation.
We have long found ourselves in the midst of this conflict, in the course of which much has been accomplished, much destroyed. Had the hour of danger just past not brought home to us the value of the written record, I would never have been tempted to entrust my views on nature to this fragile vessel on the ocean of opinion.
Therefore let what I often dreamt of as a book when I was filled with the high hopes of youth now appear as an outline, as a fragmentary collection. May it work and serve as such.
This, in brief, is what I would say in seeking the good will of my contemporaries for these partially finished sketches which date back many years. Anything further will best be introduced as our enterprise unfolds.
JENA, 1807
The Purpose Set Forth
In observing objects of nature, especially those that are alive, we often think the best way of gaining an insight into the relationship between their inner nature and the effects they produce is to divide them into their constituent parts. Such an approach may, in fact, bring us a long way toward our goal. In a word, those familiar with science can recall what chemistry and anatomy have contributed toward an understanding and overview of nature.
But these attempts at division also produce many adverse effects when carried to an extreme. To be sure, what is alive can be dissected into its component parts, but from these parts it will be impossible to restore it and bring it back to life. This is true even of many inorganic substances, to say nothing of things organic in nature.
Thus scientific minds of every epoch have also exhibited an urge to understand living formations as such, to grasp their outward, visible, tangible parts in context, to see these parts as an indication of what lies within and thereby gain some understanding of the whole through an exercise of intuitive perception. It is no doubt unnecessary to describe in detail the close relationship between this scientific desire and our need for art and imitation.
Thus the history of art, knowledge, and science has produced many attempts to establish and develop a theory which we will call “morphology.” The historical part of our discourse will deal with the different forms in which these attempts have appeared.
The Germans have a word for the complex of existence presented by a physical organism: Gestalt [structured form]. With this expression they exclude what is changeable and assume that an interrelated whole is identified, defined, and fixed in character.
But if we look at all these Gestalten, especially the organic ones, we will discover that nothing in them is permanent, nothing is at rest or defined—everything is in a flux of continual motion. This is why German frequently and fittingly makes use of the word Bildung [formation] to describe the end product and what is in process of production as well.
Thus in setting forth a morphology we should not speak of Gestalt, or if we use the term we should at least do so only in reference to the idea, the concept, or to an empirical element held fast for a mere moment of time.
When something has acquired a form it metamorphoses immediately to a new one. If we wish to arrive at some living perception of nature we ourselves must remain as quick and flexible as nature and follow the example she gives.
In anatomy, when we dissect a body into its parts, and further separate these parts into their parts, we will at last arrive at elementary constituents called “similar parts.” These will not concern us here. Instead we will concentrate on a higher principle of the organism, a principle we will characterize as follows.
No living thing is unitary in nature; every such thing is a plurality. Even the organism which appears to us as individual exists as a collection of independent living entities. Although alike in idea and predisposition, these entities, as they materialize, grow to become alike or similar, unalike or dissimilar. In part these entities are joined from the outset, in part they find their way together to form a union. They diverge and then seek each other again; everywhere and in every way they thus work to produce a chain of creation without end.
The less perfect the creation, the more its parts are alike or similar and the more they resemble the whole. The more perfect the creation the less similar its parts become. In the first instance the whole is like its parts to a degree, in the second the whole is unlike its parts. The more similar the parts, the less they will be subordinated to one another. Subordination of parts indicates a more perfect creation.
No matter how well thought out, generalities always contain an element of incomprehensibility if we find no application for them or are unable to supply illustrative examples. Since our entire treatise is devoted to presenting and developing ideas and principles of this type, we will begin by indicating only a few such examples.
Although a plant or tree seems to be an individual organism, it undeniably consists only of separate parts which are alike and similar to one another and to the whole. How many plants are propagated by runners! In the least variety of fruit tree the eye puts forth a twig which in turn produces many identical eyes; propagation through seeds is carried out in the same fashion. This propagation occurs through the development of innumerable identical individuals out of the womb of the mother plant.
Here it is immediately apparent that the secret of propagation by seeds is already present in the principle cited above, and upon closer consideration we will find that even the seed, seemingly a single unity, is itself a collection of identical and similar entities. The bean is usually offered as a good example of the process of germination. If we take a bean in its completely undeveloped state prior to germination, and cut it open, we will first find two seed leaves. These are not to be compared to a placenta, for they are two genuine leaves: though distended and stuffed with a mealy substance, they also turn green when given light and air. In addition we will discover the presence of plumules which are again two leaves capable of further and more extensive development. We may also observe that behind every leaf stalk there is an eye, if not actual then at least in latent form. Thus even in the seed, seemingly simple, we find a collection of several individual parts which we may characterize as alike in idea and similar in appearance.
What is alike in idea may manifest itself in empirical reality as alike, or similar, or even totally unalike and dissimilar: this gives rise to the ever-changing life of nature. It is this life of nature which we propose to outline in these pages.
By way of further introduction we will cite an example from the lowest level of the animal kingdom. There are infusoria which we perceive as fairly simple in form when they move about through moisture. When the moisture evaporates, however, they burst and pour forth a number of spores. Apparently this dispersion into spores would have occurred naturally in the moisture, thereby producing descendants without number.
Plants and animals in their least perfect state are scarcely to be differentiated. Hardly perceptible to our senses, they are a pinpoint of life, mutable or semimutable. Are these beginnings—determinable in either direction—destined to be transformed by light into plant, or by darkness into animal? This is a question we would not trust ourselves to answer no matter how well we are supplied with relevant observations and analogies. We can say, however, that the creatures which gradually emerge from this barely differentiated relationship of plant and animal pursue diametrically opposite paths in their development toward perfection. Thus plants attain their final glory in the tree, enduring and rigid, while the animal does so in man by achieving the highest degree of mobility and freedom.
The above axiom concerning the coexistence of multiple identical and similar entities leads to two further cardinal principles of the organism: propagation by bud and propagation by seed. In fact, these principles are simply two ways of expressing the same axiom. We will seek to trace these two paths through the entire realm of organic nature and in the process will find that many things fall vividly into place.
When considering the vegetative model we are presented immediately with a vertical orientation. The lower position is occupied by the root which works into the earth, belongs to the moisture and to the darkness. The stem, the trunk, or whatever may serve in its place, strives upward in exactly the opposite direction, toward the sky, the light, and the air.
When we then consider this miraculous structure and become familiar with how it rises upward, we will once more meet an important principle of structure: life is unable to work at the surface or express its generative powers there. The whole activity of life requires a covering which protects it against the raw elements of its environment, be they water or air or light, a covering which preserves its delicate nature so that it may fulfill the specific purpose for which it is inwardly destined.
Whether the covering takes the form of bark, skin, or shell, anything that works in a living way must be covered over. And thus everything turned toward the external world gradually falls victim to an early death and decay. The bark of trees, the skin of insects, the hair and feathers of animals, even the epidermis of man, are coverings forever being shed, cast off, given over to non-life. New coverings are constantly forming beneath the old, while still further down, close to this surface or more deeply hidden, life brings forth its web of creation.
JENA, 1807
The Content Prefaced
Of the present collection only the essay on the metamorphosis of plants has been in print before. Appearing alone in 1790, it met with a cold, almost hostile reception. This resistance, however, was entirely natural: the theory of encasement, the concept of preformation, of successive development undergone by things dating from the time of Adam, had by and large captivated even the best minds. Moreover Linnaeus, focusing on plant formation in particular, had decisively and authoritatively initiated a brilliant conceptual approach more suited to the spirit of the time.
Thus my honest effort remained entirely without effect. Content to have found a direction for my own quiet path, I simply made more careful note of the relationship and interaction between normal and abnormal phenomena and, at the same time, paid close attention to the detail so generously provided by empirical observation. In addition I spent an entire summer in a series of experiments to find out how fruiting may be prevented by too much nourishment or accelerated by deprivation.
I availed myself of the opportunity to illuminate or darken a greenhouse at will to learn about the effect of light on plants; my principal concern was with the phenomena of fading and bleaching. I also did experiments with panes of colored glass.
After acquiring enough skill in judging most instances of organic change and transformation in the plant world, and discerning and deducing the sequence of forms, I felt further obliged to learn more about the metamorphosis of insects.
No one will dispute that this metamorphosis is a fact: the life of such creatures is a continual transformation, one which is clear and obvious. I had retained my earlier knowledge of this subject, based on years of raising silkworms. I now broadened it by observation of various genera and species from egg to moth; I also had drawings made, the most worthwhile of which I still possess.
Here I found no conflict with what is stated in treatises on the subject. I needed only to work out a schematic table whereby the individual observations could be arranged in sequence and the wonderful life of these creatures surveyed with clarity.
I will also seek to give an account of these efforts, one which is unconstrained since my view is not in contradiction to any other.
In the pursuit of these studies I turned my attention to the comparative anatomy of animals, especially mammals. There was already great interest in this area. Buffon and Daubenton achieved much. Camper appeared in a meteoric blaze of intelligence, science, talent and industry, Sömmerring showed himself to be worthy of admiration, and Merck brought his always active endeavors to bear on this subject. I had an excellent relationship with all three, with Camper by letter and with the other two in person (a contact which continued even after we parted).
The study of physiognomy required attention to both definition and mutability of form; this point also stimulated much work and discussion with Lavater.
Later, during my frequent and extended visits in Jena, Loder’s inexhaustible talents as a teacher quickly provided me the pleasure of some insight into animal and human formation.
The method I had adopted in the observation of plants and insects served to guide me on this path as well, for in distinguishing and comparing forms it was also necessary to discuss formation and transformation, each in their turn.
Nonetheless, that era was more confused than can be imagined today. It was maintained, for example, that if man could learn to walk about comfortably on all fours, bears might become human after standing upright for a time. The audacious Diderot ventured certain suggestions about how goat-footed fauns could be bred to sit in livery atop the coaches of the great and wealthy as a special mark of pomp and distinction.
The distinction between man and animal long eluded discovery. Ultimately it was believed that the definitive difference between ape and man lay in the placement of the ape’s four incisors in a bone clearly and physically separate from other bones. Thus the whole of science, in jest or in earnest, vacillated between attempts to prove what was half true and attempts to lend the semblance of truth to what was false—but all with the purpose of keeping itself occupied and sustaining itself through whimsical and willful activity. The greatest confusion, however, arose from the controversy over whether beauty was something real and inherent in objects, or relative, determined by convention, even individually ascribable to the one who beholds and recognizes it.
Meanwhile I had devoted my full energies to the study of osteology, for in the skeleton the unmistakable character of every form is preserved conclusively and for all time. I surrounded myself with a collection of older and more recent remains, and on trips I carefully looked through museums and small collections for creatures whose formation as a whole, or in part, could prove instructive to me.
In the process I was soon obliged to postulate a prototype against which all mammals could be compared as to points of agreement or divergence. As I had earlier sought out the archetypal plant I now aspired to find the archetypal animal; in essence, the concept or idea of the animal.
My laborious and painstaking research was made easier, even sweetened, when Herder undertook to set down his ideas on the history of mankind. Our daily conversation was concerned with the primal origins of the water-covered earth and the living creatures which have evolved on it from time immemorial. Again and again we discussed the primal origin and its ceaseless development; through mutual sharing and debate we daily refined and enriched our store of scientific knowledge.
This topic which occupied me so intensely was also the subject of lively discussions with other friends, and such conversations had a mutually beneficial effect. Indeed, it is perhaps not presumptuous to think that much of what grew out of those discussions and spread in the sciences as tradition is now bearing fruit. We may now enjoy these fruits even though the garden from which the grafts were taken is not always given credit.
With the more frequent application of empirical observation and deepened philosophical approach of today many things have become common knowledge which were inaccessible to me and my colleagues when the following essays were written. Thus, although their contents may now seem superfluous, they should be considered in the light of history as witness to a quiet, consistent, and unrelenting effort.
THE INFLUENCE OF MODERN PHILOSOPHY
(1817)
I had no sense for philosophy in the real meaning of the word; I had only the continuing response brought by my need to resist the intrusions of the world and take hold of it. This response necessarily led me to a way of seizing upon philosophers’ opinions as if they were objects from which something might be learned. As a youth I loved to read in Brucker’s history of philosophy, yet I read it like a man whose life is spent looking up at the circling of the stars in heaven, a man who sees the most obvious constellations, but without any understanding of astronomy; one with knowledge of the Big Dipper but not of the North Star.
I had often discussed art and its theoretical requirements with Moritz in Rome; the evidence of our fruitful perplexity can be found even today in one short publication. Moreover, in describing plant metamorphosis I found it necessary to develop a method which conformed to nature. There was no latitude for error as the vegetation revealed its processes to me step by step. Without interfering, I had to recognize the ways and means the plant used as it gradually rose from a state of complete encapsulation to one of perfection. In my physics experiments I became convinced that any observation of physical objects required above all that I be thorough in my search for every condition under which a phenomenon may arise, and that I be as comprehensive as possible in collecting phenomena. In the end, the phenomena must form a series, or rather, overlap; thus they give the scientist a picture of some organization by which the inner life of the phenomena become manifest as a whole. All the while I was only dimly aware of these things; nowhere did I find any enlightenment suited to my nature, for ultimately no man can be enlightened in a way not his own.
Kant’s Critique of Pure Reason had long since appeared, but it lay entirely beyond my ken. I heard a few discussions of the work, however, and I could see that an old issue was being revived: i.e., what role do we ourselves play in our intellectual life, and what part is played by the external world. I had never separated the two, and when I philosophized about things in my own way I did so with unconscious naiveté; I truly believed that my eyes beheld what my mind thought true. But when this dispute arose I found myself on the side of those who put the human being in the best light. I applauded my friends who said with Kant: although all knowledge may be prompted by experience, it does not therefore follow that it arises wholly from experience. I liked the ideas of knowledge a priori and synthetic judgments a priori. All my life, whether in poetry or research, I had alternated between a synthetic approach and an analytic one—to me these were the systole and the diastole of the human mind, like a second breathing, never separated, always pulsing. I had no words (much less, concepts) to describe these things; but now, for the first time, theory seemed to smile on me. I found pleasure in the portal but I dared not set foot in the labyrinth itself; sometimes my gift for poetry got in my way, sometimes common sense, and I felt that I made little progress.
Actually, Herder was a student of Kant, but, unfortunately, also his opponent; now I was in an even worse state, for I could not agree with Herder, nor could I follow Kant. In the meantime I was intent on continuing my studies of the formation and transformation of organisms, and here the method I had applied to plants proved to be a reliable guide. I could not help but notice that nature always follows an analytic course—development out of a living, mysterious whole—but then seems to act synthetically in bringing together apparently alien circumstances and joining them into one. Thus I returned again and again to Kant’s teachings, thought that I understood a few of the principles, and learned much that was useful.
Then the Critique of Judgment fell into my hands, and with this book a wonderful period arrived in my life. Here I found my most disparate interests brought together; products of art and nature were dealt with alike, esthetic and teleological judgment illuminated one another. I did not always agree with the author’s way of thinking, and occasionally something seemed to be missing, but the main ideas in the book were completely analogous to my earlier work and thought. The inner life of nature and art, their respective effects as they work from within—all this came to clear expression in the book. The products of these two infinitely vast worlds were shown to exist for their own sake; things found together might be there for one another, but not because of one another (at least not intentionally).
The antipathy I felt toward ultimate causes was now put in order and justified. I could make a clear distinction between purpose and effect, and I saw why our human understanding so often confuses the two. I was glad to find poetry and comparative science related so closely: both are subject to the same faculty of judgment. Now passionately enthusiastic, I was all the more eager to pursue my own paths because I had no idea where they led, and because the what and how of my discoveries met with little approval among the Kantians. After all, I was only expressing what had stirred in me, and not what I had read. Thrown back on my own devices, I read the book again and again. I still have my old copy, and turn with pleasure to the sections I marked at the time. I also find marked sections in the Critique of Reason which I seem to have understood more deeply than before, for two works sprung from one mind always shed light on one another. I did not have the same success in approaching the Kantians: they listened to me, but were unable to respond or help in any way. It happened several times that one or the other of them would admit with a bemused smile: this is indeed an analogue to Kantian thought, but a peculiar one.
It did not become clear just how extraordinary the situation was until I established my connection with Schiller. Our discussions were quite productive or theoretical, and usually both. He preached the gospel of freedom, while I defended the rights of nature. Perhaps more out of friendship to me than any belief of his own, he described Mother Nature in his esthetic letters without those rough expressions I found so distasteful in his essay “On Grace and Dignity.” For my part, I stubbornly insisted on the superiority of Greek poetry (or poetry based on it), and even held this up as the only kind of poetry to be deemed proper and worthy of pursuit. Thus he was forced to consider the point more carefully; to this dispute we owe the essays on naive and sentimental poetry. Here it is argued that both modes of poetry should exist side by side, that each must accord the other equal standing.
With this thought he broke ground for a whole new esthetics: hellenic, romantic, and all other concepts of this sort may be traced back to his discussion of whether a style is primarily real or ideal.
And thus I slowly grew accustomed to a language which had been totally foreign to me. This was made easier by the fact that it encouraged a higher level of thinking about art and science. I felt much nobler and richer than I had when we were subjected to the indignities of the popular philosophers, and philosophers of another sort for whom I can find no name.
For my further progress I am particularly grateful to Niethammer, who worked patiently with me to unravel the principal riddles, and to develop and explain individual concepts and expressions. My debt then and later to Fichte, Schelling, Hegel, the Humboldt brothers, and Schlegel will be repaid with thanks when I am able to describe—or at least indicate, even sketch—this most important period, the final decade of the last century, from my own point of view.
COLORS IN THE SKY
(1817–20)
These colors correlate closely with meteorological conditions.
We must make careful note of the following observation, for it demonstrates the principle underlying every appearance of color in the atmosphere.
A turbid glass held before a dark background and illuminated from the front will appear bluish. The less turbid the glass, the bluer it will look; the least turbid glass will seem violet. Conversely, the same glass held before something bright will look yellow. The denser the glass, the redder it will seem, so that in the end even the sun will appear ruby red.
The air, even at its clearest, is a vehicle for moisture and must therefore be considered a turbid medium. This is why the sky opposite the sun and around it looks blue: the darkness of space creates this effect through the veiling. This is also why mountains in the middle distance seem darker blue than those in the far distance.
On the highest mountain peaks the air will seem deep blue because of the purity of the atmosphere there; ultimately it will take on a reddish tinge. In the plains, where the air becomes increasingly dense and filled with turbidity, the blue will grow ever paler, finally vanishing and assuming a completely white appearance.
Seen through an atmosphere thick with haze, the sun and the bright area around it will seem to have a yellow-red to red color.
Before sunrise and after sunset, when the sun shines through the thick haze on the horizon, the clouds will be lit with a glow which is yellow or even red.
When there is a heavy layer of haze in the upper atmosphere the sun will appear blood red, as through a very turbid glass.
[The blue scale is] combined with the scale of yellow and red. The former has only half its steps, but not even all these will be found in our part of the world. The latter contains the whole range, but the deepest red is rarely found here. In Italy it appears at the time of the sirocco.
PROBLEMS
(1823)
Natural system: a contradictory expression.
Nature has no system; she has—she is—life and development from an unknown center toward an unknowable periphery. Thus observation of nature is limitless, whether we make distinctions among the least particles or pursue the whole by following the trail far and wide.
The idea of metamorphosis deserves great reverence, but it is also a most dangerous gift from above. It leads to formlessness; it destroys knowledge, dissolves it. It is like the vis centrifuga, and would be lost in the infinite if it had no counterweight; here I mean the drive for specific character, the stubborn persistence of things which have finally attained reality. This is a vis centripeta which remains basically untouched by any external factor. We may recall the genus Erica.
But since both forces operate at the same time, any didactic description would have to show them simultaneously—which seems impossible.
There may be no escape from this difficulty without recourse once more to artifice.
Compare the natural sequence of musical notes with the equal temperament within the confines of the octaves. It is actually the temperament which makes truly satisfying music of a higher kind possible, nature notwithstanding.
It would be necessary to introduce a method of discoursing by artifice. A symbolism would have to be established! But who is to do this? And who is to recognize it, once accomplished?
Regarding what botany calls “genera” (in the usual sense of the word), I have always held it impossible to treat one genus like another. I would say there are genera with a character which is expressed throughout all their species; we can approach them in a rational way. They rarely dissolve into varieties, and thus they deserve to be treated with respect. I will mention the gentians, but the observant botanist may add several more.
On the other hand, there are characterless genera in which species may become hard to distinguish as they dissolve into endless varieties. If we make a serious attempt to apply the scientific approach to these, we will never reach an end; instead, we will only meet with confusion, for they elude any definition, any law. I have occasionally ventured to call these the wanton genera, and have even applied this epithet to the rose, although this in no way detracts from its graceful quality. Rosa canina may especially deserve this reproach.
Wherever the human being plays a significant role, he acts as a lawgiver: in morality, through his recognition of duty; in the area of religion, by declaring his adherence to a particular conviction about God and things divine, and then by connecting certain analogous outer ceremonies with his conviction. The same thing occurs in government, whether peaceful or warlike: actions and deeds are meaningful only if prescribed by the human being for himself and others. The same is true of art: we have described above how music has yielded to man’s spirit; in our own time it is an open secret that the greatest epochs saw the human spirit actively at work in the plastic arts through the most talented artists. In the sciences we find an indication of this in the innumerable attempts to systemize, to schematize. But our full attention must be focused on the task of listening to nature to overhear the secret of her process, so that we neither frighten her off with coercive imperatives, nor allow her whims to divert us from our goal.
EXCERPT FROM “TOWARD A THEORY OF WEATHER”
(1825)
General Introduction
We can never directly see what is true, i.e., identical with what is divine; we look at it only in reflection, in example, in the symbol, in individual and related phenomena. We perceive it as a life beyond our grasp, yet we cannot deny our need to grasp it.
This applies primarily to phenomena of the tangible world, but here we will speak only of the less tangible principles of weather.
Weather manifests itself to the active human being mainly through heat and cold, through humidity and dryness, and through moderate and immoderate degrees of these conditions. We experience all this in a direct way, without further thought and research.
Many instruments have been invented to measure in degrees these phenomena that affect us daily. The thermometer engages everyone’s attention: whether we are sweating or freezing, we seem somewhat more content when able to express our suffering in degrees Reaumur or Fahrenheit.
Less attention is paid the hygrometer. Daily and monthly, we simply accept humidity and dry air as they come. But the wind is everyone’s concern: the ubiquitous wind vane lets everyone know whence it blows and whither it goes, although what this means in a larger sense remains as much a mystery as the other phenomena.
It is remarkable, however, that the most important effect on atmospheric conditions is the least noted by the common man: a sickly constitution is needed to feel those atmospheric changes shown by the barometer, and a more advanced education to observe them.
These were long hidden from us because they manifested themselves as various degrees of pressure—in succession at one place, or simultaneously at several places, and at different altitudes. In our time, this aspect of the atmosphere plays a leading role in weather observations; we will also give it special importance.
Above all we must remember that nothing that exists or comes into being, lasts or passes, can be thought of as entirely isolated, entirely unadulterated. One thing is always permeated, accompanied, covered, or enveloped by another; it produces effects and endures them. And when so many things work through one another, where are we to find the insight to discover what governs and what serves, what leads the way and what follows? This creates great difficulty in any theoretical statement; here lies the danger of confusion between cause and effect, illness and symptom, deed and character.
The serious observer has no choice but to choose some midpoint and then see how he can deal with what is left on the periphery. This is what we have attempted to do, as the following will show.
Thus it is actually the atmosphere in which and with which we will now be occupied. We dwell in it as inhabitants of the seashore. We gradually ascend to the highest peak where it is difficult to live, but in thought we climb further. We have ventured to think of the moon, the other planets and their moons, and finally the fixed stars, as collaborating in the whole; and the human being, who necessarily refers everything to himself, goes on to flatter himself with the notion that the universe, of which he is but a part, really exerts a special and noticeable effect on him.
In the face of reason he may have given up his astrological whimsey; i.e., that the starry heavens rule the fate of man. Nonetheless, he could not drop the conviction that the planets (if not the fixed stars), or the moon (if not the planets), determine and define the weather in a regular way.
But we will reject any such effect and consider weather phenomena on the earth to be neither cosmic nor planetary; it is our premise that they may be explained in purely tellurian terms.
Accordingly, we will assume two basic movements of the earth’s living body, and will consider all barometric effects as symbolic expressions of these.
First, the so-called oscillation of the earth directs us to a regular movement around the axis which produces the rotation of the earth, and thus day and night. This moving element falls twice in twenty-four hours, and rises twice; this has been shown by a variety of earlier observations. We can imagine it as a living spiral, a living helix without end. Its effect of attraction and release appears in the daily rise and fall of the barometer in relation to its normal level. This must be most pronounced where the greatest mass revolves, and must diminish toward the pole, finally disappearing altogether; observers have already shown this to be true. The rotation has a decided effect on the atmosphere, for clear skies and rain appear in daily succession….
The second generally recognized movement is one which causes an increase and decrease in gravity; we can compare it to an inhaling and exhaling from the center toward the periphery. We have considered the rise and fall of the barometer as a symptom of this.
Control and Release of the Elements
In continuing to consider, apply, and test the above, we will be led further by events around us; let us therefore add the following about what was discussed earlier.
It is obvious that what we call the elements have a constant urge to go their own wild and brutal way. Where man has taken possession of the earth and is obliged to keep it, he must be forever vigilant and ready to resist. But these individual defenses are not nearly so effective as the use of a law to counter the unruly. Here nature has prepared the way for us in a most wonderful fashion by setting an alive, formed existence against the formless.
Thus the elements are to be viewed as colossal opponents with whom we must forever do battle; in each case we can overcome them only through the highest powers of the mind, by courage and cunning.
We may say that the elements are willfulness itself; the earth continually strives to seize the water and force it to solidify, annex it as earth, rock, or ice.
With equal turbulence the water would hurl the earth once more into its abyss, the earth it so reluctantly left behind. The air, supposedly an enlivening and protective friend, suddenly races down upon us as a storm to smash us and choke us. The fire relentlessly attacks everything in reach which is flammable or meltable. These observations depress us when we realize how often we must make them after a great and irretrievable catastrophe. It elevates our hearts and minds, however, when we realize how man has armed himself against the elements, defended himself, and even used the enemy as his slave.
In such instances we reach the highest level of thought with a perception of what nature bears within itself as law and rule to impose on those unbridled, lawless forces. Although we have learned much about this, we can consider only the most obvious point here.
The intensified attraction of the earth (indicated by a rise in the barometer) is the force which regulates the state of the atmosphere and controls the elements; it resists excessive water formation and the strongest movements of air; it even seems to keep electricity in a state of perfect neutrality.
Lower barometric pressure, on the other hand, releases the elements; here we should first note that the lower region of the continental atmosphere has a tendency to flow from west to east. Moisture, rain showers, waves, billows—mild or stormy, they all travel eastward, and where these phenomena are created along the way, they are born with the tendency to press eastward.
Here we will mention another point worth considering: after the barometric pressure has been low for a long time and the elements have grown unaccustomed to obeying, they will not return immediately to their bounds when the barometer rises. They remain on the same track for a time; the turbulence in the lower levels regains the desired balance only gradually, long after the upper atmosphere has reached a quiet resolution. Unfortunately we are also affected by this last period—coastal dwellers and sailors are especially hurt by it. The end of 1824 and the beginning of this year give the saddest evidence of this; westerlies and southwesterlies produce and accompany the most tragic happenings at sea and on the coast.
Once off in a general direction, our thinking hardly knows where to stop. We might be inclined to view the earthquake as earth’s electricity unbound, the volcano as the element of fire aroused, and to relate these things to barometric effects. But empirical observation does not support this, for these movements and events seem to be localized, with some effect over a wider area.
Analogy
When seduced into venturing a larger or smaller scientific construct, we are well advised to look for analogies to test it. In following this advice here, I find the preceding description resembles the one I use in the Theory of Color.
In chromatics I oppose light and darkness to one another; these would never have any connection if matter did not intervene. Whether matter is opaque, transparent, or even alive, the quality of light and dark will manifest in it, and color in all its nuances will be created forthwith.
We have likewise put the force of attraction and its effect, gravity, on the one side, and the force of warmth and its effect, expansion, on the other; we have treated them as independent of one another. Between the two we put the atmosphere, empty of any so-called corporality, and we see that what we call “weather” arises in accordance with the effects of these two forces on the rarefied matter of the air. Thus the element in which and by which we live is organized in various but regular ways.
Recognition of Law
It can be seen that this is a highly complicated matter. In dealing with it, we think it right to start with its clearest aspect, i.e., the aspect most frequently repeated under similar conditions, the one which points to a constant regularity. Here we must not allow ourselves to be confused by the fact that what we thought mutually productive and consistent may sometimes seem to deviate and contradict itself. This is especially important in cases like this, where cause and effect are so easily confused in the midst of such complexity, and where correlates are viewed as mutually determining. To be sure, we will assume a basic law of weather. But we will also pay close attention to the endless physical, geological, and topographical differences, so that we can understand deviations in the phenomena as far as possible. If we hold fast to the regularity we will always find ourselves led back to it by our observations; anyone who fails to recognize the law will doubt the phenomenon, for, in the highest sense, every exception is included in the rule.
Self-Examination
In working on a venture like the present essay, the author must never forget to test himself in a variety of ways. This is done best and most certainly by looking back into history.
Even if we consider only those researchers who strove to restore the sciences, we will find that each was forced to make do with what empirical observation provided. The sum of what was actually known left many a gap across its breadth; various scientists sought to fill these gaps by reason or the power of imagination, for every scientist seeks the whole. With the growth of empirical knowledge, these inventions of imagination, these premature conclusions of reason, were set aside; a pure fact replaced them, and the phenomena took on more and more reality and harmony. A single example will serve for all.
I well remember: from my earliest school days to the present, the great and disproportionate space between Mars and Jupiter has interested every observer, and produced a variety of explanations. We may recall the efforts made by Kant, the great philosopher, to reach some degree of satisfaction about this phenomenon.
Here, if we may say so, a problem came to light—the light of day itself hid the fact that many small asteroids were circling one another, replacing a larger celestial body in the most extraordinary way.
Thousands of such problems may be found in the realm of scientific research: they would be solved more quickly if we did not so hastily dispose of them or obscure them by opinions.
Meanwhile, what we call hypothesis continues to assert its old claims, especially when it brings some movement in an apparently insoluble problem and puts us in a position to see things more easily. Such credit belongs to antiphlogistic chemistry: the same subjects were dealt with, but rearranged in a different order so that we could grasp them in a new way, and from a different angle.
In a similar vein, I have attempted to find a tellurian explanation for the principles governing our weather, and in some sense to ascribe atmospheric phenomena to the changing, pulsating gravity of the earth. Day by day I have come to feel the complete inadequacy of the notion that such constant phenomena as planets and moon cause a mysterious ebb and flow in the atmosphere. If I have simplified our concept in this regard, it is in the hope of bringing the time closer when we will discover the true underlying principles of the matter.
Although I am under no illusion that this explains and settles everything, I am still convinced that we should continue our research in this way, and look at the details of the matter as they emerge. This will bring us to a point I have neither imagined, nor can imagine; a point which will bring the solution of this problem and related ones.
ANALYSIS AND SYNTHESIS
(C. 1829)
In this year’s third lecture on the history of philosophy Mr. Victor Cousin bestows high praise on the eighteenth century for its emphasis on the analytic method in science and for the care it took to avoid premature synthesis, i.e. hypotheses. However, after giving almost unqualified approval to this approach, he notes that synthesis should not be excluded entirely since its use—albeit with caution—is sometimes necessary.
Consideration of these statements quickly led us to the thought that this is an area where the nineteenth century needs to do more: the friends and followers of science must note that we have failed to test, develop, and clarify false syntheses, i.e., hypotheses handed down to us from the past. We have failed to restore to the human spirit its ancient right to come face to face with nature.
Here we will cite two of these false syntheses by name: the decomposition of light and the polarization of light. Although often repeated by men of science, these two empty phrases say nothing to the thoughtful observer.
It is not enough that we apply the analytic approach to the observation of nature; i.e., that we refine as many details as possible out of a given object and thereby familiarize ourselves with it. We should go on to apply the same analysis to existing syntheses so that we may discover whether a valid method has been applied in creating them.
Thus we have subjected Newton’s approach to intensive analysis. He made the mistake of using a single phenomenon, and an overrefined one at that, as the foundation for a hypothesis supposed to explain the most varied and far-reaching events in nature.
To develop our theory of color we used the analytic approach; insofar as possible we presented every known phenomenon in a certain sequence so that we could determine the degree to which all might be governed by a general principle. It is our hope that this will help point the way for the nineteenth century as it carries out the duty we mentioned above.
We used a like approach in presenting the various phenomena created in double reflection. We bequeath both these efforts to some distant future in the knowledge that we have redirected our experiments to nature and thus truly set them free.
Let us proceed to another more general observation. A century has taken the wrong road if it applies itself exclusively to analysis while exhibiting an apparent fear of synthesis: the sciences come to life only when the two exist side by side like exhaling and inhaling.
A false hypothesis is better than none at all, for the mere fact that it is false does no harm. But when such a hypothesis establishes itself, when it finds general acceptance and becomes something like a creed open to neither doubt nor test, it is an evil under which centuries to come will suffer.
Here Newton’s theory may serve as an example. Objections to its shortcomings arose during Newton’s own lifetime, yet these objections were smothered under the weight of his great accomplishments in other areas and his standing in social and learned circles. But the French are most to blame in disseminating and rigidifying this theory. It will be their task in the nineteenth century to rectify their error by encouraging a fresh analysis of that tangled and ossified hypothesis.
An important point is apparently overlooked when analysis is used alone: every analysis presupposes a synthesis. A pile of sand cannot be analyzed, but if the pile contains grains of different materials (sand and gold for instance), an analysis might be made by washing it: then the light grains will wash away and the heavy ones remain.
Thus modern chemistry depends largely on separating what nature has united. We do away with nature’s synthesis so that we may learn about nature through its separate elements.
What higher synthesis is there than a living organism? Why would we submit ourselves to the torments of anatomy, physiology, and psychology if not to reach some concept of the whole, a concept which can always restore itself to wholeness no matter how it is torn to pieces?
Therefore a great danger for the analytical thinker arises when he applies his method where there is no underlying synthesis. In that case his work will be a true labor of the Danaids, and we can find the saddest examples of this. For in essence he is simply working to return to the synthesis. But if no synthesis underlies the object of his attention he will labor in vain to discover it. All his observations will only prove more and more an obstruction as their number increases.
Thus the analytical thinker ought to begin by examining (or rather, by noting) whether he is really working with a hidden synthesis or only an aggregation, a juxtaposition, a composite, or something of the sort. The areas of knowledge which have ceased to develop raise such doubts. It might be possible to make some useful observations of this sort about the fields of geology and meteorology.
A MORE INTENSE CHEMICAL ACTIVITY IN PRIMORDIAL MATTER
(1826)
In speaking of primal beginnings we should speak primally, i.e., poetically. Of those things to which our everyday language pertains—experience, understanding, judgment—none is adequate to the task. Upon entering deep into these barren, rocky chasms I felt for the first time that I envied the poets.
We must suppose that all primordial matter had greater energy, more intense chemical activity, and a stronger gravitational pull. Projecting rocks attracted the heavy particles suspended in the water to form a deposit, not below, but on their flanks. Parts of this solution may also have sunk to the bottom, thus producing the ambiguous quality of many formations. It is important to note that the solidification was always accompanied by seismic shocks.
The oldest epochs were altogether more uniform and homogeneous in nature, the newer ones more diverse, more or less dissimilar.
EXCERPT FROM “THE SPIRAL TENDENCY IN VEGETATION”
(1829–31)
When something in our observation of nature takes us aback, when we find our usual way of thought inadequate for its comprehension, we are well advised to look about for parallels in the history of thought and understanding.
Here we were simply reminded of Anaxagoras’ homoeomeries, although a man of his day had to be satisfied with explaining a thing only through itself. Supported by empirical observation, however, we might venture to consider such a notion.
We may leave aside the fact that these homoeomeries are applicable mainly to simple primitive phenomena. But on a higher level, we have actually discovered that spiral organs extend throughout the plant in the most minute form, and we are equally sure there is a spiral tendency whereby the plant lives out its life, finally reaching full development.
Thus let us not completely reject Anaxagoras’ idea as inadequate, for we should remember that there is always something to what a gifted man can formulate in thought, even though the formulation may be difficult to accept and apply.
In light of this new insight, we will venture to state the following. Having grasped the concept of metamorphosis fully, we may go on to examine the development of the plant in more detail, and will begin by noting a vertical tendency. We can think of this as a spiritual staff supporting the plant’s existence and maintaining it over long periods of time. This vital principle manifests itself in the longitudinal fibers which yield flexible strands for a variety of uses. It forms the wood in trees and keeps annuals or biennials upright; even in climbing or creeping plants it works to create the extension from node to node.
Thus we must observe the spiral forms which wind about these plants.
The system which rises vertically in the plant produces the enduring element, the solid, the lasting (the fibers in short-lived plants, most of the wood in long-lived ones).
The spiral system is the element that develops, expands, nourishes; as such it is short-lived and different from the vertical. Where its effect predominates, it soon grows weak and begins to decay; where it joins the vertical system, the two grow together to form a lasting unity as wood or some other solid part.
Neither of the two systems can be considered as working alone; they are always and forever together. In complete balance they produce the most perfect development of vegetation.
The spiral system is really the nourishing element through which eye after eye is developed, and we can therefore see that an excess of nourishment will make it predominant over the vertical system. Thus the whole will be robbed of its support, of its skeletal structure, so to speak; it will lose itself in the rush to develop an excessive number of eyes. In tall, fully formed ash trees, for example, I have never found those flattened, twisted branches which look something like crosiers when the effect is pronounced. But I have found them on trees where the top has been lost and the new twigs receive an excess of nourishment from the old trunk.
Other monstrosities (to be discussed later) arise when the vertical growth no longer balances the spiral system, when it is overshadowed by the spiral system. The vertical structure (whether fibrous or woody) is weakened and undermined in such a plant; it is brought to ruin, as it were. But the spiral system (on which eyes and buds depend) is accelerated, the tree branch flattened, the stem of the plant (which lacks wood) is bloated, and its interior destroyed. In the process, the spiral tendency appears, showing itself in twists, turns and curves. Examination of a branch will give us a full and thorough text for interpretation.
The spiral vessels have long been recognized, and their existence is freely acknowledged, but we must really think of them as individual organs subordinated to the spiral tendency. They have been sought in all parts of the plant and found almost everywhere, especially in sapwood where they even exhibit certain signs of life. It is quite in keeping with nature that its large-scale intentions are realized in the smallest detail.
As the basic law of life, this spiral tendency must first appear in the development from the seed. We will start with an observation of its appearance in the dicotyledons where the first seed leaves are clearly paired. The pair of cotyledons in these plants is often followed by a second pair of small but more developed leaves arranged crosswise, an arrangement which may continue for a time. But in many such plants it becomes obvious that the leaves growing higher on the stem do not subscribe to this social order, nor do the potential or actual eyes located behind them. One always tries to rush ahead of the other, causing the strangest placements; when all the parts in such a series finally gather together, the time of fructification in the flower draws near, and the development of the fruit follows.
In the Calla the leaf ribs quickly develop into leaf stems, and gradually grow round until they finally appear, completely rounded, as flower stalks. The flower is apparently a leaf end which has lost its green color; its vessels run from socket to periphery without branching, and curve inward around the spike which now represents the vertical position where flowering and fruiting take place.
The vertical tendency expresses itself from the moment of sprouting; it is how the plant takes root in the earth and grows upward at the same time. Perhaps we could observe how long this tendency remains predominant in the growth process, for we might assume it to be entirely responsible for the alternating placement of dicotyledonous leaf pairs at right angles to one another; this may seem problematic, however, since a certain spiral effect in any upward growth is not to be denied. In any case, as recessive as the vertical tendency may become, it reappears in blossoming where it creates the axis for the formation of each flower, manifesting itself most clearly in the spike and the spathe.
Research in plant anatomy has gradually clarified the matter of the spiral vessels found throughout the plant organism, as well as the aberrations in their form. This is not the place to go into detail; the beginning botanist can learn about them from a handbook, and the more advanced observer can turn to one of the larger works, or even look at nature itself.
It has long been thought that these vessels bring life to the plant organism, although their actual effect has not been sufficiently explained.
In our time, researchers have insisted that these vessels themselves should be recognized as alive, and described as such.
SELECTIONS FROM MAXIMS AND REFLECTIONS
Whoever wishes to deny nature as an organ of the divine must begin by denying all revelation.
“Nature conceals God!” But not from everyone!
Archetypal phenomena: ideal, real, symbolic, identical.
Empirical realm: endless proliferation of these, thus hope of succor, despair of perfection.
Archetypal phenomenon:
ideal as the ultimate we can know,
real as what we know,
symbolic, because it includes all instances,
identical with all instances.
The direct experience of archetypal phenomena creates a kind of anxiety in us, for we feel inadequate. We enjoy these phenomena only when they are brought to life through their eternal interplay in the empirical.
When archetypal phenomena stand unveiled before our senses we become nervous, even anxious. Sensory man seeks salvation in astonishment, but soon that busy matchmaker, Understanding, arrives with her efforts to marry the highest to the lowliest.
The magnet is an archetypal phenomenon; this is clear the instant we say it. Thus it also comes to symbolize all else for which no words or names must be sought.
Basic characteristic of an individual organism: to divide, to unite, to merge into the universal, to abide in the particular, to transform itself, to define itself, and, as living things tend to appear under a thousand conditions, to arise and vanish, to solidify and melt, to freeze and flow, to expand and contract. Since these effects occur together, any or all may occur at the same moment. Genesis and decay, creation and destruction, birth and death, joy and pain, all are interwoven with equal effect and weight; thus even the most isolated event always presents itself as an image and metaphor for the most universal.
It is not easy for us to grasp the vast, the supercolossal, in nature; we have lenses to magnify tiny objects but none to make things smaller. And even for the magnifying glass we need eyes like Carus and Nees to profit intellectually from its use.
However, since nature is always the same, whether found in the vast or the small, and every piece of turbid glass produces the same blue as the whole of the atmosphere covering the globe, I think it right to seek out prototypal examples and assemble them before me. Here, then, the enormous is not reduced; it is present within the small, and remains as far beyond our grasp as it was when it dwelt in the infinite.
The most sublime metamorphosis in the inorganic realm occurs when the amorphous takes on structure as it comes into being. Every material has the inclination and right to do this. Micaceous schist turns into garnets, often forming minerals with almost no mica; it is found only between the crystals of garnet as a minor formative element of the whole.
The nature with which we must work is no longer nature—it is an entity quite different from that dealt with by the Greeks.
The history of science is a great fugue in which the voices of nations are heard one after the other.
Four epochs of science:
childlike,
poetic, superstitious;
empirical,
searching, curious;
dogmatic,
didactic, pedantic;
ideal,
methodical, mystical.
Sciences destroy themselves in two ways: by the breadth they reach and by the depth they plumb.
A crisis must necessarily arise when a field of knowledge matures enough to become a science, for those who focus on details and treat them as separate will be set against those who have their eye on the universal and try to fit the particular into it. Now, however, an ideal, more comprehensive scientific approach is attracting an ever wider circle of friends, patrons, and colleagues; at this higher stage the division is no longer so marked, although still noticeable enough.
Those I would call universalists hold firm to the conviction that everything is present everywhere and may be discovered there, although in forms endlessly divergent and varied. The others, whom I will call singularists, agree with this principle, and even follow it in their observations, definitions, and teachings. But they claim to find exceptions wherever the prototype is not fully expressed, and rightly so. Their only error lies in failing to recognize the basic form where it is disguised, and denying it where it is hidden. Yet both ways of thought are authentic. They stand in eternal opposition with no prospect of joining forces or defeating one another: hence we must avoid engaging in controversy and simply state our convictions clearly and openly.
I will therefore restate mine: at this higher level we cannot know, but must act, just as we need little knowledge but much skill in a game. Nature has given us the chess board; we cannot and should not work beyond its limits. She has carved our pieces; gradually we will learn their value, their moves, and their powers. Now it will be our task to find the moves we think best; each seeks this in his own way regardless of any advice. Leave well enough alone, then. Let us merely observe the distance between us and the others, finding our allies in those who declare themselves on our side. We should also recall that we are dealing with an insoluble problem. We must be ready to attend to anything we may hear, especially anything opposed to our own view, for here we will recognize the problematic character of things and, especially, of people. I am not sure I will continue my work in this well-tilled field, but I reserve my right to note and point out certain new directions of study or individual research.
We may use Lichtenberg’s writings as a wonderful divining rod: wherever he jests, a problem lies hidden.
He set one of his witticisms in the vast empty space between Mars and Jupiter. Kant had carefully demonstrated that all matter in this area must have been swept up by the two planets. Here Lichtenberg says in his humorous way: “Why should there not be unseen worlds as well?” And wasn’t his comment absolutely true? Aren’t the newly discovered planets invisible to everyone in the world except a few astronomers whose word we must trust?
Content without method leads to fantasy; method without content to empty sophistry; matter without form to unwieldly erudition, form without matter to hollow speculation.
The worthiest professor of physics would be one who could show the inadequacy of his text and diagrams in comparison to nature and the higher demands of the mind.
Germans—and they are not alone in this—have the knack of making the sciences unapproachable.
Those books which bring us the truths and falsehoods of the day in encyclopedic form have a special role in perpetuating error. There is no application of scientific method here; our knowledge, our beliefs, our assumptions—all are included. This is why after fifty years such works look strange indeed.
In general the sciences put some distance between themselves and life, and make their way back to it only by a roundabout path.
To be popularized, theoretical things must be presented in an absurd manner: the theoretical matter must be shown in practical application before the world at large will accept it.
A scientific researcher must always think of himself as a member of a jury. His only concern should be the adequacy of the evidence and the clarity of the proofs which support it. Guided by this, he will form his opinion and cast his vote without regard for whether he shares the author’s view.
In doing this he should be unconcerned with the question of whether he is in the majority or the minority—he has accomplished his task, he has expressed his convictions, and he cannot command the minds or feelings of others.
The history of philosophy, science, and religion all show that opinions may be circulated en masse, but the one which predominates is the one which is most concrete, i.e., comfortably tailored to the human mind at its most ordinary. In fact, anyone who learns to think in the higher sense may assume that he will find the majority opposed to him.
The ultimate goal would be: to grasp that everything in the realm of fact is already theory. The blue of the sky shows us the basic law of chromatics. Let us not seek for something behind the phenomena—they themselves are the theory.
Weak minds make the mental error of leaping straight from the particular to the general when, in fact, the general is to be found only within the whole.
Nature will reveal nothing under torture; its frank answer to an honest question is “Yes! Yes!—No! No!” More than this comes of evil.
He who beholds a phenomenon will often extend his thinking beyond it; he who merely hears about the phenomenon will not be moved to think at all.
There is a delicate empiricism which makes itself utterly identical with the object, thereby becoming true theory. But this enhancement of our mental powers belongs to a highly evolved age.
The manifestation of a phenomenon is not detached from the observer—it is caught up and entangled in his individuality.
In observing nature on a scale large or small, I have always asked: Who speaks here, the object or you? I also take this approach in regard to my predecessors and colleagues.
There is a secret element of regularity in the object which corresponds to a secret element of regularity in the subject.
… Thus when making observations it is best to be fully conscious of objects, and when thinking to be fully aware of ourselves.
When we try to recognize the idea inherent in a phenomenon we are confused by the fact that it frequently—even normally—contradicts our senses.
The Copernican system is based on an idea which was hard to grasp; even now it contradicts our senses every day. We merely echo something we neither see nor understand.
The metamorphosis of plants contradicts our senses in this way.
Reason is applied to what is developing, practical understanding to what is developed. The former does not ask, What is the purpose? and the latter does not ask, What is the source? Reason takes pleasure in development; practical understanding tries to hold things fast so that it can use them.
Thinking man has a strange trait: when faced with an unsolved problem he likes to concoct a fantastic mental image, one he can never escape even when the problem is solved and the truth revealed.
Throughout the history of scientific investigation we find observers leaping too quickly from phenomenon to theory; hence they fall short of the mark and become theoretical.
The Greeks spoke of neither cause nor effect in their descriptions and stories—instead, they presented the phenomenon as it was.
In their science, too, they did not perform experiments, but relied on experiences as they occurred.
The animal is instructed by his sensory organs; man instructs his organs and governs them.
The present age has a bad habit of being abstruse in the sciences. We remove ourselves from common sense without opening up a higher one; we become transcendent, fantastic, fearful of intuitive perception in the real world, and when we wish to enter the practical realm, or need to, we suddenly turn atomistic and mechanical.
Our most basic and necessary concept—that of cause and effect—leads to numerous and repeated errors in application.
We can grasp immediate causes and thus find them easiest to understand; this is why we like to think mechanistically about things which really are of a higher order.
… Thus mechanistic modes of explanation become the order of the day when we ignore problems which can only be explained dynamistically.
A careful review of physics will show that not all the phenomena it studies are of equal value, nor are all the experiments on which it relies.
Primary, archetypal experiments are pivotal, and work based on them has a sure and firm foundation. But there are also secondary experiments, tertiary experiments, etc.; when we give them equal weight we only confuse what was clarified through the primary experiment.
Someday someone will write a pathology of experimental physics and bring to light all those swindles which subvert our reason, beguile our judgment and, what is worse, stand in the way of any practical progress. The phenomena must be freed once and for all from their grim torture chamber of empiricism, mechanism, and dogmatism; they must be brought before the jury of man’s common sense.
Few people have the gift of grasping nature and using it directly; between knowledge and application they prefer to invent a phantom which they develop in great detail; doing so, they forget both object and purpose.
The mathematician relies on the element of quantity, on all that is defined by number and size, and thus to some degree on the universe in its external form. But if we set out to apply the full measure of mind and all its powers to this universe, we will realize that quantity and quality must be viewed as two poles of material existence. This is why the mathematician refines his language of formula so highly; as far as possible he wants to incorporate the incalculable world into the realm of measure and number. Everything will then seem graspable, comprehensible, and mechanical, and he may be accused of an underlying atheism for supposedly he has included the most incalculable element of all (which we call God), and thus has eliminated its special, overriding presence.
An important task: to banish mathematical-philosophical theories from those areas of physics where they impede rather than advance knowledge, those areas where a one-sided development in modern scientific education has made such perverse use of them.
A strict separation must be maintained between physics and mathematics. Physics must remain quite independent; it must use all its powers of love, respect, and reverence to find its way into nature and the sacred life of nature irrespective of what mathematics does. The latter, on the other hand, must declare itself independent of all externalities, take its own path of intellect, and develop in a purer way than it now does in working with the physical world to gain something from it or impose something on it.
Like dialectics, mathematics is an organ for a higher kind of inner sense; in practice it is an art like rhetoric. Both value nothing but form—the content is unimportant. It does not matter whether mathematics counts pennies or guineas, whether rhetoric defends what is true or what is false.
Here, however, the character of the person doing these things, practicing these arts, is most important. An effective advocate with a just cause, an able mathematician before the starry heavens—both seem equally godlike.
What except for its exactitude is exact about mathematics? And this exactitude—does it not flow from an inner feeling for the truth?
Mathematics cannot eliminate prejudice, prevent willfulness, or resolve partisan differences. It has no power over anything in the moral realm.
A mathematician is perfect only to the degree that he is a perfect human being, to the degree that he can experience the beauty in what is true. Only then will his work be complete, transparent, comprehensive, pure, clear, graceful—even elegant. All this is needed to become a Lagrange.
To escape the endless profusion, fragmentation, and complication of modern science and recover the element of simplicity, we must always ask ourselves: What approach would Plato have taken to a nature which is both simple in essence and manifold in appearance?
Insofar as he makes use of his healthy senses, man himself is the best and most exact scientific instrument possible. The greatest misfortune of modern physics is that its experiments have been set apart from man, as it were; physics refuses to recognize nature in anything not shown by artificial instruments, and even uses this as a measure of its accomplishments.
The Newtonian experiment which forms the basis for the traditional theory of color is extremely complicated; it requires the following:
For the spectral colors to appear we need:
1. a glass prism
2. which has three sides
3. and is small;
4. a window shutter
5. with an opening
6. which is quite small;
7. the sun’s form entering
8. and falling on the prism at a certain distance
9. from a certain angle;
10. an image formed on a surface
11. placed a certain distance behind the prism.
If conditions 3, 6, and 11 are not met, if we enlarge the opening, use a large prism, or bring the surface closer, the desired spectrum can and will not appear.
The battle with Newton is actually being conducted at a very low level. It is directed against a phenomenon which was poorly observed, poorly developed, poorly applied, and poorly explained in theory. He stands accused of sloppiness in his earlier experiments, prejudice in his later ones, haste in forming theories, obstinacy in defending them, and generally of a half-unconscious, half-conscious dishonesty.
In New York there are ninety different Christian sects, each acknowledging God and our Lord in its own way without interference. In scientific research—indeed, in any kind of research—we need to reach this goal; for how can it be that everyone demands open-mindedness while denying others their own way of thinking and expressing themselves?