Here under follows the transcription of the chapter Plato of Houston Stewart Chamberlain's Immanuel Kant, published by John Lane, The Bodley Head, 1914.

 Immanuel Kant

IMMANUEL KANT

From the painting by Döbler in the Todtenkopflage at Koenigsberg, reproduced by kind permission of the Berlin Photographic Company


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The original text in German: Immanuel Kant
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See also the reviews of this book:
Kant in the 20th century. Review in the London Times Literary Supplement, 1914
Kritische Urteile über Chamberlain's Kant. Collection of reviews in german, 1909
 


VOLUME I page
INTRODUCTORY 3
GOETHE 13
LEONARDO 101
DESCARTES 197
BRUNO 311




VOLUME II
PLATO 3
KANT 169
NOTES 415
INDEX 513

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IMMANUEL KANT
A STUDY AND A COMPARISON
WITH GOETHE, LEONARDO DA VINCI,
BRUNO, PLATO AND DESCARTES BY
HOUSTON STEWART CHAMBERLAIN
AUTHORISED TRANSLATION
FROM THE GERMAN BY
LORD REDESDALE, G.C.V.O., K.C.B.
WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY THE
TRANSLATOR, IN TWO VOLUMES
WITH EIGHT PORTRAITS. VOLUME II
 

LONDON: JOHN LANE THE BODLEY HEAD
NEW YORK: JOHN LANE COMPANY
TORONTO: BELL & COCKBURN MCMXIV

vi

WILLIAM BRENDON AND SON, LTD., PRINTERS, PLYMOUTH

vii

CONTENTS


page
PLATO. WITH AN EXCURSUS ON THE ESSENCE OF LIFE 3
KANT. SCIENCE AND RELIGION. WITH AN EXCURSUS ON THE “THING IN ITSELF
169
NOTES
  GOETHE 417
  LEONARDO 425
  DESCARTES 435
  BRUNO 451
  PLATO 468
  KANT 493
INDEX
513

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ILLUSTRATIONS
 
IMMANUEL KANT
From the painting by Döbler in the Todtenkopflage at Koenigsberg, reproduced by kind permission of the Berlin Photographic Company.
Frontispiece
PLATO
(Three Greek Gems in the British Museum).
Face p. 3

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IMMANUEL KANT

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PLATO

WITH AN EXCURSUS ON THE ESSENCE OF LIFE
 
  From the Gods a gift to the human
race; thus should I reckon the gift
of seeing the one in the many.

Plato.

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Plato. Three Greek gems in the British Museum.


PLATO
Three Greek Gems in the British Museum



PLATO
AT last the threads that we have been spinning in our previous lectures run together into warp and woof. I had to start with the Goethe lecture in order to speak of “ideas“ so that my meaning should be perceived: without the Leonardo lecture, — in which I endeavoured to draw an accurate distinction between that which is “pure“ and that which is “empirical,“ and consequently between mathematical natural science, and artistic intuition of nature, I could hardly have attained a consideration of the true Plato, in the face of so many deeply rooted misunderstandings which had to be swept away: the Descartes lecture is adapted to lay the foundation of the present lecture, as teaching the importance of the dualistic method of observation for all criticism of the human intellect, of which it, at the same time, furnishes you with a plastic conception; finally, the Bruno lecture has laid down once for all the difference between dogmatism and criticism, so that we know where to seek for Plato and where not.
    Towards the close of the lecture, when we shall know Plato better, we shall return to these heroes of our earlier lectures: for the moment I must content myself with these brief hints, only calling your attention to a special relation between the different lectures in order that you may from the very outset correctly grasp the distinguishing feature of the goal in view.
    It will have struck you that we have made very varying use of the personalities which we have brought

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forward for our purposes of comparison. In the Goethe lecture it was the personality itself, with its physical properties reaching into the very volutes of the brain, that we placed in contrast with the Sage of Königsberg and his individual capacities: Leonardo, on the contrary, possessed for our purpose rather a general than an individual importance, and helped us to fix more exactly the points that Kant has in common with Goethe, as well as those in which their modes of perception differ. In Descartes it was once more the personality which held us, but not so much, as in Goethe, by way of contrast or in opposition to that of Kant, but because it opened up for us an access to the labyrinthine depths of Kantian thought, — while, on the other hand, Bruno served as the sharply stamped type of a numerous tribe of thinkers who stand as the very antipodes of Kant. Now we must introduce the lens by which we may collect these various rays and focus them upon the burning point of our interest, Immanuel Kant. For in Plato we, for the first time, meet a man whose genius and whose “mode of seeing,“ inborn and developed to perfection through a whole life of incessant thinking, are almost exactly in harmony with Kant. If we had singled out Plato earlier, we should not rightly have understood him: all that we have in the meanwhile done for Kant is equally of value in his case; but if we were to leave him out now I should despair of being able to add the indispensable sharpness of outline to the plastic picture of Kant's intellectual personality, of which the general features should now be clearly before you. Plato alone can serve this end. With reference to the great central fact, namely the awakening of the human intellect to critical consideration of itself, the two men are identical: Kant occupies the same relation to Plato as Copernicus did to Aristarchus: yet at the same time, as you will presently see more exactly, they stand in relation to one another as two

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counterparts, two pendants. It is the same thing, but seen from opposite sides like the obverse and reverse of a medal. Where Kant with great pains develops a final abstraction which few only are capable of attaining, Plato boldly gives a picture which may be grasped palpably: whereas for Kant all criticism of reason leads to negation and limitation, Plato presents it in principle in the shape of an affirmative and limitless recognition. Of course, on that very account, Plato has in all ages been even more misunderstood than Kant; but we need not trouble ourselves here about the organic incompetence of many, even gifted men, to understand Plato, and you no doubt guess what an important revelation it must be to be able to see this critical intellectual disposition and its effects from both sides, from the obverse and from the reverse; from the conventional individual it seems as remote as the conception of the earth's motion. Every step which we take in the understanding of Plato is a direct help to the understanding of Kant; in order to put matters right we shall have later, as it were, to turn the medal round here and there, but that will cost little trouble; the only difficulty lies in grasping the central, creative thought which is common to Plato and Kant, and which springs from their personal method of seeing: we shall succeed more easily with Plato than with Kant.
    So much by way of preliminary explanation.
    Here, as in the Goethe lecture, it will be advisable to attack the comparison from outside. In great men the outer fits the inner, and their character is more exactly mirrored in their face than is the case with others. What I indicated above as the tendency of the one man to affirm and of the other to deny, is rooted indeed in their physical form. Kant is a small, weakly man with a sunken chest, who, thanks to his moderation and an almost anxious carefulness, was able to reach an advanced old age in tolerable health: Plato, on the contrary,

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whose real name was Aristocles, earned the surname of Platon in the wrestling school, on account of his extraordinary size and strength. That this nickname of the ring should have stuck to the man for all time, and have supplanted his true name, testifies to the admiration in which his rare, handsome figure was unanimously held by the world. He was not only big and strong; even his enemies, and he had many, praise his beauty, his symmetry, his height. That a Greek of such powerful build should over and over again have appeared in the public athletic competitions, and more than once have gained the wreath of victory, will not astonish you, even though it should be little in harmony with our present idea of the career of a philosopher. He seems to have taken part as a cavalry officer in several campaigns, furnishing his men and horses at his own expense. For in addition to his bodily advantages Plato was also favoured by birth. Kant, the son of a poor saddler in a small provincial town, passes two-thirds of his life in very necessitous circumstances; even as a student he was compelled to earn his bread by giving lessons, and it was only by painfully self-sacrificing economy and daily self-denial that towards the close of his life he was able to realise a modest independence. Plato, on the contrary, belongs by birth to the great and wealthy nobility of the headquarters of culture in the world of those days, and traces his pedigree both on his father's and on his mother's side to kingly ancestors: from these exalted forebears he inherits wide estates administered by honest slaves: he knows nothing of care for daily bread, or of any business or professional duties: never in his life has he been under any constraint for a single day: he travels whither he chooses and comes home when it pleases him; he is without wants so far as material enjoyment is concerned, because it is his pleasure to take independence of wants as a philosophical maxim of life, and yet he is no

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ascetic, for he himself teaches that we should neither starve nor satiate bodily desire (το επιθυμητικον), nor does he deny himself the comforts of life surrounded by beautiful works of art and parchments: in his own house and garden he teaches those who love wisdom (philosophers), but for the sake of the Muses, that is to say, without any fee. Kant, as you will remember from our first lecture, never left Königsberg and its immediate neighbourhood: Plato travelled in Egypt, in North Africa and Italy, and several times visited Sicily as the guest of the Prince of Syracuse. Last, but not least, where the one from his cradle to his grave had the grey Baltic the other had the blue Mediterranean, the sun, a lush and balmy vegetation, everything that can inspire the senses and make them fruitful. And whilst Kant towards the end of his life fell into a sort of senile atrophy, was compelled to give up all public activity, no longer left his house, and ended by losing perfect mastery of speech, we hear of Plato, who, like Kant, lived exactly to the age of eighty, that to his last day he taught and wrote (scribens mortuus est, says Cicero), and the unanimous testimony of his contemporaries asserts that it was at a wedding feast which he honoured by his presence, that he unexpectedly, suddenly, but softly and smilingly fell asleep.
    How different were the fates of the two thinkers! Plato's nature and fortune so differently shaped, corresponded naturally with a different temperament and in many ways different gifts. Most especially remarkable in this connection, and as a contrast to Kant, is the passionate longing of the heart, and the lofty poetical flight.
    You must not believe that a man gifted as Kant was, a man out of whose eye, “formed by the aether of heaven,“ a “ray of fire beamed,“ did not carry love and passion in his heart. Women liked him: he was no misogynist:

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even in his old age he invited pretty maidens to be his neighbours at table: 1 perhaps we should have known more upon this subject had not his bashful gentle feelings caused him anxiously to avoid it; never even to his most intimate friends did he ever speak of love. Still, the attentive reader will find here and there in his writings passages which yield a deep insight into a heart loving and needing love, but almost over-sensitive. The following, for instance, can only have been taught him by his own original experience, “a very refined taste serves, it is true, to rob a passionate inclination of its wildness, and since it confines it to very few objects, to make it modest and mannerly: but it generally misses the great ultimate purpose of nature, and since it demands or expects more than this as a rule affords, so it very seldom makes a person of such delicate sensibility happy. ... Thence comes procrastination and, finally, complete renunciation of matrimonial ties“: the following passage is also worthy of remark in this connection: “many a man is prized too high for love to be possible. He inspires admiration; but he is too far above us for us to dare to approach him with the intimacy of love.“ 2 Here again, as you see, the negative outweighs all else: what Kant feels the most clearly is the unattainable in love, — it is only its “delicate magic“ that he feels, whereas at other times he fails to discover much more in it than a silly and coarse sensation. Out of this hesitating, gloomy, over-delicate temperament comes the want of those creative powers which are of one essence with the creative love-power. As an old professor Kant did indeed compose a few lame, dull verses in honour of dead colleagues: custom so willed it. He would certainly not have wished that such occasional twaddle should be torn from the oblivion into which it fell on the day of its birth; but nowhere do we detect in him anything which would betray any artistic impulse, inclination or, even

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interest. Do not imagine that I am regretting that this great thinker has not, outside of his philosophical writings, left us a legacy of bad epics or pastoral songs: I am only concerned with the analysis of his intellect, and I think that I may safely affirm that when a man is lacking in all passion of the senses and in any trace of giftedness in art, whether poetry or music or plastic art, — he will also give evidence of characteristic shortcomings in his creative power in other domains, though they may be patently remote. Plato shall serve as my authority — Plato who holds the power of production of the soul to be identical in its essence with the power of production of the body (Symposium, 208 E — 209 A), and who therefore extols the “delusion of love“ as the richest gift of happiness (ευτυχια) from the Gods to men (Phaedrus, 245 B), and therefore warns us against allowing ourselves to be persuaded by fine speeches into the belief that the dry pedant is in all cases to be preferred to the inspired and ecstatic man; rather is (μανια) delusion born of the gods, while mere understanding (σωφροσυνη) is only a human virtue (Phaedrus, 244 D). “The man who thinks that he can become an artist by Art alone, without having been gripped by the frenzy of the Muses (μανια Μουσων), will always remain outside before the door, and the work of this intelligent person will remain as a shadow beside that of the man who is torn by frenzy.“ Frenzy of love, frenzy of the Muses: 3 the two, according to Plato, constitute the high school of Seeing, and also of recognition: for recognition essentially consists in a “Seeing of scattered impressions combined into one visible shape.“ 4 Rightly then has the English scholar and refined poet, Walter Pater, pointed to the passion of love as the central point of Plato's character. “Plato is by nature and before all things, from first to last, unalterably a lover; and as love must of necessity deal above all with visible persons, this discipline of love (τα εροτικα

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as he says) involved an exquisite culture of the senses.“ 5 That love and seeing hang together Plato over and over again maintains, in the Symposium, the Phaedrus, and also elsewhere — and from this fact spring two admirable peculiarities which amongst all philosophical writings are only to be found in Plato; the first of these is that Plato breathes personality into all thoughts: the second is that his art, — which sees the most delicate colouring and the darkest shadows of things, accompanied by the mastery which embodies in a word-picture the most fleeting vision, enables him to handle, as if it had been seen, the invisible, that which is hardly even attainable by thought, so that we think that our own eyes must see it, if not to-day, at any rate, to-morrow. 6 Love, love which is one with the Μανια Μουσων, the frenzy of Art, is in Plato's estimation the indispensable first rung of the ladder in all wisdom; man must first recognise as beautiful one visible form and by it be kindled to love, then must come another, and yet another, until the single beauty pales in his eyes as something relatively incomplete, and so he must rise higher and higher, “as it were step by step“ (ωσπερ επαναβαθμοις), until his heart has become broad enough and strong enough to embrace all beautiful forms with love; out of this artistic glow there arises at last a true knowledge (μαθημα) of Things, and out of this again the recognition of that which beauty is in itself (αυτο ο εστι καλον); and when the man has climbed to this lofty stage, then a God seizes him by the hand and leads him to where “he sees something of the truth,“ where he begins to have a premonition “of the true essence of Being,“ as though the recollection of it rose out of an old, long since vanished dream. “Here at last, oh! beloved Socrates, life becomes worth living.“ 7
    You see what a different sphere of perception we have reached. It is true that Plato, who had started in life as a writer of dithyrambics and a tragic poet, very soon

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destroyed all the children of his Muse: for it was in early youth that he met Socrates, and his passionate ardour and artistic inspiration were turned in other directions: the victorious athlete, the stage poet who had already handed in his trilogy to the judges, felt his true vocation: he was to think for the benefit of decades of centuries, he was to be the great teacher of self-introspection. But the fiery glow remained; that alone enabled him to throw off the dreams of his youth, and to seize upon the calling of his manhood with such passionate determination. The fire which he no longer wasted upon beloved individuals, and the “frenzy of the Muses“ which he no longer allowed to seduce him to the creations of phantasy, passed with all its power into his philosophical life's-work, and in it sowed the seed of immortality.
    Christian misunderstandings of many centuries, and the lifeless schematisations of our professional teachers, have led us moderns to consider Plato as a sort of despiser of the senses, as a world-shunning ascetic, and as the inventor of an unnatural, negative species of love miscalled “platonic“; the ancients, on the contrary, treated him with a wonderful and unique honour, by identifying him with Dionysus (Bacchus), the god of wine, of intoxication, of fatherhood, of growth. An ideal likeness in which the representation of the divinity was blended with the portrait of the philosopher, known as the Dionysoplato, as statue, gem, or intaglio, was common in all countries into which Hellenic culture had penetrated. Heinrich von Stein wrote finely about it, — “Oh! happy Hellenes, that it was possible for you to win for yourselves such a man from the essence of life, to allow this eye full of knowledge, smiling, to rest upon Things! The Greek artist, to express all this, portrayed a handsome drunken man: inspired by noble wine, half tired, half pensive, his head and his glance droop.... The artist portrayed

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him, the drunken man, as beautiful, and at the same time august.“ 8 Plato in his philosophical writings more than once did honour to wine; as an old man full of days he praises it as a “balsam“ which Dionysus gave to men “against the bitterness of years in order that the old might forget their tears and win back their lost youth“; yet all this would not suffice to arouse in the consciousness of the people such a striking representation as this combination of Plato-Dionysus; for wine has also been praised by many others, and indeed in songs which were sung everywhere, but the Symposium and the Laws can only have been known to a limited number of daring thinkers. Such things always take root in the direct impression which the living personality presents, and in the sure instinct which enables the impersonal multitude to recognise the essential in great personalities, together with the talent of concentrating their feeling into a picture.
    What chiefly characterises Plato is his creative power: Aristotle goes against his master almost word for word, and yet the whole of Aristotle, that is to say, every single creative thought of Aristotle, is contained in Plato and taken from Plato: that can now be irrefutably proved; that the long series of the anti-Aristotelian neo-Platonists equally have their whole being in Plato, and weave their systems out of single threads torn from him, — is a matter upon which it is not necessary to dwell. But this creative power is far more important and active, where it has been at work for more than two thousand years, unrecognised and without the author's name. For Plato is not only the fountain-head of almost all European philosophers of the most various tendencies: he is not only the man who first made method in thinking and investigation possible, and the inventor of a conception of logic and mathematics reaching so far beyond the Aristotelian scheme that we are only now beginning to understand his pre-

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monitions in the light of the higher mathematics; 9 he is not merely so masterful an inventor in the art of speech, that to this day we could not dispense with the conceptions first coined by him of Idea, System, Theory, Hypothesis, Method, Problem, Phantasy, Diagnosis, Analogy, Criterium, Anomaly, and a hundred others (not to mention many admirable words which unfortunately have not yet passed into our language); 10 but Plato, not Aristotle, is also the true founder of natural science: he taught us to SEE, he taught us to group forms in genera and to distinguish them as species, — not that he carried out the practical development of this, but the thought itself of the grouping and the distinguishing is his, it is his invention; and this invention could only have been the work of one who at every point recognised invention in the human intellect as the peculiar function of that organism.
    I can say no more at present. Few people suspect how much we are indebted to the creative power of Plato: by the time we reach the end of this lecture we shall have gone deeper into the question. Here was great inventive and creative power, nameless, seldom to be grasped with hands, everywhere fertilising the intellect, fighting the whole jumble of paragraphs and rubrics, but in every place eloquent or silent as might serve the case: and it was this power which made the people recognise and honour a Dionysian nature in Plato. We of later generations have only the writings, they knew the man himself by experience. “It is silly,“ says Plato, “to believe that we can leave anything behind us in writings, or take in anything in writings. The living word alone is inspired with soul, the written word is only its shadowed image“ (Phaedrus, 275 C, 276 A). How creative must Plato's living presence have been! “Love, oh Socrates, is not, as thou fanciest, only the love for a beautiful form, but love is above all the love of a form to be newly

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created out of the beautiful. For the mortal being conceals an immortal part: the power to create; and so all love makes for immortality. Some, that they may be immortal, rear up children; others whose creative power lies more in the soul than in the body, create works of the intellect, and so become creators of thoughts, of poems, and of every art which springs out of invention“ (Symposium, 206-9). How positive and how productive all this is! Love for the beautiful is the road to wisdom: creation in the beautiful is the road to immortality. The works of the intellect are only such as are created by love and strength, only those in which creative invention has been the informing power.
    The contradistinction to Immanuel Kant is patent; it would be a pity to make it more sharply evident by further insistence. But here we are in the same position as we were in the contrast between Kant and Goethe. At first everything seemed very simple and clear: Goethe all eye, Kant devoid of eye, — Goethe all perception, Kant all abstraction: then it dawned upon us that this first impression, though founded on irrefutable truths, was still superficial. Yet the human soul is apt to be a very complicated affair, and it is just those features which lie half hidden in the depths, the features which the man who merely vouchsafes a glance in passing does not see, which lend to a personality its special and individual character. You will remember that Kant possessed a pre-eminent, if at the same time quite peculiar, power of perception, and the unexpected inference would be that his theoretical views with reference to nature are palpably perceptible, whereas Goethe's remain hovering between that which is seen and that which is thought. Later on we had many opportunities of laying stress upon the great significance of perception in Kant — even in his critique of recognition; we recognise him as the declared enemy of all purely abstract thought

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which turns its back upon perception. Just so you may now look upon Plato — the man intoxicated with beauty, the man caught by the Dionysian frenzy of creation, — not simply as a contrast to and contradiction of Kant. I have already brought out the fact that in many things he stands very near to Kant, and I shall at once dwell further upon that; but I think that you will gain no small advantage, if precisely here, where Plato appears as the antipodes of Kant, you are stimulated through this very Plato to search after features in Kant which might otherwise have remained hidden. Here is the opportunity to use Plato as a magnifying glass. To be sure, the bitterest satire would never draw a comparison between Kant and Dionysus: but we may ask ourselves honestly, was there ever a Teuton in modern times for whom we could claim such a comparison? Even in the popular figure of speech, Apollo-Goethe, there is something which smacks of ridicule. Where there is a distinct boundary-line between two cultures we gain nothing by arbitrarily wiping it out. On the other hand, Kant, if not like Plato an aristocrat and slave-owner, but the simple son of a saddler, is a pattern of the gentlest, proudest, most tactful distinction: in his truthfulness, — in his inviolable pride which defies even the anger of a king, — in his modesty of life and thought, — in his strictness with himself, — in the contentedness which only covets the freedom of the soul, — a new ideal rises before us: it is for us to do honour to such a man as fittingly as the Greeks did to Plato, and that means with just as startlingly bold a look through the outer shell into the inmost being. It was in trifles that the passionateness of Kant's nature, otherwise so well kept in check, betrayed itself. Read with care the accounts of his contemporaries, especially Wasianski's incomparable little book: Kant could not bear people who ate and drank little, he never invited them a second time: he was of indescribable impatience if the servant

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did not bring what was wanted at once: if he charged a friend with a commission, “yes“ for an answer was not enough: it must be “certainly, at once,“ and then Kant would express his thanks with “oh! that is delightful“: he only liked blatant military music, and was impatient because on one occasion at a funeral celebration dirges had been introduced, for he held that in such circumstances heroic sounds should proclaim what is an accomplishment, and the victory over death: in the helpless weakness of his old age he was once, as he sat alone in his room, startled by a thief, but rushed at him with such violence that the thief took to his heels. Kant was in no wise taciturn and gloomy, but, on the contrary, gay and conversational: Schiller, in a letter to Goethe, rightly called him a gay and jovial spirit. A witness above all suspicion, Herder, his bitter opponent who had been his pupil from 1762 to 1764, writes of him. “Kant had the frolicsome merriment of a youngster — his open brow built for thinking was the seat of gaiety, and the most agreeable talk, most rich in thought flowed from his chatty mouth. Fun and wit and humour were at his command ... his public lecture was like a delightful entertainment.“ 11 Jachmann, who knew Kant twenty years later, tells us that “in society he was sometimes so attractively amusing and witty, that his words were like flashes of lightning playing in the cloudless sky.“ And the man who of all others had the longest and most intimate intercourse with Kant, Motherby, a dry English merchant, said that Kant would often speak en petit comité as if he were “inspired by some heavenly power,“ and that by this power of the spoken word he “bound all hearts to him for ever.“ Behind the Kant, as the world of to-day sees him, there stands another Kant whom we have all of us hitherto ignored; think of Kant born by a chance of fate in other surroundings and other circumstances of fortune — something like those of Plato;

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his character would have come to the front with far greater freedom and simplicity. I look upon Kant's much talked of exaggerated pedantic punctilio as a reaction of the Will against temperament. Compulsion is the prominent character of our modern social civilisation: the man who feels a powerful need for soul-freedom will often grasp at the isolating means of an iron self-conquest, of a spasmodic contraction of self; he will meet compulsion with compulsion. We shall even, on closer observation, discover in Kant the glow of inspiration, the “delusion“ which meant to Plato the first step of every true recognition, however much Kant may defend himself against it in his writings, ever declaring his mistrust of all such enthusiasm. Wasianski, for instance, tells the following story. One cool summer when there were few insects about, Kant had several times seen young unfledged swallows lying dead on the ground; astonished at the recurrence of this, he watched carefully, and became aware that it was the parent birds, who, seeing that the means of nourishment would be insufficient for the whole brood, condemned a certain number to death and so made certain of adequate vigour for the others. “Full of amazement, Kant said: 'My imagination stood still; there was nothing left for it but to fall down and worship.' The lofty reverence that glowed in his noble face, the tone of the voice, the folding of his hands, the enthusiasm which accompanied these words, — it was all unique.“ 12 That was no dry mechanical view of nature, and so far as the conception of the moral being of man is concerned, Kant in his fortieth year declared in an unfortunately little noticed writing, Versuch über die Krankheiten des Kopfes (enquiry into the diseases of the brain): “Never has anything been accomplished in the world without enthusiasm.“ So soon as your hearing shall have been sharpened for the purpose, you will hear that rustle of the wings without

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which no man since Plato has been able to soar up into the true love of wisdom, and to no one more than to Kant are those words applicable which Plato adds in the same passage: “the masses do not see that the philosopher is inspired.“ 13
    Here is the place to add a few words about Kant's style and speech.
    Kant is not, like Plato, a poet: he does not start with dithyrambic odes and tragedies, and the sense of the drama and the picturesque which distinguished Plato to the end are for ever wanting in him. Rarely indeed does his language rise to pathetic tones and oratorical brilliancy; it hardly ever happens except where Duty is the subject of his talk: here indeed we feel the passionate heartbeat, but hardly anywhere else. The observation of the similes which he employs leads us nearer to the personal advantages of the Kantian style: these are for the most part original, and have such a special force of perceptibility that they pour a flood of light on very remote tracts of thought; you need only think of the focus imaginarius in our first lecture, and on the sphere of the world in our third; images chosen with equal happiness crop up in him at every moment. But what constitutes the prominent peculiarity of his style is clearness. I am well aware that many deeply learned men and many sensitive souls will shrug their shoulders at the assertion that Kant wrote with exceptional clearness; I am content with Goethe's judgment as warranting my own personal feeling; “nothing is so clear as Kant,“ he remarked to Cousin, and in conversation with Schopenhauer he remarked, “when I read a page of Kant I feel as if I were stepping into a brilliant room.“ 14 Here we are dealing with something special: but I am at a loss to know how to describe it otherwise than by merely pointing to Goethe's word, — “a brilliant room.“ Goethe does not say a beautifully built room, or a finely decorated room,

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he says, “a brilliant room,“ — a room in which one sees clearly. Kant's style is indeed a pure white light without colour, and as such it faithfully mirrors back the personality; le style est l'homme même. A Schopenhauer has all the colours on his palette; his philosophy is a painting; Kant, on the contrary, sets before himself almost exactly the same aim as the author of a book on Physics; to represent the phenomena simply and without circumlocution, to analyse them, to reveal their laws, to show the systematic connection. In what is it that the learned physicist excels the uninstructed layman? Essentially that he observes better what takes place in nature, and sees it more correctly: he sees more, he sees more keenly, and inasmuch as he sees combinations that another does not suspect, he arrives at something which we should be justified in calling “enchanted Seeing.“ Precisely the same are Kant's method and Kant's aim. Rhetoric inspires him with distrust: “eloquence,“ he says, “is an art of cheating by a beautiful sham“; it diminishes “the freedom of judgment“; 15 in the same way he warns us that it is impermissible “on all sides to put perception in the place of the ordered reflection of the understanding and reason,“ that leads to fanaticism, and this method, even when treated by genius, “is lacking in the dryness, and watchfulness, and cold-bloodedness of the power of judgment.“ There you have the programme of his style chosen with true circumspection: — dry, watchful, cold-blooded. It is the same as with life: self-mastery, self-compression. Such a programme means a fundamental resignation of all attempt at producing artistic form: even should the mania of Plato have a home in the heart of the thinker, it still must have no voice. Yet in the hands of genius these principles of style, though united with great and undeniable shortcomings, result in two important properties: a synoptical structure of the Whole, — sharp, un-

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questionable simplicity of meaning in Detail: and out of these two properties there arises that rare and special clearness which Goethe found to be the characteristic of Kant's writings, and that “living manner of expression“ which Jacob Grimm extolled in them. Here it is that the properties of style project beyond speech. People might fight, hate, anathematise, misunderstand Kant's philosophy, but there was no escape from its architectonic omnipotence; to-day all men of culture, even those who know no word of German, philosophise in the conceptions which Kant either coined or converted, and in the schemes which he created. And you will surely admit that such architectonic power is that of a creator, and one nearly related to that of the poet, at any rate as the Greeks understood the word poietes; it belongs to that which Plato called a procreation of thoughts, of poems, and of all art. In the art of architectonics, Kant masterfully overtops the Greek critic of recognition; here it is He that is the poet, and indeed one of the greatest.
    But a stately building needs finely worked ashlar, and the clearness of which Goethe speaks could never have been achieved had not Kant been at the same time in his own fashion a master of the word. I purposely say the word, not the sentence; for in Kant the sentence is mostly clumsy and not seldom ugly: but in the use of words, on the contrary, Kant is as great a master as he is in the arrangement of the whole. Here Kant and Plato meet again; both belong to the really great, epoch-making Lords of Language. In his Geschichte der Philosophischen Terminologie (p. 141), Eucken says, “Here, in Kant, there is such essentially new creation, that all that follows him must start from what he has achieved.“ It is worth while in this connection to observe Plato and Kant at work.
    Plato reflects much upon the essence of language: he will not indeed content himself with the myth of a divine

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origin, for that he considers would be a subterfuge like the Deus ex machina of the tragic poets; yet this instrument of thought must remain sacred and unfathomable (cf. Kratylos, 425). On one occasion he warns us against “the habit which people have of using words now in one sense and now in another, causing in this way the most manifold confusion,“ and yet a few pages further on he lifts his voice no less impressively against the “too precise definition of the meanings of words,“ for the man who attempts that becomes “the slavish subject of the word“ (ανελευθερος), whereas in the use of language a noble freedom is appropriate. Even so he does not invent words out of his inner consciousness, but he breathes a new life into known and much-used words. This is a symbolical proceeding, which means a proceeding born of the spirit of language, since all language is at the outset symbolical. One circle works itself round another without the centre being moved. Take, for instance, the word hypo-thesis. Up to Plato's time it had meant, something placed under, something that carried, a support, a pedestal: now it means the acceptation from which the contemplative mind starts, whether it be to co-ordinate the visible phenomena of nature, or whether it be to soar until it finds beyond nature something transcendent and unconditioned, that is to say, needing no further explanation, the anhypothetic as Plato calls it. Here we have communicated to us a newly discovered fact of the intellect: in this one word a whole philosophical system is conceived by implication; for it had never occurred to any thinker in Greece that we men could either reach “downwards“ to nature or “upwards“ to the conceptions of reason, without making some preconceived assumption, without establishing a support, which should serve in Plato's words as “a step and a spring-board.“ Here we stand in the midst of a deep critique of recognition, — how deep you may gather from the fact

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that Plato also holds up Ideas as hypotheses which a man must “each time take as a basis,“ — υποθεμενος εκαστοτε λογον — from which his thoughts may range upwards and downwards (Phaedo, 100 A and 101 D). So plastic are Plato's words, so inexhaustibly rich in suggestion! From every one of the philosophical expressions introduced by him, modestly founded on colloquial language, thoughts radiate as it were in all directions, and the man who has assimilated the most important of these expressions livingly, that is to say, in the “noble freedom“ of a personal and many-sided being, — that man really possesses Plato in all fullness; the words are not dumb signposts, they are the way itself, hewn out of the primeval forest by Genius. If, however, to complete the picture, you wish to have some experience of the opposite of what you have seen here, that is to say, the poverty of language, take up Aristotle, who defines hypothesis as an uncertain acceptation in contradistinction to a certain one! The fact discovered by critical reflection, that every human thought-structure, whether in relation to the empirical world or to the world of pure thought, rests upon supports which we must take as basis, — this fact falls to the ground, and fades from our sight; Aristotle, that admirable but uncritical brain, of whom Natorp, the best living authority, dared to say that he must have misunderstood Plato in every single statement, 16 — never knew or suspected what “hypothesis“ meant for Plato; indeed, no one can know it unless, like the mountaineer in our last lecture, he has climbed high enough, and then turned round: and so in Aristotle's hands all those glorious words were paled into abstractions, in which shape they have mostly come down to us. Kant, however, is a worthy follower of Plato; he takes endless care in the choice of his words: he breathes new life into them and indeed takes pains to preserve images that have already been coined in philosophy, but which “are lost under

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the heap of others of widely different significance,“ so that it easily happens that “the very thought is lost which they alone could have preserved.“ Kant has a lively sense of the advantages of his mother-tongue. “The German language is the only one among the living learned languages which has a purity that is peculiar to it. All foreign words are always to be recognised in it, ... and so it is worth while to pay attention to it ... foreign words betray either poverty which ought to be concealed, or carelessness.“ Still, Kant stands under the law of that destiny which is common to us all and of which a Plato in his sunny Greece knew nothing: in order to be understood, Kant, in his metaphysical writings, had to borrow two-thirds of the technical expressions for his new thoughts from dead languages, he had, as he himself complains, to clothe his clear German thoughts in “barbarous expressions,“ failing which the German scholars would neither have guessed his meaning nor even have read his books! Dearly, indeed, do nations pay for their mistakes! In a draft letter written in his seventieth year Kant complains to G. Chr. Lichtenberg that “he never was able to escape from the scholastic want of taste,“ and promises “in his next works of this nature to consider the possibility of adding to their nomenclature other words more accessible to the powers of comprehension of ordinary folk.“ 17 But the “critiques“ had already been published; and since we linguistic barbarians did not sufficiently heed the charm and exactitude of Kant's choice and use of words, the master had to complain that “many a one of my parrot-followers uses words with which he connects no sense ... they often make me speak a gibberish that I do not myself understand.“ In order then rightly to judge Kant's linguistic art, we must remember that he inherited the burthen of Greek and Latin words, and that up to his time there had been no such thing as philosophising in

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German. So much the greater is Kant's merit; for if he drew his technical expressions to a great extent from the scholastic arsenal, — not as Plato did from the living speech of the people, — yet nevertheless he, in the first place, wherever it seemed possible without detriment to his purpose, as in the Critique of Pure Reason and in the Power of Judgment, coined German expressions; secondly, he infused so much informing, living power into the worn-out threadbare vocables of the schoolmen, that many of them have since then passed over into the common treasury of language; thirdly, he has over and over again given painfully exact definitions and paraphrases of the scholastic words, and in numberless places has proposed German words which in common use should have equal value with foreign words. That the German language came to be the language of the highest thoughts of the human race, is in the first place due to him. 18
    The comparison of the outer distinguishing signs of Plato and Kant might thus have been brought to an end. We started with their physical form, the condition which fate had allotted to them and their temperaments: by degrees we came to a comparison of style and handling of language. In a certain sense all this may be regarded as belonging to the outer appearance of a man; it makes up what is the first thing that we perceive in him, and forms the foundation, what Plato might perhaps have called the hypothesis, for our appreciation of his inner self. Before we go on to Thinking, to the manner of Seeing, we must complete our comparison between the two men by a glance into their inmost souls. That will be as it were the “what“ of their personality in relation to the “how,“ which we have just attempted to sketch, — whereas the theoretical Thinking floats hither and thither between the two.
    At this point one single consideration will suffice us:

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it goes to the very core of the matter: nothing more is needed. If we turn our attention to the inmost being of these two men, one fact will of necessity at once arrest our attention. It is not only in the result of their Thinking that Kant and Plato are at one, but what attracts them both to the investigation of the human intellect, the goal for which they are both striving, is in both cases identically the same: it was not the satisfying of speculative curiosity, not the solution of abstract professional questions, that drove the one from poetry, the other from mathematics, into philosophy, but what wholly absorbs them is a moral and practical object. Here again at first sight this positive element strikes us more forcibly in Plato than in Kant; but the merest particle of sharp-sightedness and knowledge is enough to show us how from the very beginning, and how lastingly, it was the practical object which gave to Kant also a line to follow.
    Plato's teacher, Socrates, had on principle turned his back upon all science and all professional philosophy in order to confine himself to the consideration of the practically moral interests of man: to this starting-point Plato remained inwardly faithful to the end. I remember how the brilliant Frenchman who first introduced me to Greek philosophy used to impress upon me that “Plato is no philosopher in the true sense of the word; he is a moralist and a politician.“ I soon was compelled to see that this conception was the error of a man with no aptitude for metaphysics; and yet, in the course of years, I at last learnt to understand what a true view lies behind the error. The recognition of the good and the evil (επιστημη αγαθου τε και κακου) is represented by Plato in one of his earliest dialogues as that recognition without which all others taken together are utterly worthless; and not only are Plato's most comprehensive works, the Republic and the Laws, — admittedly devoted to practical political and social

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questions, whilst metaphysics and the critique of recognition are only casually mentioned, — but in almost every single writing, whatever its subject may be, the culminating point lies in the question as to unconditional goodness, whereas the beautiful and the true are usually treated as almost, but not quite, of equal rank. Schiller's dictum, 19

What we once felt here as Beauty

Will one day meet us as Truth —

is an echo of Plato: yet the Beautiful is in Plato's estimation nothing more than the form of the “Good“ as it reveals itself from without to the Eyes of the artist. You have already heard how, according to Plato, the Beautiful must lead to recognition, and so also to the Good; it is only where that succeeds that the Good is to be praised. 20 But the True, according to a remarkable passage in the Philebos, is only mixed up with the Good (μιξομεν) as a secondary principle; the real True, in the meaning in which it is understood by all the world, that is to say, as an objectively empirical truth, is something which is as a rule beyond our reach: that is taught us in the critique of recognition. The simple presumption of the masses and of Aristotle that knowledge occurs in every subject as soon as we have recognised its essence, 21 is so far senseless in that criticism has taught us that we never can recognise the essence of any subject; Truth is certainly related (οικειοτης) to wisdom, but does not embrace it: rather is it only “the idea of the Good“ (του αγαθου ιδεα) which points out of the phenomenon which swings as a pendulum to and fro between understanding and sensibility, and so communicates “a highest wisdom“ (μεγιοτον μαθημα). 22 It is characteristic of this direction towards the practical that Plato from the outset excludes the ignoble and the craven from philosophical teaching: it is beyond their power to learn; without moral nobility no wisdom. And so it is not astonishing

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in one of his ripest writings “the Sophist,“ that he calls his philosophy “the science of free men“ (των ελευθερων επιστημη), and that brings us back to Kant who in a passage, where he is speaking of Plato, gives the beautiful definition, “the practical is that which rests upon freedom.“
    With respect to Kant our judgment is led astray by two circumstances: first of all his Critique of Reason and of the Power of Judgment had a more revolutionary influence, and so stirred up a deeper intellectual movement, than his writings about practical and ethical and religious questions: but then with this was connected the ludicrous fable, to which Heinrich Heine, the witty idler, gave world-wide circulation, that Kant when he was already an old man, frightened at his own critical achievements, hurried to the rescue of the conventional ideals, and that moreover in the interests of the uneducated masses. That is the way in which our unique great men have been treated since the dawn of what Viktor Hehn called “the new Jewish age.“ 23 This would be a matter of small importance, for which a gentle snub would be all sufficient, if there were any such thing as the much to be desired absolute classification of intellects; as it is, no year passes without our meeting with some variation of this blasphemous stupidity in book or article: and if the more sensible people among us know that Heine's joke is all nonsense, even so something of the misrepresentation of Kant sticks to him. The reality is as different as possible. “Philosophy is in truth nothing but a practical knowledge of mankind.... Philosophy is the science of the fitness of all recognitions to the destiny of man.“ So wrote Kant whilst he was at work upon the Critique of Pure Reason (Rep. II, 22), and in that very book he describes his aim as “making the ground level and solid for the erection of majestic moral buildings.“ Kant is in the first instance a mathematician, a logician,

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and a moralist: his chief interest was what he understood by the conception of anthropology which in his view embraced so much, a discipline which his description defines not as the Thing, but as the Goal: opening up the sources of all the sciences, of morals, of skill, of intercourse, of the method of forming and ruling men, and at the same time of every practical activity (Letters, I, 138). These words he wrote while he was preparing for the Critique of Pure Reason. If you will follow carefully the progress of that book, which the publication by the academy of Berlin of Kant's letters has made possible, you will discover that what we now rightly look upon as Kant's masterpiece was, in the first instance, planned merely as something subsidiary. Nature as a whole and human nature in particular, — that was the goal for which Kant steered in the beginning, with hardly a good word to say for metaphysics. The first mention, so far as my memory serves me, of the project out of which in the course of some sixteen years the Critique of Pure Reason was to grow, is to be found in Kant's first letter to the mathematician and philosopher, Lambert, dated December 21, 1765. Here Kant tells us that for many years he has been turning his philosophical reflections in all imaginable directions: that the object of these endeavours is a “special method of metaphysics.“ These metaphysics Kant seems, according to other Letters, to have thought out in two parts: the metaphysics of nature, and the metaphysics of morals, — once more therefore nature, and (in nature) man. Then Kant tells us that he felt himself to be stopped short in this purpose of his, and forced to “go so far from his first proposition,“ inasmuch as it was impossible for him “to exhibit this special method of proceeding of his,“ until he should have “prefaced it by a few smaller exercises“ which would at the same time have the advantage of preventing “the main work from being unduly spun out by too prolix

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and yet inadequate examples.“ Of these smaller exercises Kant only names two, “the metaphysical elementary foundations of world-wisdom,“ and “the metaphysical elementary foundations of practical world-wisdom.“ That is the first germ of all the critiques, the accomplishment of which needed just twenty-five years from that day. The preliminary “smaller exercises“ which were to be the heralds of the masterpiece which he had planned became themselves the great masterpieces of Kant's life, whereas of the great work which he had sketched out only the “elementary foundations“ and a few sheets with fragmentary notes have come down to us. It is striking that Kant even in these early days calls the subject “practical world-wisdom“ just as he did later, whereas neither the conception “Critique“ nor the conception “pure Reason“ have escaped him, but both slumber in the harmless conception “elementary foundations.“ It took a long time, and it needed immense efforts before Kant arrived even at grasping the problem of the critique of Recognition. In 1770 appeared the work written in Latin “upon the condition and the fundamental features of the world of the senses and the world of the understanding,“ which is usually cited simply as “the Dissertation“; 24 the critical problem is indeed half set forth and solved, and in the eighth chapter it is expressly stated that all metaphysics must be preceded by a “science which should teach the distinction between recognition by the senses and recognition by the understanding.“ Yet this important achievement means no more than the climbing of a preliminary step, — Kant has not yet clearly seen his own aim. A year later, in 1771, Kant announces that he is at work upon a treatise under the title of “The boundaries of sensibility and reason“; but here again his work is only meant to treat of critical analysis parenthetically, its object is, independently of that, to deal with the whole science of

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aesthetics, metaphysics, and morals. 25 You see with what difficulty and after what a struggle Kant makes up his mind to leave his aim out of sight even for a short time; the idea of devoting a whole book, let alone three or four books, to the “business of criticism“ as he afterwards often called it, cannot as yet even enter his mind. At last in the following year for the first time the perfectly clear recognition of the problem comes to him, and at the same time the expression eine Kritik der reinen Vernunft, though not yet meant as a title, occurs to him, to be followed again by the assurance that this is only the first part of the work which he has planned, with, as a sequel, “the pure principles of Morals.“ Kant was at that time hoping to finish this first part “within about three months“; and yet two whole years later, at the end of 1773, he had to announce that he was still trying to level “his thorny and hard ground and make it free for his general work,“ and with an audible sigh he adds, “I shall be glad when I have brought to an end my transcendental philosophy, which is really a critique of pure reason: then I must go on to metaphysics in which there are only two parts, the metaphysics of nature and the metaphysics of morals, of which I shall produce the latter first, and am congratulating myself upon it in advance“ (Letters, I, 126, 137). He feels the critique to be a task forced upon him of which he would gladly be free, but upon the practically edifying doctrine of morals he congratulates himself. From this time it still took eight years before the Critique of Pure Reason was finished, and seventeen before the other critiques, which indeed formed parts of it, were done with: that was a fulfilment of duty as Kant understood it. “I am as stiff-necked as ever in my determination not to allow myself to be led away by any literary seductions to seek for fame in an easier and more attractive field.“ And what was the reason of this “stiff-neckedness“ if the business

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of criticism said less to him than that which is practical? The same letter gives the answer: I am illuminated by a hope, of which I could speak to no one but you lest I should be suspected of inordinate vanity, — the hope of being able by this means to turn philosophy lastingly into a new direction far more advantageous to religion and morals.“ Once more, four years after this letter and four years before the completion of the Critique of Pure Reason, he complains, “What I call the Critique of Pure Reason lies like a stone in the road, the removal of which now alone occupies me, and with which I hope to be at an end this winter“ (Letters, 28. 8. 77). Ten years later, when he was able to look back upon his Critique of Pure Reason as an accomplished work, he summed it up in these words, “I had to do away with knowledge in order to make way for faith.“
    This little historical digression travels outside the frame of these lectures: but how could you gain a right conception of Kant's intellectual personality, if its central point, the driving will, remained unknown to you? The very fact which I have just exhibited opens up unexpected psychological outlooks in every direction. You remember, perhaps, that in the Bruno lecture we discovered a parodoxical relation: the mystics, absorbed altogether in the contemplation of their own Ego, sometimes perceive the outer world, from which they have apparently turned aside, with the distinctness of a vision, and so become the pathfinders of empirical science: 26 whereas men of genius who, like Descartes, will not even hear of the science of the schools, sometimes work as renewers and fertilisers of metaphysical thought. A precisely similar relation occurs between Plato and Kant, and is characteristic of their whole lives and thoughts: the man who takes no heed of this will never grasp these personalities in their inmost being. Both are moralists and sociologists, even though in Plato it is the politician, in Kant the

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anthropologist, who is predominant: both are decided antimetaphysicians, and are never weary of harping upon and ridiculing the fruitlessness of the endeavours of all professional and systematising philosophers; yet both find themselves under the necessity through their practical aims of busying themselves with metaphysics, and, just because they are practical men, at once lay hold of the analytical criticism of the human power of recognition in general: it is for them a subsidiary, passing, almost burthensome, business, but it is one which is indispensable for their object: then the Demon seizes upon them and will not set them free, for now they have attained knowledge, and that means isolation: men have ceased to understand them, and yet, their ethics, their sociology, their religion, that which depends upon them, which was their object at starting, that which is now the spoil of their bow and spear, — all this they cannot make known to others, unless they have first succeeded in communicating the critical appreciation upon which their whole philosophy now rests; in order to attain that it must be continually worked up more and more distinctly, for ever set out in new ways, or exemplified by other relations; so by degrees the subsidiary becomes the chief work: both are unconsciously pressed into the service of Providence; they die without having achieved that which they had desired to achieve, and have in that very way brought to perfection that which they, out of the whole human race, were alone fitted to accomplish.
    We shall only come to Kant as a moralist in the next lecture; here it was only important to make use of the comparison with Plato in order to establish once for all this central fact of Life and Thought.
    Though it needs no little courage we must now attack the most difficult point — that peculiar manner of seeing the difference between Things and ourselves which gives birth to that “Critical Thought“ which it is so hard to

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express in words. Here, as I said at the outset, we may expect a by no means insignificant help from the fact that the poetically gifted Plato is rather inclined to give positive expression to critical recognition, to look upon it as a liberation out of the mist of indistinctness (συνκεχυμενον) (Rep. 524 C) into daylight, — in consequence of which Kant compares him to a dove which “cleaves the air in free flight.“ Whereas Kant himself, the circumspect northerner, whose eyes have become keener in the hyperborean night, sees the chief value of criticism in its negative performances, that is to say, in once for all keeping reason within bounds and consequently in warding off errors, comparing it prosaically not to the free flight of the soaring bird, but, — I hardly dare use the word, — to the Police. 27 It is my purpose in the first place to take Plato into consideration by himself, only pointing here and there to Kant by way of elucidation; next, in order really to understand Plato and not merely to chew the cud of language, we shall have, as in the former lectures, to undertake an incursion into actual perceptible subjects in which the phenomenon of life itself will serve as the best representation of the ever insoluble intellectual strife between what we are and what we are growing into: fortified by this touch of empiricism, we shall then briefly contrast Plato with the heroes of our former lectures — Goethe, Leonardo, Descartes, Bruno, and so find our way back once more to Kant.
    “The real lover of wisdom,“ says Plato in the Republic, “is the man who craves for the perception of truth“ (φιλοθεαμων) (Rep. 475 E). “Craving for the perception of truth“; in these words are comprised a confession and a programme: it is the confession of an individuality which in order to know must see, and which therefore will always and everywhere seek for the gift of perceptible from (the programme), even in abstract thoughts. For where there is nothing to be seen, and seeing is yet a

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necessity, there fiction must be resorted to, and fiction is the programme. The confession and the programme testify to a predominantly affirmative nature; here the advantage is perceptibility, — the disadvantage is that the whole philosophy, however keenly critical Thinking may be at work, exhibits itself in a system of allegories interwoven among themselves; the great majority of mankind then contents itself with the allegory, takes little notice of the surrounding infinitely delicate web of thoughts, of the smiling irony of the inventor directed against himself, and of his oft-repeated purpose, — but takes the picture which is to communicate recognition for the recognition itself, out of which there arise the most monstrous structures of thought (as in the neo-Platonists), whilst the prosaic scholars, with Aristotle at their head, laugh at Plato as a dreamer. Yet Plato has in a hundred passages laid stress upon the allegorical and poetic side of his teaching. For instance, the famous allegory, to which we shall return presently, of the chained men in the cave in the seventh book of the Republic, is expressly designated by Plato as a picture (εικων); in the Phaedo he calls his representation “the second-best course,“ since the direct representation is impossible. In other places he speaks of “Dream-pictures which often hover before him“ (Kratylos, 439 C), and of discourses of which “he does not know whether he heard them waking or in a dream.“ But all that only concerns the outer, rough walls of the building: we only arrive at the road to the understanding of Plato when we have learnt to see that not only are these manifest allegories parables, but that in his case one parable contains another, and this again a third, and so on into the finest detail of the architecture, and that too for the simple reason that, as I have just shown, in critical thought the only possible affirmative expression is a parable. Little has been effected therefore if we recognise as allegories the great famous allegories of the waggon of souls, of the dwellers

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in the cave, of the Island Atlantis, of the mutinous sailors, and so forth. Even Aristotle possessed as much insight as that; — we must learn to understand that all the chief conceptions or rather chief representations of Plato, like the idea, memory, participation, etc., are equally parables, and in a far more refined sense: every one of such representations is the pictorial expression for a thought. Plato, urged on by his genius, has by immense tension of thought travelled over the road from within to without; what he reveals are visions, creations of the metaphysical artist, demanding of us that we should travel back over that same road, and thus reach those thoughts which defied speech. And so it will not do for us to stop anywhere half-way, as the wish might take us, — as we might in all true symbolism — saying Here I will stay, I can climb no further. The symbol is the Thing itself, a cosmic fact, taken more broadly or more narrowly, as you please: but one parable, on the contrary, points from itself to another. In Plato then we have to look at the picture as such through and through, until we reach the core of thought, otherwise we have irretrievably misunderstood the thinker, and know no more of him than we do of a closed book of which we admire the binding and the tooling without any knowledge of its contents. Plato is never quite without a picture, not even in such an abstract-dialectical essay as the Parmenides, for even the form of dialogue and the scenic effect are enough to surround every one of his essays with poetry; and if our eyes saw nothing more than the interlocutors, even that would be a “perception“; we must read the thoughts in the faces: Plato has so willed it. Here at last we touch the living centre of the Platonic method of teaching. He is dealing with that which is not to be expressed in speech. The gift of speaking in pictures was Heaven's gift to him, but the necessity for it lay in the subject itself. But what words cannot express, that pictures

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cannot express either: they are not lectures but signs, something like speaking with a deaf man by gestures and play of countenance. Sometimes, however, every picture perceptible to the senses is powerless, and then Plato pursues this same course of suggestion by parables in a field where the senses have no being: paradoxical as this may seem it may be hoped that it will lead you to the consciousness that the critical analysis of recognition, brought forward in a positive sense, always speaks in a figurative sense, — that it never does more than stimulate and indicate, even where it does not present itself as openly allegorical, but logically dialectic. It is impossible to understand Plato's dialectics apart from his allegory: there is no sharp dividing line: it always demands something which the reader is to accomplish: until he has done that, — until he has “travelled over the road,“ — he has not understood Plato. You remember how Plato spoke of “creating in the soul,“ and how the ancients revered in him an intellect akin to Dionysus; creation seems to me something essentially different from proof: Plato's work then, whether in parables or in words, has for its object a creation. That, with reference to his method of exegesis, is the last word of the secret.
    With this method, unwillingness to prove and unwillingness to schematise, is connected the reserve so characteristic of Plato and his almost timid modesty. He knows that he cannot express in words what he means: hence the expression “the second-best course,“ which recurs in a hundred variations. When Meno interrupts Socrates with his admiring acquiescence, he replies, “I myself am not sure that I was right in what I said“ (Menon, 86), and in the Phaedo he says, “no sensible man will be ready to assert that what I have just said exactly corresponds with the truth“ (114 D). In the middle of a deep theoretical investigation of recognition he interrupts himself, “It would need a great

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man to decide this point: I cannot trust my powers in the matter“; 28 and on another occasion we see exactly how he screens his eyes with his hands when he exclaims: “it may be so, but there again, when I have taken up this position, I run away because I am afraid of falling into a bottomless pit of nonsense, and perishing“ (Parmenides, 130 D). Plato is a discoverer in precisely the same sense as Columbus and Kant: he is conscious of it: he possesses no chart of the new country: every step is a surprise, and every step needs prudence. Hence the groping, almost timid attitude in the investigation of the virgin soil immediately followed by over-haste and audacity such as we only find in the inexperienced. Here again is Plato the great artist; it is not in the form of speech only that he is dramatic, — that again is after all an allegory — rather is the true drama played in his own mind, and with consummate art he allows us to share in all his adventures. That is why no schematic, no systematic and no purely learned method, arrives at the true understanding of Plato. For that artistic taste and delicacy, an animated and free intellectual life, are essential.
    It must be clear how important these remarks are for our aim; not only is Plato's method of Seeing here already in part described, but we know in what way we must prosecute our investigation. For we know that Plato's works exhibit the passionate life-drama of an intellect devoted to Thinking, and in a life things do not stand side by side as they do in a system, but they develop themselves out of one another. Here the symbol once more asserts itself. From the earliest work of his youth to the greatest literary effort of his old age — the Laws — we all the time see exactly the same Plato; he develops himself, but he does not change; any seer a kindred intellect could in almost every dialogue, taken at choice, recognise the fundamental principles of

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the Platonic philosophy; and yet the assertion that Plato never comes to an end, that he is always repeating what has gone before and bringing forward something new, is equally true; the keenest-witted professor of method could never succeed in reducing this philosophy into a formula or into any system of formulae. To what an extent is this mode of thinking an experience of life! Here then it would be vain to seek for any absolute immutable dissection of thought and verbal definitions; for here from the first day to the last it is always a question of search, never of settlement. This sort of thinking overflows every receptacle, because nature reflects itself in its almost spotless purity, often soaring on all sides above the human brain. Anaxagoras is greater than his work; his Nous is a compromise between what he suspects and what he wills, between his love of truth and his need for a logical rounding off: even an Aristotle is greater than his work, and is therefore able to give it form with such arbitrary precision; he is absolutely wading in compromises, that is to say, in thoughts and definitions, in which neither he nor any one else ever put any real faith. Plato, on the contrary, is without any lie: the deepest critical discretion in him goes hand in hand with a proud innocence: “I am amazed at my own wisdom, and always remain in doubt about it“ (Krat. 428 D); and so his work carries him as the ocean does the ship. What we then, — we who neither aspire to a history of Platonic thought, nor to fathoming the Platonic philosophy, but only to affording a plastic sketch of its outlines, — what we have to seek for, and in regard to which we must become perfectly clear, is on one side the permanent symbolism of the Life devoted to Thought, and on the other side the various and varying allegories which express the thought to which that life was devoted.
    If we begin by taking notice of the great, lasting and symbolically valuable characteristics in Plato, we observe

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that two of them are already familiar to us, namely, first the care for the moral well-being of man as the foundation and starting-point of all Plato's thought, and secondly, the imperative necessity of seeing everything with the eye, a tendency from which his method of exposition is derived. To these yet a third must be added. For as soon as we take into consideration specific Thinking as such, it is certainly the critical posing of the question, simply and solely, and with no reference to result, which is the decisive point. Of what kind then is this posing of the question upon which criticism is founded?
    Criticism must not for a moment be confounded with scepticism. The most famous Sceptics of Greece were Plato's contemporaries; he looks upon them as dangerous enemies: they make everything unstable, and annihilate true morality together with true science: they are the frivolous element in philosophy, and Plato can find no better simile for them than that of “snapping curs.“ Neither must there be any amalgamation of the sensual theory. The philosopher of the sensual school is like a coachman without horses, who stands in the street cracking his whip, and fancies that the crack of the whip will suffice to carry him on his way. That perceptions are communicated through the senses, and that therefore our notions of things depend upon the mechanism of the senses, is a right view and as old as the hills: yet it only affects our anatomical psychology, not our metaphysical reflection. Plato settles the sensualistic objection in his simple fashion observing, “with what do we see? with what do we hear? not with the eyes and with the ears, but by means of the eyes and by means of the ears ...  It would be a cruel thing, my son, if all these perceptions like the warriors in the belly of the wooden horse before Troy were to lie side by side without all combining in one fixed ideal unity (μια ιδεα) — call it soul (consciousness), or what you will; and it is this unity which by

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means of those instruments (literally, organs) perceives that which is perceptible.“ 29 So he points back to the centre of the question of critical recognition: What is that unity without which the countless perceptions never can make for the building up of the single experience? “Call it what you will“ — psyche, that is breath, the breath of life, the power of life, heart, soul, consciousness, — Plato never haggles about words (cf. Rep. 533 E); as he says, “it is always better to come to an agreement about the thing itself than about the name which we give it“ (Sophist, 218 C). But this “thing itself,“ this ideal unity, what is it? What do we know of it? “A man may lay himself flat upon his back the better to watch the stars, yet he will always be looking downwards, not upwards: the soul is only directed upwards when it asks itself the question, What is Being, what is the invisible?“ 30 How are we to arrive at any conclusion about nature and ego, about the origin of Things, about unity and plurality, about what we are and what we are growing into, about virtue and duty, if we have never asked ourselves what, after all, is experience?
    We may assert that apart from the purely practical political and educational lectures, all Plato's works, from the first to the last, have reference to the answering of this question, What is experience? And even his practical views are so closely connected with this nucleus of his metaphysical Thinking that we meet with the deepest investigations into the criticism of recognition in a work like the Republic. And in the manner which is peculiar to him of treating everything as a matter of perception, Plato himself felt the mental impulse out of which this question arises, as a bodily movement: as a turning round of himself. “Most men do not suspect that they do not know the essence of Things“ (Phaedrus, 237); but out of this condition of ingenuous unconsciousness they cannot be awakened by degrees by a gift of fragments

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of critical insight, any more than a man sitting in a dark dungeon can send his eye alone up into the light unless his whole body goes with it: “the whole soul“ must be laid hold of and turned from the one direction into the other, what Plato calls “the art of turning round“ (τεχνε της περιαγωγης) (Statesman, 518 C D). The main point is that instead of consulting the Things, — the so-called, ostensible Things, — we should first investigate the recognition of things, the manner in which this recognition comes into existence; our looks must be directed inwards instead of outwards. “It seems to me ridiculous that I should be looking at other Things, so long as I remain ignorant about myself; so I leave them alone and look searchingly into myself, to see whether haply I may discover some more tortuously formed, some more raging monster, than the dragon Typhon, — or whether maybe the nature of man is tamer and simpler, and at the same time made after the fashion of the gods, though less high-flying“ (Phaedrus, 230 A). This decisive attitude of life, which is in reality a fact, since it means a change in the direction in which the intellect habitually advances, would lead me much further if it had not been dealt with in detail in the contrast between Kant and Bruno (I, 422, seq.). I think you will hardly have forgotten my simile of the mountaineer; everything which I said there with reference to Kant holds good with mathematical precision of Plato; in this respect the standpoint of the two men is identical. Just as Kant threw aside all “isms“ because “there are no true polemics in the field of pure reason,“ so Plato threw aside all the systems and dogmas which he saw around him, because they all proceeded from “uncriticism,“ and because all these proud structures of the philosophers appear as unsubstantial shadows to the eye of the intellect which has “turned round.“ Kant ironically compares the philosophers to the heroes of the Walhalla who hack

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one another to pieces one day and on the morrow grow together again: Plato just in the same way laughs at “the monstrous fights and tumults“ of the different schools, and he dubs as “nursery tales“ the doctrines of the monists, of the dualists, and of those who try to act as mediators between the two. When he has reduced them all ad absurdum he too begins to consider the two possible attempts dogmatically to cut the Gordian knot, — that is to say, the “tame“ doctrine of absolute idealism, and the “arbitrary“ perceptions of the materialists, “difficult or perhaps impossible to conquer“ on account of their inborn limitation, and he shows that in the light of critical discretion both conceptions are senseless. 31 Of the perfect type of the non-critic, the absolute opposite to his own method of thought he has had little or no experience: it was Aristotle who literally did what Plato had turned into ridicule, and “lay flat on his back“ in order to find out from the movements of the heavenly bodies, how many spirits, substances and aims go to make up the world (see p. 42).
    These then are the three intellectual attitudes which characterise Plato's Thinking throughout his whole life; no one can correctly appreciate him without rightly observing and understanding them; they are (1) practically moral pressure as the mainspring of knowledge; (2) perception with the eyes as method of knowledge; (3) inward “turning round“ as condition of knowledge. A more refined analysis would yield further results, but this will be sufficient for our object.
    The matter assumes a far more difficult shape when we cross over from these most universal, permanent qualities of Thinking to the Thoughts themselves; for Plato's poetical method has for its result that one and the same thought crops up in very different forms: so far his Thinking is more difficult to grasp, I mean to grasp in the shape of formulae, than that of any other philosopher in

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the history of the world. But what we have just ascertained about the three directing, permanent intellectual predispositions will be of service to us here; the symbols will be made to help us to disentangle the fundamental allegories out of the mass. For it is clear at once that round every one of these three driving forces (if I may so call them) a main group of inter-related allegories will form itself like steel filings round the pole of a magnet. If once we have recognised in their significance these pictures which lie nearest to Plato's Thinking, then it will be easier for us to make further discoveries.
    In regard to what appertains to the practically moral mainspring as the first intellectual attitude, it is evident that the very goal of all Platonic Thinking must correspond to it, — not therefore the critical enquiries, but the moral result, — and that, in consequence, the allegory here is nearly connected with the more ordinary, vulgar meaning of the word. And as a matter of fact those dialogues which are the richest in their scope are devoted to the delineation of ideal social organisations, which should serve as patterns, and of which Plato expressly says that it is immaterial whether they are possible to carry out or not, it is the setting up of an “example,“ or as we should say to-day of an “ideal“; here we have again Perception as the guiding star for the apprehension of thoughts. It is not incumbent on us to examine more closely the ethical-political question.
    Perception as method and “turning round“ as a condition of knowledge stand on a different footing: here matters are not so perspicuous, — and it becomes all the more necessary to throw light upon them: for round these two permanent directions of thought are formed the two great groups of allegories in which Plato's whole critical Thinking takes shape. We will consider first the one group, then the other.
    That rich complex of notions, for which Plato himself

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had no single word, but out of which after-ages, under the lead of Aristotle, coined the conception “the Platonic doctrine of ideas,“ is really nothing more than the great multiform allegory which was bound to arise so soon as seeing with the eyes formed the method of thought, and in consequence the criticism of recognition assumed an actually perceptible shape.
    The real knowledge of what is meant by “idea“ would be the beginning and end of an exact knowledge of Plato's philosophy. Here I can only give a few hints. And in the first place it is very important to remark that it is true that he thought the thought and took pains to project it into visibility in numberless colours and forms, though he never knew a word for it, its name, its label, and at the same time its sharp limitation and realisation, by which I mean that no special word ever possessed the systematic meaning for Plato which we give to the word “Idea.“ Here again the origin of misunderstanding is Aristotle, who in the notorious sixth chapter of the first book of his Metaphysics, gives the pattern of a description woven out of misconception and depreciation upon the subject of Plato's so-called doctrine of ideas, and pretends that this doctrine arises out of the most confused scissors-and-paste-work of the thoughts of other philosophers, already none too perspicuous; here he makes the assertion that Plato called definitions (ορισμοί) of things the “ideas“ of that which is (των οντων ιδεας). What we are to make of this remains just as unimaginable as what arises from the further position that Plato had no knowledge of matters of the senses; so definitions taken from heaven knows what notion remain as the essence of Being; and that is the doctrine of Ideas! and thus we hear good, honest Seneca, whose popularising philosophy and doctrine of morals till a short time ago exercised such a determining influence upon the conceptions of all cultured Europeans, saying in answer to Lucilius, “you ask what

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ideas may be? they are the stock-in-trade peculiar to Plato which he called Ideas,“ etc. 32 From Seneca's time to that of Eduard Zeller in our day, you will find much the same unthinkable talk about this peculiar “stock-in-trade“ of Plato's, the doctrine of Ideas; it is for this reason that even tolerably sensible people look upon Plato as the prototype of the dreamer in the clouds. But if instead of the notices of others you take in hand Plato's own writings, which a kindly fate has preserved for us so fully and in such good condition as is the case with few works of antiquity, you will be astonished nowhere to come upon this “stock-in-trade of Plato's,“ nowhere, that is to say, in the shape in which you would expect to find it according to Aristotle and all the books on the history of philosophy. Even from a linguistic point of view the matter is quite different from what we are led to believe; for if you cast about for the corresponding word in Greek, you will discover that there are two different words for our modern word “idea,“ ειδος and ιδέα. Plato uses both words freely, and indeed in such a fashion that they sometimes exactly coincide and are even substituted without any distinction the one for the other, as, for example, at the beginning of the tenth book of the Republic, where the meaning is so absolutely identical, that where the same sentence is repeated at one time ιδεα, at the other ειδος is employed, and both words may constantly be translated by Idea, or Conception, or Notion, or Form, as you please. But the fact that there are cases where ειδος and ιδέα can be used indifferently does not prove that the two words are interchangeable, and as a matter of fact Plato does not so regard them: Hermann Cohen's fundamental work, The Platonic Doctrine of Idea (die Platonische Ideenlehre), 33 has set that matter at rest and that indeed has since then been forced even upon the unlearned, since it not infrequently happens that eidos and idea are contrasted in

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the same sentence. 34 As you will see more clearly in the further course of the lecture, it is here that the true core of thought lies. As in every seen form there is a double, space shut out and space shut in, which an impalpable boundary line separates, so the Idea always expresses a relation at once combining and opposite between two things, and therefore is on the look out for two directions. Lest you should plague yourselves with mere sounds of words, I will at once make the interpolation that Plato in the main uses eidos for the comprehensible, idea for the perceptible side of the same notional complex; eidos is rather thought than seen, idea rather seen than thought; they meet in the centre line and have there just the same meaning; but they can part asunder even to the point of contradiction. This relation is precisely analogous to that between “conception of reason“ and “idea“ in Kant, with which we became acquainted