The concept of guilt and sin posits precisely the single individual as the single individual. There is no question of any relation to the whole world or to anything that is past. It is a question only of a man being guilty, and yet he must become guilty by fate, by that therefore of which there was no question, and thereby he must become that which precisely annuls the concept of fate, and this he must become by fate.
This contradiction, interpreted in a mistaken way, gives the mistaken concept of original sin; rightly understood, it gives the correct concept, 88 CHAPTER III namely, that every individual is himself and the race, and that the later individual is not essentially different from the first. In the possibility of dread freedom succumbs, overwhelmed by fate. Then its actuality rises up, but with the explanation that it became guilty. Dread at the extremest point where it seems as if the individual had become guilty is not yet guilt. So sin comes neither as a necessity nor by chance, and therefore to the concept of sin corresponds providence.
Within Christianity the dread in relation to fate which is characteristic of paganism is found wherever spirit, though it is present, is not essentially posited as spirit. This phenomenon reveals itself clearly when one observes a genius. Genius is immediacy as such, with the subjectivity preponderating. 13 Not yet is it posited as spirit, for as such it is posited only by spirit. As "immediate" it can be spirit (in this consists the deceptive appearance which suggests that the extraordinary gifts are spirit posited bv spirit) but has then another outside of it which is not spirit, and is itself in an external relation to spirit. Therefore the genius is constantly discovering fate, and the deeper the genius, the deeper he discovers it. To spirit-lessness this of course is foolishness, but in reality it is grandeur; for no man is born with the idea of providence, and they who think that one acquires it gradually by education are greatly in error, though by this I do not mean to deny the importance of education. Genius displays its primitive might precisely in the discovery of fate, and thereby in turn displays its impotence. To the immediate spirit, which genius always is (only that it is an immediate spirit sensu eminentiori), fate is a limit. Providence is first posited in sin. Therefore the genius has a prodigious struggle to reach it. If he does not reach it, one can find in him a good subject for the study of fate.
Genius is an omnipotent "in-itself (Ansich)'* which as such would rock the world; therefore to preserve order another power comes into being along with it, and that is fate. Fate is nothing, it is the genius himself who discovers it, and the deeper his genius is, the more deeply he discovers it; for that figure is merely the anticipation of providence. If he continues to be merely a genius and does not turn back upon himself inwardly, he will accomplish astounding things, and yet he will constantly succumb before fate, if not outwardly and in a way which is tangible and visible to all, at least inwardly. Therefore'the existence of a genius is always like a tale of romantic adventure, if in the deepest sense he does not succeed in turning back into himself. The genius is able to do all things and yet is dependent upon an insignificance which nobody comprehends, an insignificance upon which the genius himself by his almighty power FATE 89 FATE 89 bestows an almighty significance. Hence a second lieutenant, if he is a genius, is able to become an emperor, to remodel the world, so that there remains only one empire and one emperor. But hence also the army may be drawn up for battle, the absolutely favorable condition may the next instant perhaps be lost, a nation of heroes may implore that the order to attack be given, but he cannot, he must wait until the fourteenth of June. And why? Because that was the date of the Battle of Marengo. Hence everything may be in readiness, he himself standing in front of the legions, waiting only for the sun to rise as a signal for the speech which is to electrify the soldiers, and the sun may rise with a splendor greater than ever, a spectacle which exalts and enflames the army — but not him, for with such splendor it did not rise at Austerlitz, and only the sun of Austerlitz gives victory and enthusiasm. Hence the inexplicable passion with which such a man can rave against a perfectly insignificant person, although usually he is able to show humanity and amiability even towards his enemies. Yea, woe to the man, woe to the woman, woe to the innocent child, woe to the beast of the field, woe to the bird whose flight, woe to the tree whose branch comes in his way at the moment when he is to take his omen.
The external fact as such means nothing to the genius, therefore no one can understand him. It all depends upon how he himself understands it in the presence of his secret friend (fate). All may be lost, the simplest man and the shrewdest may unite in dissuading him from the fruitless endeavor. The genius, however, knows that he is stronger than the whole world, provided at this point no doubtful commentary is found of the invisible writing in which he reads the will of fate. If he reads it according to his wish, then with his omnipotent voice he says to the captain of the boat, "Sail on, you are carrying Caesar and his fortune." 15 All may be won, and that same instant he receives the report, perhaps there is in it a word the significance of which no creature, not God in heaven, understands (for in a certain sense not even God understands the genius) — and with that he collapses impotently.
Genius is thus outside the general. It is great by reason of its belief in fate, whether it conquers or falls, for it conquers by itself and falls by itself, or rather both come about by fate. Commonly the man of genius is admired for his greatness only when he conquers, yet he is never greater than when he falls by his own act. This must be understood to apply to the case where fate does not declare itself in an external way. In this case, where precisely at the instant when, humanly speaking, all is won, the genius discovers the doubtful reading in the text and then collapses, one may well exclaim, "What a giant it would take to overthrow him!"
90 CHAPTER III Therefore no one could do it, except himself. The faith which subdues kingdoms and lands under his mighty hand, while men believed it was a fairy tale, this same faith overthrew him, and his fall was a still more unfathomable tale.
Hence the genius is in dread at a different point of time than men generally are. They discover danger only at the instant of danger, till then they feel secure, and when the danger is past they again feel secure. The genius is strongest in the instant of danger; on the other hand, his dread lies in the instant before and the instant after, this trembling moment when he must hold converse with that great unknown which is fate. Perhaps his dread is greatest precisely the instant after, because the impatience of certitude always increases in inverse ratio to the distance, since there is constantly more and more to lose the nearer one has come to victory, and most of all at the instant of victory, and because the consistency of fate is precisely inconsistency.
Genius as such cannot comprehend itself religiously, therefore it does not get so far as sin and providence, and for this reason it is a relation of dread to fate. Never has there existed any genius without this dread, unless at the same time it has been religious.
If genius remains immediately determined and turns outward, it becomes indeed great, and its exploits astounding, but it never comes to itself, and it never becomes great in its own eyes. All its activity is outwardly directed, but, if I may so speak, the planetar- ian nucleus from which everything radiates does not come into existence. The significance of genius for itself is null, or it is just as obviously melancholy as is the sympathy with which the inhabitants of the Faroe Islands would rejoice, if on one of these islands there lived a native Faroese who by his works in various European languages astonished all Europe, who transformed the sciences by his immortal contributions, but on the other hand never wrote a line in the language of the Faroes, and at last forgot how to speak it. To itself genius does not in the deepest sense become significant, its compass can extend no higher than the determinants of fate in relation to good luck, bad luck, glory, honor, power, undying fame, all of which are temporal determinants. Every deeper dialectical determinant of dread is excluded. The utmost would be that the genius might be regarded as guilty, in such a way that dread is not directed towards guilt but towards the appearance of it, which is a determinant of honor. This psychic state would be an appropriate one for poetic treatment. Such a condition may be the lot of any man, but the genius would grasp it so profoundly that he would not be striving with men but with the profoundest mysteries of FATE 91 existence.
That in spite of its luster and glory and significance the existence of such a genius is sin, is a truth which requires courage to understand, and one will hardly understand it before one has learned to satisfy the hunger of the wishful soul. Nevertheless it is true. Nothing is proved by the consideration that such an existence may after all be happy. One may in fact conceive of one's gifts as a means of diversion, and in realizing that effect may at no instant raise oneself above the determinants of which the temporal consists. Only through a religious reflection are genius and talent justified in the deepest sense. If one will take for example a genius like Talleyrand, it is evident that in him there was the possibility of a far deeper reflection upon life. This he avoided. He followed the determinant in him which turned outward. His much admired genius for intrigue was gloriously demonstrated. His elasticity, the saturation point of his genius (to employ a term the chemists use with reference to corrosive acids) is admired, but he belongs to the temporal. If such a genius had disdained the temporal as the immediate, had turned towards himself and towards.
92 CHAPTER III 92 CHAPTER III the divine, what a religious genius might have come out of it! But also what torments he would have had to experience! It is an alleviation in life to follow the immediate determinants, whether one be great or small, but the reward also is in proportion to the effort, whether one be great or small, and the man who is not so spiritually ripe as to comprehend that even immortal honor throughout all generations is after all only a determinant of the temporal, as to comprehend that the aspiration after this which keeps men's souls sleepless with wish and desire is something very imperfect in comparison with the immortality which is for every man and which would rightly arouse the justifiable envy of all the world, if it were reserved for only one man — he will not get far in his explanation of spirit and immortality.
§3 Dread dialectically defined in view of guilt It is commonly said that Judaism represents the standpoint of the law. This, however, may be expressed also by saying that Judaism lies in dread. But here the nothing of dread denotes something else than fate. It is in this sphere that the formula "dread — nothing" appears most paradoxical, for after all guilt is something. It is correct, nevertheless, and so long as guilt is the object of dread it is nothing. The ambiguity lies in the relation; for so soon as guilt is posited, dread is gone, and repentance is there. The relation, as it always is with dread, is sympathetic and antipathetic. This again seems paradoxical, and yet it is not; for though dread is afraid, yet it maintains a sly intercourse with its object, cannot look away from it, indeed will not, for if the individual wills this, then repentance sets in. If to one or another this may appear a difficult saying, I can do nothing about it. He who has the requisite firmness to be, if I may use the expression, a prosecuting attorney for the Deity, though not with respect to others, yet with respect to himself, will not find this saying difficult. Life moreover presents phenomena enough in which the individual in dread gazes almost desirously at guilt and yet fears it. Guilt, like the eye of the serpent, has the power to fascinate spirit.
At this point lies the truth in the Carpocratian 16 notion of attaining perfection through sin. It has truth at the instant of decision when the immediate spirit is positing itself as spirit by spirit. On the other hand, it is a blasphemy to think that the principle should be carried out in concreto.
Precisely by this fact [its dread of guilt] Judaism is further advanced GUILT 93 than Hellenism, and in this one can perceive the sympathetic factor in the relation of dread to guilt, which Judaism would not relinquish at any price for the sake of acquiring the lighter expressions of Hellenism: fate, luck, misfortune.
Dread in Judaism is dread of guilt. Guilt is a power which spreads abroad everywhere, and which yet no one in a deeper sense can understand, though it broods over existence. That which is to explain it must therefore partake of the same character [of not being understood], just as the oracle corresponded to fate. To the oracle of paganism corresponds the sacrifice of Judaism. But for this reason neither can the sacrifice be understood by anyone. Therein consists the profound tragedy of Judaism, analogous to the pagan's relation to the oracle. The Jew has recourse to the sacrifice, but that is of no help to him, for what properly must help him would be that the relation of dread to guilt was annulled [auf- gehoben] and a real relation posited. Inasmuch as this does not come to pass, the sacrifice becomes ambiguous, a fact which is expressed by its repetition, a further consequence of which would be a pure scepticism with respect to the act of sacrifice itself.
What resulted in the foregoing discussion, that only with sin is providence posited, recurs here in the form that only with sin is atonement posited; and its sacrifice is not repeated. This is not due to the outward perfection of the sacrifice, if I may so speak, but the perfection of the sacrifice corresponds to the actual situation of sin as posited. So long as the actual situation of sin is not posited, the sacrifice must be repeated. (Thus the sacrifice was in fact repeated in Catholicism, although the absolute perfection of the sacrifice is recognized.)
What has been briefly indicated here with reference to universal history is repeated within Christianity in the individualities. Here again genius evinces clearly what in less original men exists in such a way that it cannot easily be reduced to categories. By and large the genius differs from other men merely in the fact that within his historical presuppositions he consciously begins just as originally as Adam did. Every time a genius is born, existence as it were is put to the test; for he surveys and lives through all the past until he catches up with himself. The knowledge the genius has of the past is therefore entirely different from that which is offered by outlines of universal history.
That the genius may remain in his immediateness was indicated in the foregoing discussion, and the explanation that this is sin implies at the same time genuine courtesy towards genius. Every human life is planned religiously. To wish to deny this is to throw everything into confusion and 94 CHAPTER III to annul the concepts of individual, race, immortality. It is to be wished that men would bring their perspicacity to bear upon this point, for here lie very difficult problems. To say of a man who has an intriguing mind that he should be a diplomat or a detective, of one who has mimic talents for comedy that he should be an actor, of a man who has no talent at all that he should be a stoker in the Court House, is to have a very fatuous view of life, or rather to have no view at all, for all this is a matter of course. But to explain how my religious existence comes into relation with and expresses itself in my outward situation, that is the problem. But in our time who troubles himself to think of such things? — in spite of the fact that now more than ever this present life appears to be a fleeting and transitory instant. But instead of learning to grasp the eternal, one learns only to kill [chase life out of] oneself and one's neighbor with fatigue by chasing the instant. If only one can join the party, if merely on a single occasion one can lead the dance of the instant, then one has lived, then one has become the envy of the unfortunates who, though they were not born but tumbled head over heels into the world and go on tumbling, never attain this. Then one has lived! For what more is a human life worth than the brief loveliness of a young girl who has lasted uncommonly well if for one night she has enchanted the line of dancers and faded only at dawn? To consider how a religious existence penetrates and saturates the outward situation, one has no time. Even if one is not chasing with the haste of despair, one grasps only what lies nearest. In that way one becomes perhaps something great in the world. If, besides, one goes once in a while to church, then everything is superlatively good. This seems to indicate that for some individuals religion is the absolute, for others not,* and then good-night to all meaning in life. The deliberation becomes of course more difficult the more remote the task is from the religious as such. What profound religious reflection it would require to approach such an external task, for example, as that of being a comic actor! That this can be done I do not deny, for he who has some understanding of the religious knows that it is more ductile than gold and absolutely commensurable. The fault of the Middle Ages 17 was not the religious reflection but that men came to a stop too soon. Here reappears the question of repetition, that is to say, the question in what measure an individual after having begun the religious reflection can get himself back again whole from head to heel. In the Middle Ages they broke off abruptly. So, at the moment when the individual had to take himself back again, he stumbled, for example over the fact that he possessed wit, a sense for the comic, etc., then promptly annihilated all this as something GUILT 95 very imperfect. Nowadays one discovers only too easily that such a thing is foolishness, for if a man has wit and a talent for comedy, he is a Pamphilius of good fortune — and what more can a man want? Such explanations have of course not the remotest presentiment of the problem, for though men in our times are born more worldly-wise than in the old days, they are also many of them born blind so far as religion is concerned. Yet in the Middle Ages here are cases to be found in which the deliberation was carried turther. For example, when a painter interpreted his talent religiously, but this talent could not express itself in the productions which lie closest to the religious sphere, one has seen in this situation that such an artist could just as piously devote himself to painting a Venus, just as piously interpret his artistic calling as did he who helped the Church by enthralling the eyes of the congregation with the sight of heavenly beauty. However, in view of all such cases, we have yet to wait until there come forward individuals who, in spite of their outward gifts, do not choose the * Among the Greeks the question about the religious could not emerge in this form. Yet it is very pretty to read what Plato somewhere recounts and applies. 18 When Epimetheus had furnished men with all sorts of gifts, he asked Zeus whether he should now distribute the capacity to choose between good and evil the same way he had distributed the other gifts, so that one might get this capacity just as another got the gift of eloquence, another the gift of poetry, another the gift of art. But Zeus replied that this capacity should be distributed as a whole to all, because to every man alike it belonged essentially.
broad way, but rather pain and distress and dread, upon which religious minds reflect and reflect for so long a time that they lose as it were what it is only too seductive and dangerous to possess. Such a battle is indubitably very exhausting, since there will come moments when they almost regret having started upon this path, and sadly, yea, sometimes almost despairingly, they will think of the smiling path which would have stretched before them if they had followed the immediate bent of talent. Yet indubitably, in the extremest dismay of distress, when it is as though all were lost, because the path along which he would advance is impassable and the smiling path of talent is barred by his own act, the man who is attentive will hear a voice which says, "Well, my son, go for- ward nevertheless, for he who loses all gains all."
We will now consider the religious genius, that is, a genius who is not willing to stop with his immediateness. Whether he will ever get to the point of turning outwards, remains for him a subsequent question. The first thing he does is to turn towards himself. As the immediate genius had fate, so he has guilt as the figure which follows him. For by the fact that he turns towards himself he turns eo ipso towards God, and it is a 96 CHAPTER III well-established ceremonial convention that if the finite spirit would see God it must begin by being guilty. In turning towards himself he dis- covers guilt. The greater the genius, the more profoundly he discovers guilt. That to the spirit-less this is foolishness, is to me a joy and a glad token. The genius is not "as people mostly are," and he is not content with that. This is not due to disdain of men, but it is because he is primitively concerned with himself, while all other men and their explanations are no help to him.
The fact that he discovers guilt so profoundly shows that to him this concept is present sensu eminentiori, as is also its opposite, innocence. So it was with the immediate genius in relation to fate; for every man has some little relation to fate, but there it ends...in twaddle, which does not notice what Talleyrand (and Young 19 before him) discovered, and yet did not express so perfectly as twaddle does, that language exists in order to conceal thoughts — that is, to conceal the fact that one has none.
So by turning inwardly he discovers freedom. Fate he does not fear, for he lays hold of no external task, and for him freedom is his bliss, not freedom to do this or that in the world, to become king and emperor, or the exponent of popular opinion, but freedom to know of himself that he is freedom. Yet the higher an individual rises, the dearer the price he must pay for everything, and as a precautionary measure there comes into being along with this Ansich of freedom another figure, guilt. This, like fate to the pagan, is the only thing he fears, but his fear is not the fear of being thought guilty, as in the foregoing case it was as a maximum, but fear of being guilty. In the degree that he discovers freedom, in that same degree does the dread of guilt in the condition of possibility impend over him. Guilt only does he fear, for that is the one and only thing that can deprive him of freedom. It is easily seen that freedom is not defiance by any means, or the selfish liberty understood in a finite sense. By such an assumption [that of liberum arbitrium] the effort has often been made to explain the origin of sin. That, however, is labor lost, for the assumption of such a presupposition presents a greater difficulty than that which it would explain. When freedom is so interpreted, its opposite is necessity, which shows that freedom has been construed under an intellectual category. No, the opposite of freedom is guilt, and it is the supreme glory of freedom that it has only with itself to do, that it projects guilt in its possibility and also posits it by itself, and if guilt is posited actually, freedom still posits it by itself. If one does not give heed to this, then one has confounded freedom with something entirely different, with force.
GUILT 97 When freedom then fears guilt, it is not that it fears to recognize itself as guilty, if it is guilty, but it fears to become guilty, and therefore, so soon as guilt is posited, freedom comes back again as repentance. But meanwhile freedom's relation to guilt is a possibility. Here genius shows itself again by not leaping away from the primitive decision, by not seeking the decision outside itself with Tom, Dick and Harry, by not being content with the usual haggling. Only by itself can freedom learn to know whether it is freedom or guilt which is posited. There is nothing therefore more ludicrous than to assume that the question whether one is a sinner and guilty belongs under the rubric: lesson to be learned verbatim.
The relation of freedom to guilt is dread, because freedom and guilt are still a possibility. But when freedom is thus with all its wishful passion staring at itself, and would keep guilt at a distance so that not a jot of it might be found in freedom, it is not able to refrain from staring at guilt, and this staring is the ambiguity of dread, just as the very act of renunciation within possibility is a yearning.
Here then is the place where it appears clearly enough in what sense there is a "more" in the dread of the later individual in comparison with the dread of Adam.* Guilt in this case is a more concrete notion, which in the relation of possibility to freedom becomes more and more possible. At last it is as if the guilt of the whole world united to make him guilty, or in other words, as if by becoming guilty he became guilty of the guilt of the whole world. Guilt has, it is true, the dialectical characteristic that it is not transferable, but he who becomes guilty becomes guilty of that "by and with" which guilt was occasioned, for guilt never has an external occasion, and he who falls into temptation is himself guilty of the temptation.
In the situation of possibility this [dread] manifests itself in the form of illusion, but so soon as repentance breaks forth with the actual sin, dread has the actual sin as its object. With respect to the possibility of freedom it holds good that the more profoundly guilt is discovered, the greater is the genius; for man's greatness depends solely upon the energy of the God-relationship irTT A r even tHougirthis-CjbcFrelationship finds an altogether erroneous expression as fate.
So then* just as fate at last catches the immediate genius, and this is in reality his culminating instant, not therefore the glittering outward realization which amazes men and even calls artisans from their daily occupations to gape, but the instant when by himself he collapses before himself by fate; so does guilt catch the religious genius, and this is the instant of culmination, the instant when he is strongest, not the instant 98 CHAPTER III when the sight of his piety is like the festivity of a solemn day of rest, but when by himself he sinks before himself into the abyss of the consciousness of sin.
* However, one must not forget that here the analogy is inexact, inasmuch as in the case of the later individual it is not with innocence we have to do, but with the repressed consciousness of sin.
The Dread in Sin, or Dread' as v the Consequence of Sin in the Particular Individual y the qualitative leap sin came into the world, and in this way it is continually coming into it. One might think that so soon as sin is posited dread would be annulled, dread having been defined as iom's appearance before itself in possibility. The qualitative leap is indeed reality, and by this, as it seems, possibility must be annulled, and dread, too. However, such is not the case. In the first place, reality is not just one single factor; in the secohd place, the reality here posited is an illegitimate reality. So dread comes back again in relation to what was posited and in relation to the future. Now, however, dread has a definite object, its nothing is now really something, since the difference between good and evil* is posited in concreto, and dread therefore ♦The problem, What is the good? is a problem which comes closer and closer to our age, because it is of decisive importance for the question about the relation between Church and State and morals. In making answer to that question one must be cautious. Hitherto "the true" has, strangely enough, enjoyed a position of pre- eminence, owing to the fact that the trilogy: the true, the beautiful, the good, was interpreted and presented...in the true, i.e. the understanding. The good cannot be defined. The good is freedom. The first distinction between good and evil is for and in freedom, and this distinction is never in abstracto but always in concreto. Hence for one who is not thoroughly conversant with the Socratic method it proves disturbing that by Socrates the good, this apparently infinite abstraction, is instantly applied to the most concrete cases. The method is perfectly correct, except that he did amiss (to the Greek way of thinking he did rightly) in conceiving the good from its outward side (the useful, the finitely teleological). The distinction between good and evil certainly exists for freedom, but not in abstracto. The misunderstanding at this point is due to the fact that freedom is commonly conceived as something other than it is, namely, as an object of thought. But freedom is never in abstracto. If one would grant freedom an instant to make a choice between good and evil, without being itself in either of the two positions, then precisely at that instant freedom is not freedom but a meaningless reflection. And to what end does this experiment serve except to confuse? In case (sit venia verbo) freedom remains in the good, it knows nothing at all of the evil. In this sense one may say of God (if anyone would misunderstand me, it is not my fault) that He knows nothing of evil. By this I do not mean to say that the