In vain do I resist. My foot slips. My life nevertheless re- mains a poet-existence. Can anything worse be imagined? I am predestined; fate laughs at me when it suddenly shows me how everything I do to resist becomes a factor in such an ex- istence [Tilverelse]. I can describe hope so vividly that every hoping individual will recognize my description as his own; and yet it is forgery, for even as I am describing it I am think- ing of recollection [Erindring].”
100But there is yet another demonstration of the existence of God that has hitherto been overlooked. It is introduced by a servant in Aristophanes’ The Knights, 32-35 (Demosthenes and Nicias conversing): Anpoobevys. motov 6eétas; Etedv Hyet yao Heovc; Nixtas. EYWYE. Anpoobevys. MOLM YOMPEVOS TEXLNOLW; Nexias. OTL BEoiat ExOQOc Ely: OVX ELXOTWWC; ‘Anuoobévyc. 35. eb meoo066éCets Le.
Diapsalmata 37 [DE. Stat-at-ues is it? What, do you really think That there are gods?
NIC. I know it.
DE. Know it! How?
NIC. I’msuch a wretched god-detested chap.
DE. Well urged indeed].'* ‘How dreadful boredom is—how dreadfully boring; I know no stronger expression, no truer one, for like is recog- nized only by like. Would that there were a loftier, stronger expression, for then there would still be one movement. I lie prostrate, inert; the only thing I see is emptiness, the only thing I live on is emptiness, the only thing I move in 1s emp- tiness. I do not even suffer pain. The vulture pecked contin- ually at Prometheus’s liver;!® the poison dripped down con- tinually on Loki;' it was at least an interruption, even though monotonous. Pain itself has lost its refreshment for me. If I were offered all the glories of the world or all the torments of the world, one would move me no more than the other; I would not turn over to the other side either to attain or to avoid. I am dying death.!°° And what could divert me? Well, if I managed to see a faithfulness that withstood every ordeal [Provelse], an enthusiasm that endured everything, a faith that moved mountains;! if I were to become aware of an idea that joined the finite and the infinite. But my soul’s poisonous doubt consumes everything. My soul is like the Dead Sea, over which no bird is able to fly; when it has come midway, it sinks down, exhausted, to death and destruction.
107How strange! With what equivocal anxiety about losing and keeping, people nevertheless cling to this life. At times I have considered taking a decisive step compared with which all previous ones were but child’s play—to set out on the great voyage of discovery. As a ship is saluted with a cannonade when it is launched, so I would salute myself: And yet. Is it courage that I lack? If a stone fell down and killed me, that would still be a way out.
23 38 Either/Or, I 108Tautology is and remains the highest principle, the high- est maxim of thought.'®? No wonder, then, that most people use it. It is not so impoverished, either, and can well fill out a whole life. It has a jesting, witty, entertaining form; this is [the category of] infinite judgments.!'© This kind of tautology is the paradoxical and transcendental kind. It has the serious, sci- entific, and edifying form. The formula is as follows: when two quantities are equal in size to one and the same third quan- tity, they are all of equal size.''! This is a quantitative conclu- sion. This kind of tautology is especially useful on podiums and in pulpits, where one must say much.
'2'The disproportion of my body is that my forelegs are too short. Like the hare from New Holland,'!3 I have very short forelegs but extremely long hind legs. Ordinarily, I sit very still; if 1 make a move, it is a tremendous leap, to the horror of all those to whom I am bound by the tender ties of kinship and friendship.
Either/Or'"4 An Ecstatic Discourse Marry, and you will regret it. Do not marry, and you will also regret it. Marry or do not marry, you will regret it either way.'!° Whether you marry or you do not marry, you will re- gret it either way. Laugh at the stupidities of the world, and you will regret it; weep over them, and you will also regret it. Laugh at the stupidities of the world or weep over them, you will regret it either way. Whether you laugh at the stupidities of the world or you weep over them, you will regret it either way. Trust a girl, and you will regret it. Do not trust her, and you will also regret it. Trust a girl or do not trust her, you will regret it either way. Whether you trust a girl or do not trust her, you will regret it either way. Hang yourself, and you will regret it. Do not hang yourself, and you will also regret it. Hang yourself or do not hang yourself, you will regret it either way. Whether you hang yourself or do not hang yourself, you Diapsalmata 39 will regret it either way. This, gentlemen, is the quintessence of all the wisdom of life. It is not merely in isolated moments that I, as Spinoza says, view everything aeterno modo [in the mode of eternity],''° but Iam continually aeterno modo. Many believe they, too, are this when after doing one thing or an- other they unite or mediate these opposites. But this is a mis- understanding, for the true eternity does not lie behind either/ or but before it. Their eternity will therefore also be a painful temporal sequence, since they will have a double regret on which to live. My wisdom is easy to grasp, for I have only one maxim, and even that is not a point of departure for me. One must differentiate between the subsequent dialectic in either/ or and the eternal one suggested here. So when I say that my maxim is not a point of departure for me, this does not have the opposite of being a point of departure but is merely the negative expression of my maxim, that by which it compre- hends itself in contrast to being a point of departure or not being a point of departure. My maxim is not a point of depar- ture for me, because if I made it a point of departure, I would regret it, and if I did not make it a point of departure, I would also regret it. If one or another of my esteemed listeners thinks there is anything to what I have said, he merely demonstrates that he has no head for philosophy. If he thinks there is any movement in what has been said, this demonstrates the same thing. But for those listeners who are able to follow me, al- though I do not move, I shall now elucidate the eternal truth by which this philosophy is self-contained and does not con- cede anything higher. That is, if 1 made my maxim a point of departure, then I would be unable to stop, for if did not stop, I would regret it, and if I did stop, I would also regret it, etc. But if I never start, then I can always stop, for my eternal starting is my eternal stopping. Experience shows that it is not at all difficult for philosophy to begin. Far from it. It begins, in fact, with nothing!” and therefore can always begin. But it is always difficult for philosophy and philosophers to stop. This difficulty, too, I have avoided, for if anyone thinks that I, in stopping now, actually stop, he demonstrates that he does not have speculative comprehension. The point is that I do not 24 40 Either/Or, I stop now, but I stopped when I began. My philosophy, there- fore, has the advantageous characteristic of being brief and of being irrefutable, for if anyone disputes me, I daresay I have the right to declare him mad. The philosopher, then, is contin- ually aeterno modo and does not have, as did the blessed Sin- tenis, only specific hours that are lived for eternity. "8 "Why was I not born in Nyboder,!° why did I not die as a baby? Then my father would himself have laid me in a little casket, taken me under his arm, carried me out to the grave on a Sunday morning, would himself have cast the earth on it and in a low voice said a few words understandable only to him- self. Only in the happy days of yore could people have the idea of babies weeping in Elysium because they died so prema- turely.!?!
I have never been joyful, and yet it has always seemed as if Joy were my constant companion, as if the buoyant jinn of joy danced around me, invisible to others but not to me, whose eyes shone with delight. Then when I walk past people, happy-go-lucky as a god, and they envy me because of my good fortune, I laugh, for I despise people, and I take my re- venge. I have never wished to do anyone an injustice, but I have always made it appear as if anyone who came close to me would be wronged and injured. Then when I hear others praised for their faithfulness, their integrity, I laugh, for I de- spise people, and I take my revenge. My heart has never been hardened toward anyone, but I have always made it appear, es- pecially when I was touched most deeply, as if my heart were closed and alien to every feeling. Then when I hear others lauded for their good hearts, see them loved for their deep, rich feelings, then I laugh, for I despise people and take my re- venge. When I see myself cursed, abhorred, hated for my coldness and heartlessness, then I laugh, then my rage is satis- fied. The point is that if the good people could make me be ac- tually in the wrong, make me actually do an injustice—well, then I would have lost.
Diapsalmata 41 Diapsalmata 41 23My misfortune is this: an angel of death always walks at my side, and it is not the doors of the chosen ones that I sprin- kle with blood as a sign that he is to pass by!?4—no, it is pre- cisely their doors that he enters—for only recollection’s love is happy.
happy.
Wine no longer cheers my heart; a little of it makes me sad— much, depressed. My soul is dull and slack; in vain do I jab the spur of desire into its side; it is exhausted, it can no longer raise itself up in its royal jump. I have lost all my illusions. In vain do I seek to abandon myself in joy’s infinitude; it cannot lift me, or, rather, I cannot lift myself. Previously, when it merely beckoned, I mounted, light, hearty, and cheerful. When I rode slowly through the forest, it seemed as if I were flying. Now, when the horse is covered with lather and is almost ready to drop, it seems to me that I do not move from the spot. Iam alone, as I have always been—forsaken not by men, that would not pain me, but by the happy jinn of joy, who trooped around me in great numbers, who met acquaintances every- where, showed me an opportunity everywhere. Just as an in- toxicated man collects a wanton throng of young people around him, so they flocked about me, the elves of joy, and my smile was meant for them. My soul has lost possibility. If I were to wish for something, I would wish not for wealth or power but for the passion of possibility, for the eye, eternally young, eternally ardent, that sees possibility everywhere. Pleasure disappoints; possibility does not. And what wine is so sparkling, so fragrant, so intoxicating!
Where the rays of the sun do not reach, the tones still man- age to come. My apartment is dark and gloomy; a high wall practically keeps out the light of day. It must be in the next courtyard, very likely a wandering musician. What instru- ment is it? A reed pipe?...What do I hear—the minuet from Don Giovanni. Carry me away, then, you rich, strong tones, to the ring of girls, to the delight of the dance. —The pharmacist pounds his mortar, the maid scrubs her kettle, the groom curries his horse and knocks the currycomb on the cob- 27 42 Either/Or, I blestones.!?5 These tones are only for me; only to me do they beckon. Oh, thank you, whoever you are! Thank you! My soul is so rich, so hearty, so intoxicated with joy!
Salmon is in itself very delicious eating, but too much of it is bad for the health, inasmuch as it is a heavy food. For this reason, once when there was a great catch of salmon, the po- lice in Hamburg ordered each master of a household to give his servants salmon not more than once a week. Would that there might be a similar police notice with regard to sentimentality.
126My sorrow is my baronial castle, which lies like an eagle’s nest high up on the mountain peak among the clouds. No one can take it by storm. From it I swoop down into actuality and snatch my prey, but I do not stay down there. I bring my booty home, and this booty is a picture I weave into the tap- estries at my castle. Then I live as one already dead. Every- thing I have experienced I immerse in a baptism of oblivion unto an eternity of recollection. Everything temporal and for- tuitous is forgotten and blotted out. Then I sit like an old gray- haired man, pensive, and explain the pictures in a soft voice, almost whispering, and beside me sits a child, listening, al- though he remembers everything before I tell it.
The sun is shining brilliantly and beautifully into my room; the window in the next room is open. Everything is quiet out on the street. It is Sunday afternoon. | distinctly hear a lark warbling outside a window in one of the neighboring court- yards, outside the window where the pretty girl lives. Far away in a distant street, I hear a man crying “Shrimp for sale.” The air is so warm, and yet the whole city is as if de- serted, —Then I call to mind my youth and my first love— when I was filled with longing; now I long only for my first longing. What is youth? A dream. What is love? The content of the dream.
Something marvelous has happened to me. I was trans- ported to the seventh heaven. There sat all the gods assembled.
Diapsalmata 43 As a special dispensation, I was granted the favor of making a wish. ‘“What do you want,” asked Mercury. ‘““Do you want youth, or beauty, or power, or a long life, or the most beau- tiful girl, or any one of the other glorious things we have in the treasure chest? Choose—but only one thing.” For a moment I was bewildered; then I addressed the gods, saying: My es- teemed contemporaries, I choose one thing—that I may al- ways have the laughter on my side. Not one of the gods said a word; instead, all of them began to laugh. From that I con- cluded that my wish was granted and decided that the gods knew how to express themselves with good taste, for it would indeed have been inappropriate to reply solemnly: It is granted to you.!?7 THE IMMEDIATE EROTIC STAGES? OR THE MUSICAL-EROTIC INSIGNIFICANT INTRODUCTION From the moment my soul was first astounded by Mozart’s music and humbly bowed in admiration, it has often been a fa- vorite and refreshing occupation for me to deliberate on the way that happy Greek view of the world that calls the world a x0aL0¢ [cosmos] because it manifests itself as a well-organized whole, as an elegant, transparent adornment for the spirit that acts upon and operates throughout it, the way that happy view lets itself be repeated in a higher order of things, in the world of ideals, the way there is here again a ruling wisdom espe- cially wonderful at uniting what belongs together, Axel with Valborg,? Homer with the Trojan War, Raphael with Cathol- icism, Mozart with Don Juan. There is a paltry disbelief that seems to contain considerable healing power.? It thinks that such a connection is accidental and sees nothing more in it than a very fortunate conjunction of the various forces in the game of life. It thinks that it is accidental that the lovers find each other, accidental that they love each other. There might have been a hundred other girls with whom he could have been just as happy, whom he could have loved just as much. It considers that many a poet has lived who would have been just as im- mortal as Homer if that glorious subject matter had not been taken over by him, many a composer who would have been just as immortal as Mozart if the opportunity had offered itself. This wisdom contains considerable consolation and balm for all mediocrities, who thereby see themselves in a position to delude themselves and like-minded people into thinking that they did not become as exceptional as the exceptional ones because of a mistaken identification on the part of fate, a mis- take on the part of the world. This produces a very convenient optimism. But it is abhorrent, of course, to every high- 314 32 33 48 Either/Or, I minded soul, every optimate,* to whom it is not as important to rescue himself in such a paltry manner as it is to lose himself by contemplating greatness; whereas it is a delight to his soul, a sacred joy, to see united that which belongs together. This is good fortune, not in the sense of the accidental, and thus pre- supposes two factors, whereas the accidental consists in the unarticulated interjections of fate. This is good fortune in his- tory, the divine interplay of the historic forces, the festival pe- riod of the historic epoch. The accidental has only one factor: It is accidental that Homer, in the history of the Trojan War, acquired the most remarkable epic subject matter imaginable. Good fortune has two factors: It is fortunate that this most re- markable epic subject matter came into the hands of Homer. Here the emphasis is just as much on Homer as on the subject matter. Here is the deep harmony that pervades every produc- tion we call classic. So also with Mozart: It is fortunate that the perhaps sole musical theme (in the more profound sense) was given to—Mozart.
With his Don Giovanni,> Mozart joins that little immortal band of men whose names, whose works, time will not forget because eternity recollects them. And although it makes no difference, once one is in, whether one ranks highest or low- est—because in a certain sense everyone ranks equally high— since all rank infinitely high, and although it is just as childish to argue about first and last places here as it is to argue about the place assigned in church on confirmation day, I am still too much of a child, or, more correctly, I am infatuated, like a young girl, with Mozart, and I must have him rank in first place, whatever it costs. And I will go to the deacon and the pastor and the dean and the bishop and the whole church coun- cil, and I will beseech and implore them to grant my request, and I will challenge the whole congregation on the same mat- ter, and if my appeal is not heard, my childish wish not ful- filled, then I will secede from the association, then I will di- vorce myself from its way of thinking, then I will form a sect that not only places Mozart first but has no one but Mozart. And I will beseech Mozart to forgive me that his music did not inspire me to great deeds but made me a fool who, because of The Immediate Erotic Stages 49 him, lost the little sense I had and now in quiet sadness usually passes the time humming something I do not understand, and like a ghost prowls night and day around something I cannot enter. “Immortal Mozart! You to whom I owe everything—to whom I owe that I lost my mind, that my soul was astounded, that I was terrified at the core of my being—you to whom I owe that I did not go through life without encountering some- thing that could shake me, you whom I thank because I did not die without having loved, even though my love was unhappy. No wonder, then, that Iam much more zealous for his glori- fication than for the happiest moment of my own life, much more zealous for his immortality than for my own existence [ Tilver]. Indeed, if he were taken away, if his name were blot- ted out, that would demolish the one pillar that until now has prevented everything from collapsing for me into a boundless chaos, into a dreadful nothing.
Yet I certainly need not fear that any age will deny him a place in that kingdom of the gods, but I do need to be prepared for people to find it childish of me to insist that he have first place. And although I by no means propose to feel ashamed of my childishness, although it will always have more signifi- cance and value for me than any exhaustive consideration pre- cisely because it is inexhaustible, I shall nevertheless try by way of deliberation to demonstrate his legitimate claim.
Ina classic work, good fortune—that which makes it classic and immortal—is the absolute correlation of the two forces. This correlation is so absolute that a subsequent reflective age will scarcely be able, even in thought, to separate that which is so intrinsically conjoined without running the danger of caus- ing or fostering a misunderstanding. For example, if it is said that it was Homer’s good fortune that he acquired that most exceptional epic subject matter, this can lead one to forget that we always have this epic subject matter through Homer’s con- ception, and the fact that it appears to be the most perfect epic subject matter is clear to us only in and through the transub- stantiation due to Homer. If, however, Homer’s poetic work in permeating the subject matter is emphasized, then one runs the risk of forgetting that the poem would never have become 34 50 Either/Or, I what it is if the idea with which Homer permeated it was not its own idea, if the form was not the subject matter’s own form. The poet wishes for his subject matter, but, as they say, wishing is no art; this is quite correct and truthfully applies to a host of powerless poetic wishes. To wish properly, however, is a great art, or, more correctly, it is a gift. It is the inexplica- bility and mysteriousness of genius, just as with a divining rod [Onskeqvist], which never has the notion to wish [enske] except in the presence of that for which it wishes. Hence, wishing has a far deeper significance than it ordinarily does; indeed, to ab- stract reason it appears ludicrous, since it rather thinks of wishing in connection with what is not present, not in connec- tion with what is present.
There was a school of estheticians who, because of a one- sided emphasis on the significance of form, were not without guilt in occasioning the diametrically opposite misunderstand- ing.” It has often struck me that these estheticians were as a matter of course attached to Hegelian philosophy, inasmuch as both a general knowledge of Hegel and a special knowledge of his esthetics give assurance that he strongly emphasizes, espe- cially with regard to the esthetic, the importance of the subject matter.® Both parts, however, essentially belong together, and a single observation will be sufficient to show this, since other- wise a phenomenon of this sort would be inexplicable. Ordi- narily, it is a single work or a single suite of works that marks the particular individual as a classic poet, artist, etc. The same individuality may have produced many different things, but they are not to be compared with it. For example, Homer also wrote a Batrachomyomachia? but did not become a classic writer or immortal through it. To say that this is due to the unim- portance of the theme is indeed foolish, since the classic con- sists in the balance. Now, if whatever makes a classic work classic lies simply and solely in the producing individual, then everything he produced would inevitably be classic, some- what in the sense, although higher, in which bees always pro- duce a certain kind of cell. To answer that it was due to his having been more fortunate with the one than with the other would really say nothing. For one thing, this is merely a splen- The Immediate Erotic Stages 51 did tautology that all too frequently in life enjoys the honor of being regarded as an answer; for another, as an answer it per- tains to a relativity other than that of the question. It throws no light on the relation between subject matter and form and at best could come under consideration if the question per- tained solely to the formative activity.
It is likewise the case with Mozart that only one of his works makes him a classic composer and absolutely immortal. That work is Don Giovanni. Everything else he has composed can please and delight, arouse our admiration, enrich the soul, sat- isfy the ear, delight the heart; but no service is done to him and his immortality by throwing everything together and making it all equally great. Don Giovanni is his reception piece.'!° With Don Giovanni, he enters that eternity which lies not outside time but in the midst of it, which is not hidden from the eyes of men by any curtain, into which the immortals are not ad- mitted once and for all but are continually being admitted, in- asmuch as the generation passes by and directs its gaze toward them, is happy in its contemplation of them, goes to its grave, and the next generation in turn goes by and is transfigured in contemplating them. With his Don Giovanni, Mozart enters the rank of those immortals, of those visibly transfigured ones, whom no cloud takes away"! from the eyes of men; with Don Giovanni he stands supreme among them. This last asser- tion, as I said above, I shall attempt to demonstrate.
All classic productions rank equally high, as previously noted, because each one ranks infinitely high. Consequently, if one nevertheless wants to introduce a certain order into this series, it stands to reason that it cannot be based on anything essential, for that would mean that there was an essential dif- ference, and that in turn would mean that the word “‘classic”’ was wrongly predicated of all of them. Ifa classification were based on the dissimilar nature of the subject matter, one would immediately be involved in a misunderstanding, which in its wider extension would end with the annulment of the whole concept of the classic. The subject matter is an essential ele- ment, inasmuch as it is one factor, but it is not the absolute, since it is only one element. It could be pointed out that in a 35 36 52 Either/Or, I sense certain kinds of classic works have no subject matter, whereas in others, however, the subject matter plays a very important role. The former is the case with works we admire as classic in architecture, sculpture, music, painting—espe- cially the first three, and even in painting, insofar as there is any question of subject matter it has importance almost solely as an occasion. The second is true of poetry, this word under- stood in its widest meaning to denote all artistic production that is based on language and the historical consciousness. This comment is in itself altogether correct, but it is a mistake to base a classification on it by regarding the absence or presence of subject matter as an advantage or a detriment to the creative individual. If it is strictly understood, the result will be to ar- gue the very opposite of what was really intended, as is always the case when one moves abstractly in dialectical qualifica- tions, where it is the case that one not only says one thing and means something else but says something else; what one thinks one is saying one does not say but says the opposite. So it is when the subject matter is made the principle of division. In speaking of it, one speaks of something entirely different: namely, the formative activity.
But the same thing happens if one starts with the formative activity and emphasizes it alone. In maintaining the distinction here and emphasizing that in some respects the formative ac- tivity is creative to the degree that it creates the subject matter in the process, whereas in other respects it receives the subject matter, then here again, although one thinks one is speaking of the formative activity, one is actually speaking of the subject matter and is basing the classification on the division of the subject matter.
The same holds for the formative activity as the point of de- parture in such a classification as for the subject matter. Con- sequently, a single aspect cannot be used as the basis for an or- der of rank, because it is still too essential to be sufficiently accidental, too accidental to be a basis for an essential ranking. But this thoroughgoing mutual permeation—which justifies saying, if one wishes to speak clearly, that the subject matter permeates the form and also that the form permeates the sub- The Immediate Erotic Stages 53 ject matter—this mutual permeation, this like-for-like in the immortal friendship of the classic, may serve to illuminate the classic from a new side and to limit it in such a way that it does not become too copious. In fact, the estheticians who one-sid- edly stressed the poetic activity have broadened this concept so much that this pantheon became adorned, indeed, overdecor- ated, to such a degree with classic knickknacks and bagatelles that the unsophisticated notion of a cool hall with a few partic- ular great figures utterly vanished, and instead that pantheon became a storage attic. According to this esthetic view, every artistically skillful little dainty is a classic work that is assured of absolute immortality; indeed, in this kind of hocus-pocus, such trifles are admitted first of all. Although paradoxes are otherwise detested, the paradox that the least was actually art was not dismaying. The untruth was in a one-sided emphasis on the formal activity. Therefore, such an esthetic view could last only for a certain period, that is, so long as there was no awareness that time mocked it and its classic works. In the realm of esthetics, this view was a form of the radicalism that has similarly manifested itself in so many spheres; it was an expression of the unbridled producing individual in his equally unbridled lack of substance.
Like so many others, however, this effort found its subduer in Hegel. It is a sad truth about Hegelian philosophy that on the whole it has by no means achieved the importance, neither for the past nor for the present age, that it would have achieved if the past age had not been so busy scaring people into it but had rather possessed a little more calm presence of mind in ap~ propriating it to itself, and if the present age had not been so indefatigably active in driving people beyond it.'? Hegel rein- stated the subject matter, the idea, in its rights and thereby ousted those transient classic works, those superficialities, those twilight moths from the arched vaults of classicism. It is by no means our intention to deny these works the value that is their due, but the point is to watch out lest here, as in so many other places, the language become confused, the con- cepts enervated. A certain eternity may be readily attributed to them, and this is their merit, but still this eternity is actually 38 54 Either/Or, I only the eternal moment that any true artistic production has, but not the full eternity in the midst of the shifts and changes of the times. What these productions lacked was ideas, and the more formally perfect they were, the more quickly they burned themselves out. As technical skill was more and more developed to the highest level of virtuosity, the more transient this virtuosity became and the more it lacked the mettle and power or balance to withstand the gusts of time, while more and more exalted it continually made greater claims to being the most distilled spirit. Only where the idea is brought to rest and transparency in a definite form can there be any question of a classic work, but then it will also be capable of withstand- ing the times. This unity, this mutual intimacy in each other, every classic work has, and thus it is readily perceived that every attempt at a classification of the various classic works that has as its point of departure a separation of subject matter and form or of idea and form is eo ipso a failure.