 PREFESSES OF THE DESTINATION OF MAN by Johann Gottlieb Ficht, translated by Jane Sinett. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Larry Wilson. TRANSLATORS PREFESS The present translation was made several years ago, not then with a view to publication, but for the sake of obtaining a more intimate knowledge of a book that appeared of unusual interest and importance. Its faults, therefore, are at all events not those of haste or carelessness. Those who are acquainted with German philosophical language will, I believe, admit the frequently great difficulty of finding in English strictly corresponding terms. But with all the errors of which I am or am not conscious, I have great satisfaction in introducing it to the notice of English readers. It is as its author has declared, not intended merely for professed students, but for all who are capable of giving it some attention and who take up a book with some more serious purpose than that of passing more easily an idle hour. The idealism of Ficht differs, as it will be seen, from that of Barkley, with whose works he was wholly unacquainted, and it will not escape the more critical reader that as I have already had occasion to notice, footnote, in an article on Ficht's life, in the Foreign Quarterly Review for October 1845, No. 71, in footnote, he has found it necessary to adopt ultimately as a principle of metaphysical truth, that intuitive belief, or as it is sometimes called, common sense of mankind, which he had rejected at first as the basis even of material reality. To these beliefs, immediate universal irresistible, like the voice of the Creator speaking to us, we must, it appears, return, as to an arc of safety after our longest flights. The opinion that has prevailed so long in England, that German philosophy is a mere metaphysical hocus pocus or logical card castle, that the speculations that have occupied the lives of some of the greatest thinkers that ever lived, have been always empty and futile and barren of any practical result is apparently fast-giving way, to one very different. Such men as Ficht did not assuredly devote themselves to babbling, a jargon of vain philosophy, like the idle jugglers with words to whom the expression was applied, but believed that they had found truth, to them infinitely precious. We may not be able to view it from the same point. With our best efforts we may fail to see clearly, but we shall surely not improve our chance by shutting our eyes. Those also who have once entered on this path cannot well turn back, but must go on till they reach a resting place, and assuredly they will gain nothing by attempting anything like self-deception or masquerading in the forms of a bygone time. We may indeed look back with a sort of longing to those earlier ages, when as it is commonly supposed at least, a tranquil childlike trust in all which unauthority was taught, pervaded all minds, and spread a universal peace or land and sea, in place of the restless fermentations and anxious questionings that disturb us now. But whatever we may think of this, it is obvious that we can no more return to the real temper of those times than to the stature of our childhood, and the effort to resume its outward habits will fail us completely as that of the elderly gentleman Hoffman's tale who sought to restore the idyllic joys of his infancy, by complimenting himself every Christmas Eve with an assortment of such playthings as delighted him in that happy period. If however we have seen that this cannot be, may we not accept it as an assurance that it ought not to be. May we not trust providence so far as to believe that what is impossible for us is neither necessary nor desirable. A different task perhaps is assigned to us. There are diversities of gifts but the same spirit. London December 20th, 1845. Preface Whatever of the recent philosophy is likely to prove serviceable beyond the limits of the schools, presented in the order in which it would naturally occur to an unsophisticated understanding, is intended to form the contents of this volume. The elaborate defenses made only to meet the artificial objections and extravagances of the learned have been deemed unnecessary here, and whatever serves only as a foundation for the positive sciences, or for the deliberate and arbitrary education of the human race, has been omitted, as lying within the province of statesmen and the appointed teachers of the people. The book is therefore not intended for philosophers by profession, who will find in it nothing that may not be found in other writings of the same author. It is intended to be intelligible to all readers who are able really to understand a book at all, those who have accustomed themselves merely to the repetition of certain sets of phrases in varied order, or who mistake this operation of memory for that of the understanding, will probably find it unintelligible. It ought to exercise on the reader an attractive and animating power, raising him from the sensuous world to that which is above sense. The author at least has not performed his task without some of this happy inspiration. Often during the labor of execution, the fire with which a design is entered upon becomes exhausted, but immediately on the conclusion of a work, the author is scarcely in a position to judge of this point. How far he has succeeded in the attainment of his proposed object he cannot decide. This must be determined by the effect produced on the readers to whom it is addressed. One remark, however, he deems it necessary to make, namely that the eye, who speaks in the book, is by no means intended for himself, but it is his earnest wish that it should represent the reader, who is entreated not merely to apprehend historically what is here presented to him, but really and truly during the reading of the book, to hold converse with his own mind, to reason, to draw conclusions, and to develop by his own mental effort the train of thought laid before him. CHAPTER I Doubt, THE AIM OF MY BEING At last, then, I may hope that I am tolerably well acquainted with the world that surrounds me. In the unanimous declaration of my senses, in unfailing experience alone, have I placed my trust. What I have beheld, I have touched. What I have touched, I have analyzed. I have repeated my observations again and again. I have compared the various phenomena together, and only when I could perceive their connection, when I could explain and deduce one from the other, and foresee the result, and that the result was such as to justify my calculations, have I been satisfied. Therefore am I now as well assured of the accuracy of this part of my knowledge as of my own existence. I walk with a firm step in this my world, and would stake welfare and life itself on the infallibility of my convictions. But what then am I, and what is the aim and end of my being? The question is superfluous. It is long since I have been made well acquainted with these points, and it would take much time to recapitulate all that I have heard, learnt, and believed concerning them. And by what means then have I attained this knowledge, which I have this confused notion of possessing? Have I urged on by a burning desire of knowledge, toiled on through uncertainty and doubt and contradiction? Have I, when anything appeared credible, examined and sifted and compared, till an inward voice proclaimed irresistibly and without a possibility of mistake? As it is, as surely as thou livest. No, I can remember no such state of mind. Those instructions were bestowed on me before I desired them. The answers were given before the questions were proposed. I heard, for I could not avoid doing so, and much of what I heard remained in my memory, but without examination, and without interest, I allowed everything to take its place, as chance directed. How then could I persuade myself that if I really possessed any knowledge upon these points, if I can only be said to know that of which I am convinced, and which I have wrought out, myself experienced, I cannot truly say that I know anything at all of the aim and end of my being. I know merely what others profess to know, and all that I can really be assured of is that I have heard them speak so and so upon these things. Whilst then I have inquired into and examined for myself with the most anxious care, comparatively trivial matters, in things of the highest import, I have relied wholly on the care and fidelity of others. I have attributed to others an interest in the highest affairs of humanity, and earnestness and accuracy, which I by no means discover in myself. I have regarded them as indescribably superior to me. Whatever of truth they really possess, they can have attained by no other means than by their own meditations, and why may not I, by the same means, attain the same ends? How much have I undervalued and degraded myself? It shall be no longer thus. From this moment I will enter on my right, on the dignity of which I have acclaimed, that all that is foreign to my own mind be at once renounced. I will examine for myself. It may be that secret wishes concerning the termination of my inquiries, that a partial inclination towards certain conclusions will awaken in my heart. I will forget and deny these wishes, and allow them no influence in the direction of my thoughts. I will go to work with scrupulous severity. What I find to be truth shall be welcome to me, let it sound as it may. I will know, with the same certainty with which I can calculate, that this ground will bear me when I tread on it, that this fire will burn me if I approach to near it. Will I know what I am, and what I shall be? And should this not be possible? Thus much at least will I know, that it is not possible. Even to this result will I submit if it should present itself to me as truth. I hasten towards the fulfillment of my task. I seize on nature as she hastens ever onward in her flight, detaining her for an instant, and contemplates steadily the present moment, this nature on which my thinking powers have been developed, and for which the conclusions valid in her domain have been formed. I am surrounded by objects which I am compelled to regard as holes, subsisting for themselves, and separately from each other. I behold plants, trees, and animals. I ascribe to each individual certain signs and attributes, by which I distinguish it from others. To this plant, such a form. To another, another. To this tree, such and such leaves. To another, others, differing from them. Every object has its appointed number of attributes, neither more nor less. To every question, whether it is this or that, is, for anyone acquainted with it, a decisive yes or no possible. Everything that is, is something, or it is not, has a certain color, or has it not, is tangible, or is not, and so on. Every object possesses its properties in an appointed degree, which it neither exceeds nor falls short of. Everything that is, is definite, determined, is some one thing, and is not something else. Not that I am unable to conceive an object hovering between opposite limitations. I am certainly able to do this for half of my thoughts consist of such. I think of a tree in general. Has this tree leaves or not, fruit or not, and if so, in what quantities, to what species does it belong? How large is it? All these questions must remain unanswered, for my thought is undetermined, and does not represent any particular tree, but a tree in general, and it has no real existence. For whatever really exists has its appointed number of all its possible attributes, and each of these in its appointed measure, although I may never be able to comprehend all the properties of any one object or to apply to them any standard. Nature, however, hastens on through her everlasting transformations, and while I am speaking of the present moment, it is gone, and all is changed. In the same manner, the moment before my observation, all was otherwise, it had not always been, as I found it, it had become so. Why then, and from what cause, had it become what it was? Why had nature, amidst the manifold infinite possible varieties of being, assumed precisely these, and no others? For this reason, that certain others had preceded them, and these in the same manner will determine those which shall follow, and these again others, to infinity, were the smallest thing at the present moment different from what it is than necessarily in the following moment would something else be different, and again in the succeeding one, and so on, for ever. Nature, in her never-ceasing changes, follows steadily certain undeviating laws. I find myself in a close chain of phenomena in which every link depends on that which has preceded it, so that if, at any moment, I could be made acquainted with all existing conditions of the universe, I should be able to declare what they had been in the preceding moment, and what they would be in that which was to follow. In every part I find the whole, for every part only, by means of the whole, has become what it is. What I have discovered then I find amounts to this, that to every existence another must be presupposed, to every condition another preceding condition. Let me pause a little here, for it may happen that on my clear insight into this point may depend much of the success of my future inquiry. Why, and from what cause, I had asked, are the modifications of objects precisely such as I find them, to be assuming thus without a moment's hesitation, and without proof, as an absolute and certain truth, that they had a cause, that not by themselves, but by something beyond them, they had obtained existence and reality. I had found myself compelled to assume another existence as a necessary condition of theirs. But why, then, did I find their existence insufficient to itself, incomplete, what betrayed to me a want in them? This without doubt, that in the first place, these qualities or attributes do not exist in and for themselves, they are forms of something formed, modifications of something modified, and the conception of what, in the language of the schools, has been called a substratum, a something capable of receiving and supporting the attributes must be always added to them. Further, that to such a substratum, a certain quality is attributed, supposes a condition of repose and cessation from change. Otherwise, there could be no determinant modification, but merely a passing from one state to another. A state of mere passivity is an incomplete existence. Some activity is necessary to form what may be called the basis of the suffering. What I found myself compelled to suppose was by no means that in the successive changes which nature undergoes, one brings forth the other. That the present modification annihilates itself, and in the next moment, when it no longer exists, produces another to occupy its place. The modification produces neither itself nor anything out of itself. What I found myself compelled to assume was an active force, peculiar to the object, to account for the gradual origin and the changes of those modifications. And what, then, do I conceive to be the nature or essence of this power and the modes of its manifestation? I know no more than this, that it is capable under certain conditions of producing, certainly and infallibly, a determinative effect, and no other. The principle of activity, of arising and becoming, is certainly in itself. As surely as it is a force, it is capable of setting itself in motion. The cause of its having developed itself in a certain manner lies partly in itself as it is a force, and partly in the circumstances under which it develops itself. Both these, the inward determination of a force from itself and the external, by circumstances, must be united to produce a given change. Every force, so far as I can conceive of one, must be determinate, but its determination is completed by the circumstances under which it is developed. A force exists in my conception only so far as I can perceive its working. An inactive force is entirely inconceivable. I see a flower that has sprung out of the earth, and I conclude that a formative power exists in nature. Such a formative power exists for me only so far as this flower, and others, and plants, and animals exist. I can describe this power merely by its effect, and it exists for me no further than as producing flowers and plants, animals, and other organic forms. I will go further, and maintain that a flower, and precisely this flower, could exist in this place, only so far as all circumstances united to make it possible. But that by the union of all these circumstances for its possibility, the real existence of the flower is by no means explained to me, and for this I am compelled to assume a peculiar original power in nature, and precisely a flower producing power, for another power of nature, under the same circumstances, might have produced something entirely different. When I contemplate all things as one whole, I perceive one nature, one force. When I regard them as individuals, many forces, which develop themselves according to their inward laws, and pass through all the forms of which they are capable. And all the objects in nature are but these forces under certain limitations. Every manifestation of every individual power of nature is determined, partly by itself, partly by its own preceding manifestations, and partly by the manifestations of all the other powers of nature with which it is connected. But it is connected with all, for nature is one connected whole. Its manifestations are, therefore, strictly necessary, and it is absolutely impossible that it should be other than what it is. In every moment of her duration, nature is one connected whole. In every moment must every individual part be what it is, because all others are what they are, and a single grain of sand could not be moved from its place without, however, imperceptibly to us changing something throughout all parts of the immeasurable whole. Every moment of duration is determined by all past moments, and will determine all future moments, and even the position of a grain of sand cannot be conceived other than it is, without supposing other changes to an indefinite extent. Let us imagine, for instance, this grain of sand lying some few feet further inland than it actually does. Then must the storm wind that drove it in from the seashore have been stronger than it actually was? Then must the preceding state of the atmosphere by which this wind was occasioned, in its degree of strength determined, have been different from what it actually was, and the previous changes which gave rise to this particular weather, and so on? We must suppose a different temperature from that which really existed, a different constitution of the bodies which influenced this temperature, the fertility or barrenness of countries, the duration of the life of man, depend unquestionably in a great degree upon temperature. How can we know, since it has not given us to penetrate the arcana of nature, and it is therefore allowable to speak of possibilities? How can we know that in such a state of the weather, as we have been supposing, in order to carry this grain of sand a few yards further, some ancestor of yours might not have perished from hunger, or cold, or heat, long before the birth of that sun, from whom you are descended, and thus you might never have been at all. And all that you have ever done, and all that you ever hoped to do in this world, must have been hindered in order that a grain of sand might lie in a different place. End of Section 1 Section 2 Of the Destination of Man by Johann Gottlieb Fischde Translated by Jane Sinnet This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Chapter 2 Doubt Chain of Rigid Natural Necessity I myself, with all that I call mine, embody a link in this chain of rigid natural necessity. There was a time, so others tell me, and although I am not immediately conscious of it, I am compelled by reason to admit it as a truth. There was a time in which I was not, and a moment in which I began to be. I then only existed for others, not yet, for myself. Since then, myself, my conscious being, has gradually developed itself, and I have discovered in myself certain faculties and capacities, wants, and natural desires. I am a definite creature, which came into existence at a certain time. I have not come into existence by my own power. It would be the highest absurdity to suppose that before I was at all, I could bring myself into existence. I have then been called into being by a power out of myself. And what should this be but the universal power of nature of which I form a part? The time at which my existence commenced, and the attributes belonging to me, were determined by this universal power of nature, and all the forms under which these, my inborn attributes, have since manifested themselves, have been determined by the self-same power. It was impossible that instead of me, another should have arisen. It is impossible that at any moment of my existence, I should be other than what I am. That my successive states of being have been accompanied by consciousness, that some of them, such as thoughts, resolutions, and the like, appear to be nothing but various modifications of consciousness, need not perplex my reasonings. It is the nature of the plant, regularly to develop itself, of the animal to move towards the attainment of certain ends, of man, to think. Why should I hesitate to acknowledge the latter as an original power of nature, as well as the first and second? Nothing could prevent me from doing so, but the astonishment I feel at such a conclusion. Thought is assuredly a far higher and more subtle operation of nature than the formation of a plant or the motion of an animal. I cannot explain how the power of nature can produce thought, but can I better explain its operation in the production of a plant, in the motion of an animal? To attempt to deduce thought from any mere organization of matter is an extravagance, into which I shall not easily fall. But can I then explain from it the formation of the simplest moss? Those original powers of nature cannot be explained, for it is only through them that we can explain anything. Thought exists in nature, as well as the creative power which gives birth to the plant. The thinking being arises and develops itself by natural laws, and exists through nature. There is therefore in nature an original thinking power, as well as an original plant creating power. This original thinking power advances and develops itself through all the modifications of which it is capable, as the other original forces of nature assume all possible forms. I, like the plant, am a particular manifestation of the formative power, like the animal a particular manifestation of the power of motion, and in addition to these, a particular manifestation of the thinking power. And it is the union of these three original forces in one harmonious development that makes the distinguishing characteristic of any species, as it is the distinguishing characteristic of the plant species to be merely a manifestation of the plant forming power. Figure, motion, thought, and me are not consequent on one another, but are the simultaneous and harmonious development of what might be called the man forming power necessarily manifest in itself in a creature of my species. I am not what I am because I think so, or will so, nor do I think and will because I am, but I am and I think, both absolutely. As certainly as those original powers of nature exist for themselves and have their own internal laws and purposes, so certainly must their manifestations in the world of reality, if left to themselves and not subjected to any foreign force, endure for a certain period of time and pass through a certain series of changes, that which should vanish at the moment of its production could not be the expression or manifestation of an original power, but only an effect of the combined operation of various powers. The plant, when left to itself, proceeds from the first germination to the ripening of the seed. Man, a particular manifestation of all the powers of nature in their union, when left to himself, no accident intervening, proceeds from birth to death in old age, hence the duration of the life of man and of plants and the various modifications of this, their life. This form, this motion, this thought, this duration of all essential qualities amidst many non-essential changes belong to me as to a being of my species, but this man-forming power in nature had displayed itself before the commencement of my existence under various conditions and circumstances. These external circumstances have determined the particular mode of their present operation in the production of precisely such an individual of my species as I am. The same circumstances can never recur or the whole of nature must retrograde. The same individuals can never again receive reality. Further, the man-forming power of nature has manifested itself at the time of my production under manifold conditions and circumstances. No combination of circumstances can perfectly resemble those under which I received existence. And unless the universe could be divided into two similar but unconnected worlds to perfectly similar individuals cannot be produced. By these conditions and circumstances it was determined that this definite person I should become and the laws by which I am, that which I am, are universal. I am that which I am because in the connection of the great whole only such a one and absolutely no other was possible and a spirit who could look through all nature would from the knowledge of a single man be able to determine what men had been before and what they would be at any moment. In one person he would obtain the knowledge of all. This, my connection with the whole of nature, it is then which determines what I have been, what I am, and what I shall be. The same spirit would be able at any moment of my existence to form infallible conclusions on what I had hitherto been and what I was to be. All that I am and shall be, I am and shall be of necessity, and it is impossible that I should be otherwise. I do indeed feel an inward consciousness of independence of having on many occasions in my life exerted a free agency. But this consciousness may easily be explained on the principles already laid down and is perfectly reconcilable with the conclusions I have drawn. My immediate consciousness, my absolute perception, cannot go beyond myself. I have immediate knowledge only of myself, whatever I know further I know only by reasoning in the same manner in which I have come to those conclusions concerning the original powers of nature which certainly do not lie within the circle of my perceptions. I, however, that which I call myself, am not the man-forming power of nature, but only one of its manifestations, and only of this manifestation in my conscious. Not of that power, whose existence I have only discovered from the necessity of explaining my own, this manifestation, however, is certainly the production of an original and independent force, and must appear as such in my consciousness. For this reason do I appear to myself as a free agent in those occurrences of my life in which the independent force, falling to my share as an individual, manifests itself without hindrance. But, as subject to constraint, when by any combination of circumstances beyond the limits of my individuality, I cannot do what I might otherwise be capable of doing, when my individual force, by the excess of antagonist forces, is compelled to manifest itself otherwise than in accordance with its own laws. Bestow consciousness on a tree, and let it freely grow and spread out its branches, and bring forth leaves and buds, and blossoms and fruits after its kind. It will be aware of no limits to its existence in being only a tree, and a tree of a certain species, and an individual of that species. It will feel itself free, because in all those manifestations it will act according to its nature. It can will nothing more than what that nature requires. But let unfavorable weather, insufficient nourishment, or other causes hinder its growth, and it will feel itself confined, restrained, because an impulse of its nature cannot be satisfied. Bind its free waving branches to a wall, force foreign branches on it by grafting, and it will feel itself constrained. It will grow, but in a direction different from that of its own nature. It will produce fruit, but not such as it would, of itself have brought forth. In my immediate consciousness I appear to myself as free by meditation on the whole of nature. I discover that freedom is impossible. The former must be subordinate to the latter, for it is only to be explained through it. End of section 2 Section 3 of The Destination of Man by Johann Gottlieb Fichte translated by Jane Sinett This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org Chapter 3 Doubt I call it mine With what satisfaction do I now survey this system which my understanding has built up? What order, what firm connection do I find in the whole of my knowledge? How easy is it to survey its extent? Consciousness is no longer that anomaly in nature, whose relation to existence is so incomprehensible, it is native to it, one of the necessary manifestations. Nature rises gradually in the definite series of her productions. In unorganized matter she is a simple existence. In the plant and the animal she turns back to operate internally on herself to produce form and motion. In man, as her highest masterpiece, she perceives and contemplates herself and becomes twofold. Existence and consciousness in one What I know of my own existence and of its limitations is easy to explain. My existence and my knowledge have one common foundation in nature. My existence must necessarily be aware of itself, for therefore do I call it mine. And my recognition of corporeal objects without myself is equally comprehensible. The forces in whose manifestation my personality consists, the formative, the moving, the thinking powers, exist not through all nature, but only within definite limits. By the limitation of my own being I perceive other existences which are not me. Of the first I am immediately conscious and the knowledge of the latter is its necessary consequence. Away, then, with those imaginary influences and operations of external things upon me, by means of which they are supposed to force upon me a knowledge which is not in and cannot proceed out of them. The foundation of my belief in the existence of an external world lies in myself and not in it in the limitations of my own being. By means of these limitations the thinking principle in me proceeds out of herself and obtains a knowledge of the whole, but every individual regards it from a different point of view. In this manner I obtain the idea of other thinking beings like myself. I, or the thinking power within me, become aware of some thoughts which have developed themselves from within. And of others, which, not having so developed themselves, lead me to infer the existence of other thinking beings like myself. Nature in me is conscious of the whole of herself, but only thus. That beginning with individual consciousness she proceeds to the consciousness of universal being by explanation according to the law of causality. The law of causality affords a point of transition from the particular within myself to the universal, which lies beyond the limits of my being. And the distinguishing characteristic of these two kinds of knowledge is that one is the immediate result of contemplation, the other of reasoning. In each individual nature beholds herself from a different point of view. I lie beyond thee, as thou beyond me. From our several points we describe various paths which may here and there intersect each other, but never run parallel. In the consciousness of all individuals taken together consists the complete consciousness of the universe. And there is no other, for only in the individual is limitation and reality. The declaration of the consciousness of every individual is infallible if it be the consciousness hitherto described, for this consciousness develops itself out of the whole course of the laws of nature. Nature cannot contradict herself. Wherever there is a conception, there must be a correlative existence. For conceptions are produced simultaneously with their correlatives. To every individual is his particular consciousness determinant, for it proceeds from his nature. No one can have another kind or degree of it than he actually has. The substance of his knowledge is determined by the place which he occupies in the universe, its clearness and vividness by the higher or lower degree of efficacy manifested by the force of humanity in his person. Give to nature a single definition of a person. Let it be ever so apparently trivial, the course of a muscle, the turn of a hair. She would be able, had she a universal consciousness, to declare what would be his whole course of thought during his whole course of being. According to this system also, it is easy to comprehend the phenomenon of our consciousness, called the will. Will is the immediate consciousness of the activity of the inward powers of our nature. The immediate consciousness of an effort and aspiration of these powers which is not yet activity, because restrained by opposing forces, this is inclination or desire. The struggle of contending forces is irresolution. The victory of one is the resolution of the will. Should the force, striving after activity, be one that we have in common with the plant or the animal, there arises a discord and degradation of our inward being. The desire is not suitable to our rank in the order of things, and according to a common expression may be called the low one. Should it comprehend our whole undivided humanity, it is suitable to our nature and may be called a moral law. The activity of this latter is a virtuous will, and the actions resulting from it are virtue. Whichever of these forces should obtain the victory obtains it of necessity. Its superiority is determined by the whole connection of the universe. By the same connection also is the want of virtue or the vice of each individual irrevocably determined. But notwithstanding this, virtue is still virtue and vice, vice. The virtuous man is still a noble, excellent production of nature. The vicious, and ignoble, and contemptible one. But both are equally creatures of necessity. There is indeed such a feeling as remorse, the consciousness of the continued aspiration of humanity in me, even after it has been overcome, a disquieting, but still costly pledge of our noble nature. From this consciousness arises the conscience, and its greater or less susceptibility down to its absolute defection in various individuals. An ignoble nature is not capable of repentance, for the force of humanity in him is not capable of contending with the lower impulses. Reward and punishment are the natural consequences of virtue and vice, for the production of new virtue and new vice. By frequent and important victories, the peculiar force is strengthened and extended. By inactivity or frequent defeat, it becomes weaker and weaker. The ideas of guilt, of imputed transgression, have no meaning, but what relates to the laws of society. He only is guilty who compels society to employ an artificial external force, to restrain in him the impulses which would be injurious to the general welfare. End of Section 3 Section 4 of The Destination of Man By Johann Gottlieb Fichte Translated by Jane Sinett This is a LibriVox recording, all LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Chapter 4 Doubt Inquiry is closed My inquiry is closed, and my desire of knowledge satisfied. I know what I am, and wherein consists the nature of my species. I am a manifestation of a self-determining power of nature, whose operation is determined by the whole of the universe. It is impossible for me to obtain an insight into my individual being in its foundations, for I cannot penetrate into the interior of nature. But I have an immediate consciousness of what I am at the present moment. I can mostly remember what I have been, and I shall learn and do time what I shall be. This discovery can indeed be of no use to me in the regulation of my actions, for I do not truly act at all. Nature acts in me, and to make myself other than what nature has made me is totally out of my power. I may repent and rejoice, and form good resolutions, although strictly speaking I cannot even do this, for all these things come to me of themselves when it is appointed for them to do so. Most certainly I cannot, by all my repentance, by all my resolutions, produce the smallest alteration in the appointed course of things. I stand under the inexorable power of rigid necessity. Should she have destined me to become a fool and a profligate, a fool and a profligate, without doubt, I shall become. Should she have destined me to be wise and good, wise and good, I shall doubtless be. There is neither merit nor blame to be ascribed to her or to me. She stands under her own laws, I under hers. It would therefore contribute to my tranquillity to subject even my wishes to that power to which my existence is entirely subject. O these rebellious wishes! For why should I longer conceal from myself the melancholy, the aversion, the horror which seized me when I saw how my inquiry must end? I had solemnly promised myself that my inclinations should have no influence on the course of my reflections, and as far as I am aware I have really allowed them none. But may I not confess that this result contradicts the deepest wants, wishes, and aspirations of my nature? And how, in spite of its apparent accuracy and the cutting sharpness of the proofs by which it seems to be supported, can I truly believe in an explanation of my nature which destroys every hope for which I wish to live, and without which I should curse my existence? Why should my heart mourn at all and be lacerated by that which so perfectly satisfies my understanding? When nothing in nature contradicts itself, is the life of man only a perpetual contradiction, or perhaps not the life of man in general, but only of me, and of those who resemble me? Had I but remained content in the pleasant delusions that surround me, then satisfied with the consciousness of my existence without those anxious questionings whose solution has made me miserable? But if this solution be the true one, I could do no otherwise than I have done. I did not raise these difficulties, but the thinking nature within me raised them. I was destined to this misery, and I mourn in vain the innocent unconsciousness which is lost to me forever. But let me take courage. Should I lose all else, let that never forsake me. Merely for the sake of my wishes did they appear ever so sacred, or did they lie ever so deep in my heart? I cannot renounce what appears to rest on irrefragable proofs. But I may perhaps have aired in my investigation. I may have taken but a one-sided or too narrow view of the question. I should begin the inquiry again from the opposite point. What is it that I find so revolting in the decision to which I have come? To what did my wishes point? Let me before all things make clear to myself what are the inclinations to which I appeal. That I should, by necessity, be either wise or good, or foolish or vicious, without having in one case or the other merit or fault. This it was that filled me with aversion and horror. The determination of my actions by a cause out of myself, whose manifestations were again determined by other causes. This it was from which I so violently revolted. The freedom which was not mine, but that of a foreign power, and, in that, only a conditional half-freedom. This it was with which I could not rest satisfied. I myself, that which in this system only appears as the manifestation of a higher existence, I will be independent, will be something, not by another, or through another. Not by another, or through another, but of myself. The rank in which that system is assumed by an original power of nature I will myself occupy, and with this difference, that the modes of my manifestations shall not be limited by any foreign powers. I will have an inward force, a peculiar capacity of manifold, infinite manifestation like those powers of nature, but whose movements shall not be, like theirs, limited or defined by external conditions. What then, according to my wish, shall be the seat and center of this peculiar inward force. Not my body, evidently, for that I willingly allow to pass for a manifestation of the powers of nature. Not my sensual inclinations, for these I regard as the relations of these powers to my consciousness. My capacities of thought and of volition, then? Nothing will content me but absolute freedom of the will, by means of which I may act on, and mold and move, first my own frame, and through it the world surrounding me. My active natural powers shall be subordinate to my will, and absolutely set in motion by no other force. I will have freedom to seek a supreme spiritual good, and a capacity to recognize it, and if I do not find it, the fault shall be mine. My actions shall be the immediate result of my own will, and of no other power, whatever. The powers of my mind and body, determined and subject to the dominion of my will, shall operate on the external world. I will be the Lord of nature, and she shall be my servant. I will influence her according to the measure of my capacity, but she shall have no influence on me. These, then, are my wishes and aspirations, and they are wholly denied and contradicted by a system that has nevertheless satisfied my understanding. Instead of being independent of nature and of any spiritual law not self-imposed, I am merely a definite link in her mighty chain. If such a freedom as I have described be at all conceivable, it is possible that a more complete and thorough investigation may discover it to me, and compel me to receive it as a reality, and to ascribe it to myself, so as to afford an entire refutation of my former conclusions. This is now the question. I will be free in the sense stated. I will make myself whatever I shall be. I must then, and herein lies the difficulty, and indeed at first cite the absurdity of the idea. I must already be in a certain sense that which I would become in order to become so. I must possess a twofold being of which the first shall contain the fundamental determining principle of the second. If I interrogate my consciousness, I find that I have the knowledge of various possibilities of action, from amongst which, as it appears to me, I can choose any one. I run through the whole circle, enlarge it, compare one with the other, and at length decide on one, and this resolution of my will is followed by a corresponding action. Here, then, certainly I am in thought, what subsequently, by means of this thought, I am in will and in action. I am, as a thinking, what I afterwards am as an active being. I have determined my existence in reality by my thought, and my thought absolutely by previous thought. One can conceive of any certain state of a mere manifestation of one of the powers of nature, of a plant, for instance, as preceded by another intermediate state, in which, left to itself, it might have assumed any one of an infinite variety of possible manifestations. These manifold possibilities certainly exist in it, but not for it, since it is not for a mere manifestation. It is not capable of the idea, and cannot choose, or of itself, put an end to this state of indecision. This must be affected by an external cause, which will determine it to one or other of these various possibilities. This possible determination can have no previous existence in thought, for the plant is capable of only one mode, that of real existence. In maintaining formerly that the manifestation of every force must receive its complete determination from without, I took cognizance without doubt only of such as our incapable of consciousness, and have merely an existence in the phenomenal world. Of them the above assertion holds true without the slightest limitation. With respect to intelligences, the grounds of this assertion are not admissible, and it appears therefore overhasty to extend it to them. Freedom, such as I have described, is conceivable only of intelligence, but under its assumption man, as well as nature, is perfectly comprehensible. My corporeal frame, and my capacity of operating on the world of sense, are, as in the former system, manifestations of certain powers existing in nature, and my natural inclinations are the relations of these manifestations to my consciousness. The mere cognition of what exists independently of me arises under this supposition of freedom, as well as in the former system, and so far both agree. But here begins the contradiction. Under the former system my capacity of sensuous activity remains under the dominion of nature, and it is set in motion by the same power which produced it, and thought has no other affair than that of looking on. According to the present system, this capacity, when once produced, falls under the dominion of a power above nature, and entirely superior to her laws. The office of thought is no longer merely to contemplate, but to set in motion this capacity. In the one case, forces, to me external and invisible, put an end to my state of indecision, and limit my capacity and my consciousness of it. That is to say, my will, to a certain point, exactly as in the plant. In the other, I find myself free and independent of the influence of all external forces, putting a voluntary end to the state of indecision, and determining my own action according to the degree of knowledge I may have attained of what appears best. Which of these two opinions shall I adopt? Am I a free agent, or am I merely the manifestation of a foreign power? Neither appears sufficiently well founded. For the first, there is nothing more to be said than that it is conceivable. In the latter, I extend a proposition perfectly valid on its own ground, further than it can properly reach. If intelligences are indeed merely manifestations of a certain power of nature, I do quite right to extend this proposition to them. The question is only whether they really are such, and it shall be solved by reasoning from other premises. Not, however, from a one-sided answer assumed at the very commencement of the inquiry, in which I deduce no more from the proposition than I have previously placed in it. There does not seem to be sufficient proof of either of these two positions. The case cannot be decided by immediate consciousness. I can never become conscious either of the external forces, which in the system of universal necessity determine my actions, nor of my own individual power, by which, under the supposition of free agency, I determine myself. Whichever of the two systems I shall adopt, it appears that I must do so without sufficient proof. The system of freedom satisfies, the opposite one kills, annihilates the feeling of my heart. To stand by, cold and passive, amidst the vicissitudes of events, a mere mirror to reflect the fugitive forms of objects floating by, such an existence as this is insupportable to me. I despise and renounce it. I will love. I will lose myself in sympathy for another. I am to myself, even, an object of the highest sympathy, which can be satisfied only by my actions. I will rejoice and I will mourn. I will rejoice when I have done what I call right. I will lament when I have done wrong. And even this sorrow shall be dear to me. For it will be a pledge of future amendment. In love only is life, without it is death and annihilation. Coldly and insolently does the opposite system advance, and turn this love into a mockery, the object of my deepest attachment into a delusion, a cobweb of the brain. It is not I but a foreign and to me unknown power that acts in me. I stand abashed with my affections of the heart and my virtuous will, and blush for what is best and purest in my nature, for the sake of which alone I wish to be at all, as for an absurdity and a folly. What is holiest in me has become a prey for scorn. It was without doubt my interest in these feelings and affections which induced me, although unconsciously, in the commencement of the inquiry which has driven me to despair, to regard myself at once as free and independent. And it was also this interest which has led me to carry out, even to conviction, an opinion which has nothing in its favor, but its possibility, and the impossibility of proving the contrary. It was this which had hitherto restrained me from this undertaking, from the attempt to explain my own nature and existence. The opposite system, barren and heartless indeed, but inexhaustible in explanation, will explain also this wish for freedom, and this aversion to the contrary supposition. It explains all my objections drawn from my own consciousness, and as often as I say I find thus and thus, it replies with the same horrible calmness that I say also, and more than that I will explain why it is of necessity thus. Thou standest, will it answer to my complaints, when thou speakest of thy heart, thy love, thy sympathy, at the point of immediate consciousness of thine own being, and thou hast confessed this already in asserting that thou art to thyself an object of the highest interest. Now it is already known and proved that this thou, for which thou art so deeply interested, where it is not an active force, is at least an impulse of thy individual inward nature. It is well known that every impulse reacts on itself, and incites itself to action. It is therefore conceivable how this impulse must manifest itself in a conscious being, as love, as aspiration after free individual efficacy. Couldest thou change thy narrow point of vision in self-consciousness for the higher one of the universe, which thou hast promised thyself to take, it would become clear to thee that what thou hast named thyself love is but the interest which the power manifesting itself in thee has to maintain itself in this manifestation. Do not then appeal again to thyself love, which, if it should prove anything, would merely prove that nature in thee was interested in her own preservation. Thou hast readily admitted that, although in the plant there exists a peculiar instinct or impulse to grow and develop itself, the activity of this impulse is defined and limited by forces lying beyond itself. Bestow for the moment consciousness upon the plant, and it will contemplate, with interest and self-love, this its instinct of growth. Convince it by reasoning that this instinct is not able of itself to affect anything whatever, but that the measure of its expression of itself is always determined by something out of itself. And it will perhaps speak as thou hast spoken, and behave in a manner that may be pardoned in a plant, but by no means in thee, who art unquestioningly a higher production of nature and capable of contemplating the universal whole. What can I answer to this representation? Should I attempt to place myself in this much talked-of universal point of vision, doubtless I must blush and be silent? It is therefore a question whether I shall do this, or confine myself to the range of my own consciousness, whether knowledge shall be subordinated to love or love to knowledge. The one has but a bad reputation among people of understanding, the other renders me indescribably miserable by annihilating myself in myself. I cannot do the one without appearing in my own eyes to commit a folly, nor the other without what seems a moral suicide. The question cannot remain undecided, for on its solution hangs the whole dignity and tranquility of my existence. I find it nevertheless impossible to decide, and have absolutely no ground of decision for one opinion or the other. Intolerable state of uncertainty and irresolution? By the most courageous resolve of my life am I reduced to this. What power can save me from it? From myself. End of Section 4. Section 5 of The Destination of Man by Johann Gottlieb Ficht translated by Jane Sinet This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Chapter 5 Knowledge, Wonder Spirit The character I read by Kevin S. Spirit read by Larry Wilson Sorrow and anxiety corrode at my heart. I cursed the day which recalled me to an existence in whose truth and significance I could no longer trust. I waken in the night from unquiet dreams, but I sought in vain for a ray of spiritual light that might lead me out of the labyrinth of doubt which I had become entangled. Once at the hour of midnight a wondrous spirit appeared to pass before me and to address me. Poor mortal, I heard it say. Thou heapest error upon error, infanciest thyself wise. Thou tremblest before the terrible pictures which thou hast thyself toiled to create. Take courage to be truly wise. I bring thee no new revelation, all that I can teach thee, thou already knowest, and I need but recall it to thy remembrance. I cannot deceive thee, for thou thyself will declare me in the right, and shouldest thou be deceived, thou wilt deceive thyself. Listen, then, and reply to my questions. I took courage. The appeal is to be made to my own understanding, and I will rely on its decision. He cannot force me to think otherwise than I do think. What is to produce conviction in me must be the result of my own reasoning. Speak, wonderful spirit, I exclaim. Whatever thou art, speak, and I will listen. Question me, and I will answer. Thou wilt admit that the objects thou seeest around thee really have existence out of thyself? Certainly I do. And how, then, does thou know of this existence? I see them, hear them, feel them. They discover themselves to me through all my senses. Indeed, thou wilt perhaps presently be inclined to take back the assertion that thou really seeest, feelest, and hearest these objects. For the present I will speak in thine own manner, as if by means of thy sight, touch, and hearing, and by them only thou didst perceive the real existence of objects. But observe by means of thy sight, touch, and other senses. Or is it not so? Does thou perceive them otherwise than through thy senses, and can an object be said to exist for thee, otherwise than thou seeest, hearest it, et cetera? By no means. Objects are therefore perceptible merely in consequence of a certain modification of the external senses. Thou knowest of their existence merely by thy knowledge of this affection or modification of thy sight, touch, et cetera. The phrase thou hast employed, these objects exist out of myself, resolves itself into this. I see, hear, feel, and so forth. This is my meaning. And how then does thou know that thou seeest, hearest, feelest, and so forth? I do not understand thee. Thy questions appear to me unintelligible. I will endeavor to explain them. Does thou see thy sight, and feel thy touch, or hast thou a higher sense by which thou perceives the affection of thy organs of sense? I have not. I know immediately that I see and feel, and what I see and feel. I know this immediately and absolutely. I know it because it is, and not at all by the intervention of any other sense. For this reason my question appeared strange to me, because it appeared to throw a doubt on this immediate perception. This was not my intention. I wished only to induce thee to make clear to thyself this immediate perception. Thou hast therefore an immediate consciousness of sight and touch. Thou art conscious of a certain affection of thyself? Doubtless I am. Thou hast a consciousness of thy scene, feeling, and so forth, and thereby thou obtainest a perception of the object. Couldst thou not perceive it without this consciousness? Canst thou not perceive the existence of an object by sight or touch without knowing that thou seeest or touchest? Certainly not. It is then the immediate consciousness of thyself and of the modifications of thyself, which forms the necessary condition of all other consciousnesses. Thou canst not know anything without knowing that thou knowest it? Certainly I cannot. Therefore that objects exist knowest thou only in as much as thou seeest, touchest them, and so forth, and that thou seeest or touchest, thou hast an immediate consciousness. In all perception thou perceiveest only thyself and thine own state, and what does not affect this state is not perceived at all. I have already admitted this. I would repeat it in every variety of form, if I saw reason to doubt that thou has thoroughly comprehended, and permanently impressed it on thy mind. Canst thou say I am conscious of external objects? By no means if I speak accurately. For the sight and touch by which I perceive objects are not consciousness itself, but only that of which I am first and most immediately conscious. Strictly speaking I can say no more than that I am conscious of seeing and touching. Remember then that thou hast now clearly understood that in all perception thou perceiveest only thine own state a being. I will, however, continue to speak thy language, since it is most familiar. Thou hast said that thou canst see, hear, and feel objects. But then with what attributes does thou see or feel them? I see this object blue, that red, when I touch them I find this smooth, that rough, this cold, that warm. Thou knowest then what is red and blue, cold and warm, smooth and rough. Undoubtedly I do. Will thou then explain to me what they are? That cannot be explained. Look direct thine eye towards the object, the sensation of which thou art conscious, through thy vision I call red. Touch the surface of this object, what thou feelest I call smooth. In the same way I have arrived at this knowledge and there is no other method. But can we not, at all events, from some of these qualities, known immediately by sensation, deduce a knowledge of others differing from them? If for instance any one had seen red, green, and yellow, but never a blue color, had tasted sour, sweet, and salt, but never bitter, could he not, by reflection and comparison, attain to a knowledge of what was blue or bitter, without having ever seen or tasted either? Certainly not. What is matter of sensation can only be felt, not thought. We cannot obtain it by deduction, it must be by immediate perception. Strange, that thou shouldst boast of a kind of knowledge, which thou hast attained thou knowest not how. Thou hast asserted that thou canst see equality in one object, feel one in other, hear one in a third, and thou must therefore be able to distinguish sight from touch, and both from hearing. Thou wilt maintain further that this object is blue, that red, this smooth, that rough. Thou must therefore be able to distinguish red from blue, as smooth from rough. Most certainly. And this difference has been discovered according to thine own assertion, not by reflection and comparison of thine own sensations, therefore perhaps by comparison of objects out of thyself. This is impossible, for my perception of objects proceeds from my perception of the variations of my own state of being, and depends upon it. By these variations only do I distinguish objects at all. I learn indeed to connect these sensations with the arbitrary signs, red, blue, smooth, and rough. But I do not learn to distinguish these sensations themselves, this I do immediately. I cannot indeed describe how they differ, but I know that they must differ as much as the sensations they produce. And thou canst distinguish these independently of all knowledge of the objects themselves. I must so distinguish them, for my knowledge of things in themselves depends on these distinctions. Which knowledge is obtained, therefore, merely through thy consciousness of the various states or affections of thine own being? By no other means. But in this case thou shouldst content thyself with saying, I feel myself affected in the manner that I call red, blue, smooth, rough. Thou shouldst assert nothing further of these, than that they are sensations existing in thyself, and not transfer them to an object lying entirely out of thyself, and declare them to be modifications of those objects, whilst they are, in fact, only modifications of thyself. Or dost thou, by calling things red, blue, and so forth, really mean anything more than thou art affected in a certain manner by them? I perceive that I really know no more than what thou sayest, and that transposition of what is in me to something out of myself is very strange, though nevertheless I cannot refrain from it. My sensations are in myself and not in the object, for I am myself and not the object. I am conscious only of my own state, and not of that of the object. And if there be any such thing as consciousness of the object, it can be neither sensation nor perception. Thus much is clear. Thy conclusions are quickly formed. Let us look at this matter on all sides, that I may be sure that thou wilt not, sometime or other, wish to draw back from what thou hast now freely admitted. Is there, then, in the object, according to thy usual conception of it, anything more than its red color, its smooth surface, and so on? In short, anything besides the characteristic marks of which, by sensation, thou art conscious? I believe there is, besides these qualities there is the thing itself to which they belong, a supporter of these attributes. But by what sense does thou perceive this supporter of attributes? Does thou see it, or feel it, or what? Or is there perhaps for this a peculiar sense? No, I believe that I see and feel it. Indeed. Let us examine this a little more closely. Art thou then conscious of sight absolutely, or only of seeing certain things? My consciousness of sight is always limited to certain objects. And what was this limited consciousness of sight with respect to the object before us? That of red color. And this red is something positive, a simple sensation, a certain state of thine own existence? This I comprehend. Thy conception, therefore, should be simply of a redness and nothing more. But the conception is nevertheless of red, extended over a broad surface, a surface which thou dost not see. How is this? I believe I can explain it. Though it is strange I do not indeed see the surface, but I feel it when I pass my hand over it, and as my sensation of sight remains the same during that action, I imagine the red extended over the surface since I always see the same red. It may be, so if thou feel it's only a surface, but let us see if this be really the case. Thy sense of touch is not absolute. That is, thou art always conscious of touching something. Certainly. Sensation is always definite. We never merely see, or hear, or feel, but always see color, red, green, blue, feel smooth, rough, cold, warm. Hear the voice of man, the sound of the violin. Let that be settled between us once for all. Willingly. And in what thou has called feeling a surface, thou art immediately conscious of nothing more than a feeling smooth or rough and so on. Certainly. This smooth or rough is like the red color, a sensation entirely simple. And I ask why this simple sensation should be extended in thy conception over a surface any more than the simple sensation of sight. This smooth surface is not, perhaps, in all points, equally smooth, but is merely so in various degrees, only that language does not afford me any signs by which to express their differences. I distinguish them, however, unconsciously, and conceiving them as placed by the sight of each other. I thus form the conception of surface. But canst thou have opposite sensations at the same moment, be affected at the same time in such different ways? By no means. Those various degrees of smoothness, which thou hast assumed in order to attempt to explain what thou canst not explain, are nevertheless nothing more than various successive sensations. I cannot deny this. Thou search then describe them according to thy real experience, as existing successively to one another in time, and not as simultaneously existing in space. I see this, and I find that nothing is gained by my assumption, but my hand with which I touched the object, and cover it, is itself a surface, and by it I perceive the other surface, which is also a greater one, since I can spread my hand several times upon it. Thy hand is a surface. How dost know thou that? How dost thou attain the consciousness of thy hand at all? Is there any other way that by means of it thou canst feel other objects, or that it can be employed as an implement or tool, or that thou perceivest it by its touching some other part of thy body? No, there is no other way. I feel with my hand some other object, where I feel the hand itself by the sensation of some other part of my body. I have no immediate, absolute consciousness of my hand any more than of the sense of sight or touch in general. Let us take the case merely in which the hand is regarded as an implement, for that will decide at the same time the second. In the immediate perception of it can lie nothing further than what belongs to touch and to sensation in general, to that which leads the unconsciousness to regard thyself as the conscious being. Either thy sensation is of the same kind, in which case I cannot see why thou shouldst extend it over a surface, and not rather conceive of it as a point. Or, if thy sensations are various, why thou dost not conceive of them as succeeding one another at the same point? That thy hand should appear to thee as a surface is just as inexplicable as the idea of a surface in general. Do not employ, what is itself unexplained, to explain anything further. The second case in which thy hand or any other member is itself the object of sensation, it is easily understood from the first. Thou perceivest it by means of another part, which then becomes the sentient one. I ask the same question concerning it, and thou wilt just as little be able to answer. So will it be with every other surface? It may be that the consciousness of extension out of thyself precedes from the consciousness of thine own extension as a material body, and depends upon it, but it is then necessary to explain this extension of thy material body. It is enough. I perceive clearly that I neither see nor feel the superficial extension of the properties of bodies. I see that it is my constant practice to conceive as extended over a surface, what nevertheless in sensation is merely a point, and to represent as contemporaneously existing what I know only as successive. I discover that I've perceived, in fact, exactly as the geometry does in the construction of his figures, extending points to lines and lines to surfaces. Seems strange that I should do so. Thou dost what is yet more strange. This outer surface, this extension, thou canst not indeed truly see or feel, or perceive by any sense, but at least thou canst see red upon it and feel smoothness. But why dost thou extend this surface to a solid mathematical figure, and assume the existence of an inward body beneath the surface? Canst thou see it, feel it, or by any sense recognize its existence? By no means. The space within the surface is impenetrable to my senses. And yet thou hast assumed the existence of an interior which thou hast not perceived by any sense. I confess it. My surprise increases. What is then this something beneath the surface? I conceive of it as something similar to the surface, something tangible. We must examine this more closely. Canst thou divide the mass in which thou hast imagined the body to consist? I can. Of course I do not mean with instruments, but in thought divide it to infinity. No part can be so small as not to be further divisible. And in this division, does thou ever reach a point at which these particles become no longer perceptible in themselves? I say in themselves, that is, not merely with reference to thy senses. I do not. Sensible, perceptible, absolutely, or with certain properties of color, roughness, smoothness, and the like. Undoubtedly with certain properties nothing can be sensible or perceptible, absolutely, without reference to any property that can be perceived. This is but to extend to the mass the susceptibilities that belong to thyself, which lead thee to regard what is visible as colored, what is tangible as rough, smooth, and the like. Yet these things are only certain affections of thine own organ of sense. Or does thou think otherwise? By no means. This is merely a necessary inference from what I have already admitted. And yet thou hast in reality no perception but of the surface. By breaking it I could perceive an interior. So much thou knowest therefore in advance. And this infinite divisibility, in which as thou hast maintained thou canst not reach a point at which the atoms become absolutely imperceptible, has thou ascertained it by experiment, or canst thou do so? Certainly I cannot. Do sensations therefore which thou hast had, thou hast added in thy conception, others which thou hast not had, and canst not have? I am sensible only of a surface. I am not sensible of what lies beneath it. Yet I assume that it exists. This I must admit. And when brought to the test of experiment, the real sensation is found to correspond with thy preconception? Certainly when I break through the surface of a body I find beneath something perceptible as I have before said. But thou hast also spoken of something beyond senses, and not perceptible to them. I have asserted that in the division of a corporal mass to infinity I can never come to what is in itself imperceptible, although I can never make this division. Of the object therefore we have nothing remaining but what is perceptible, what possesses the property of producing sensation. And this perceptibility thou hast extended through a cohesive mass divisible to infinity, so that the true supporter of attributes, the object which thou hast sought, must, after all, be nothing more than the space which it occupies. Although I cannot be satisfied with this, but must still conceive in the object something more than this property of perceptibility, and the space which it occupies, yet I must confess that I cannot explain what that is. Confess whatever really appears to thee at the moment to be true. What is now dark will presently become brighter, and the unknown be made known. The space itself is not perceived, and thou canst not understand why this perceptibility should be extended in conception through a space. Just as little canst thou understand how the idea of something perceptible out of thyself has been attained, since thou art really conscious of a sensation in thyself, not as the property of a thing, but as the peculiar affection or state of thine own being. I see clearly that I perceive in reality nothing more than my own state of being, and not the object in itself. I neither see it, feel it, nor hear it. But on the contrary, precisely there where the object should be, all seeing, feeling, and so forth comes to an end. Sensations, as affections of myself, are simple and have no extension. They are not contiguous to one another in space, but successive to one another in time. I do, however, conceive them as contiguous in space, and it appears to me that it may be exactly at this point, this extension, and this changing of what is only a perception in myself, to something perceptible without me, that a consciousness of the object arises within me. This conjecture may be verified, but could we raise it immediately to a conviction we should yet attain to no clear insight for the higher question would remain to be answered? Why does thou extend thy sensation through a space? Let us then immediately state this question. I have my reason for this in the following more general manner. How does it happen that from thy consciousness, which is nothing more than consciousness of thine own state, thou proceedest beyond thyself in order to add to the perception of which thou art conscious, a something perceptible of which thou art not conscious. End of Section 5 Section 6 of The Destination of Man by Johann Gottlieb Ficht Translated by Jane Sinet This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Chapter 6 Knowledge, Idea of Causality Chapter 7 The Character I, Read by Kevin S Spirit, Read by Larry Wilson Sweet or bitter, rough or smooth, cold or warm, an agreeable or disagreeable smell signifies nothing more than what awakens in me, this or that sensation. In the case is the same with respect to sounds. A relation to myself is always indicated and it never occurs to me that the sweet or bitter taste, the pleasant or unpleasant smell, lies in the thing itself. It lies in me and is only excited by the presence of the object. It appears indeed as if the case might be different with the affection of the sight, such as colors, which might not be pure sensations, but something intermediate. Yet when we think well of it, red, blue, and so on, mean nothing more than what produces a certain sensation of sight. This leads me to conjecture how I may attain to a knowledge of things outside of myself. I am affected in a certain manner, this I know absolutely, and my affection must have a cause which does not exist in me, and must consequently exist out of me. I reason thus instantaneously and involuntarily, and assume the existence of such a cause in the object. This cause must necessarily be one from which my sensation can be explained. I am affected in a certain manner which I call a sweet taste, and the object must therefore be of a kind to awaken a sweet taste, or by a more rapid form of speech must be sweet, and in this manner I determine the object. There is some truth in this, although it is not the whole truth. What this is may perhaps appear in due time. Since, however, in other cases as well as this, thou wilt return incontestably to this idea of a cause, we will endeavor to render perfectly clear what is really meant by it. We will admit that the assertion is perfectly correct, that by an involuntary course of reasoning, from the effect to the cause, thou has first attained to a knowledge of the object. What then was it of which thou were't conscious in perception? Of being affected in a certain manner. But of an object affecting thee in a certain manner, thou was not conscious in perception? By no means I have already admitted this. By this idea of causality, therefore thou art unable to add to a knowledge which thou hast, another which thou hast not? The expression is strange. Perhaps I may succeed in rendering it less so. Let my expressions, however, appear to thee as they may, they are intended merely to lead thee to produce in thine own mind the same train of thoughts that I have produced in mine. When thou hast mastered the idea, express it as thou wilt, and with as much variety as possible, and to be sure that thou wilt always express it well. How and by what means does thou know of this affection of thyself? I know not how to answer thee in words, because my subjective consciousness, as far as I am an intelligent being, is inseparably united with this knowledge, because I am no further conscious than as I am aware of these affections. Thou hast therefore an organ or faculty that of consciousness by which thou perceives these affections? I have, but an organ or faculty by which thou perceives the existence of the object in itself, thou hast not? Since thou hast convinced me that I neither see nor feel the object itself, nor embrace it with any external organ, I find myself compelled to confess that I have not. Consider well of this admission. What is an external sense in general, and how can it be external if it does not take cognizance of the external object, but only of the affections or states of thine own being? I do distinguish green, sweet, red, smooth, bitter, rough, the sound of a violin and of a trumpet. Among these sensations I discover in some a certain similarity, although in some other respects I perceive their difference. Thus green and red though different are both sensations of sight, rough and smooth of touch, sweet and bitter of taste. Sight, taste, and so forth are not in themselves sensations, for I never see or feel absolutely, but always as thou hast already remarked, see red or green, taste sweet or bitter, etc. Sight and taste are only higher forms or classes, to which I refer the immediate sensations. I see in them no external senses, for they take cognizance only of the modifications of the inward sense of the affections of my being. How I come to regard them as external senses is the question, for I do not take back my assertion that I have no organ for the object itself. Thou speakest nevertheless of objects, as if by some organ their existence were really known to thee. I do so. And this according to thy previous assumption, and consequence of a knowledge which thou really dispossess, and for which thou hast an organ, and for the sake of this knowledge. It is so. Thy real knowledge, that of thy sensations or affections, is to thee like an imperfect knowledge, which requires to be completed by another. This other new kind of knowledge thou hast described to thyself, not as what thou hast, but as what thou shouldst have, if it were not that thou hast no organ by which to attain it. I know nothing indeed, thou seemest to say, of things existing out of myself, but they must nevertheless exist if I could but find them. A relation is thus formed with them and thought, by means of a supposed faculty, which nevertheless thou dost not possess. Strictly speaking, thou hast no consciousness of things in themselves, but only by means of the idea of causality, a consciousness of which should be a consciousness of things, but which does not really belong to thee. Thou wilt therefore admit, that to a knowledge which thou hast, thou hast added another which thou hast not. I must allow this. We will call this second knowledge, obtained by means of another, immediate, and the first an immediate knowledge. The latter presents itself to thee simultaneously, with the consciousness of existence. The former is deduced from it. It is not, however, successive to it in time, for I am conscious of the object at the same moment which I am conscious of myself. I did not speak of a succession in time. My meaning was that when thou couldst distinguish by reflection thy consciousness of thyself from that of the object, and inquire about their connection, thou wouldst discover that the former was the necessary condition of the latter, which depended wholly upon it. If this be all, I have already admitted as much. The second consciousness, I repeat, is produced engendered by a real act of the mind. Or does thou find it otherwise? I do indeed add to the consciousness of sensation, which is simultaneous with that of existence, another which I do not find in myself. And as by this I double and complete my real consciousness, I may be said to perform a mental act. I am, however, tempted either to take back my admission or the whole supposition. I am perfectly conscious of performing a mental act when I form a universal conception, when in doubtful cases I choose one of various possible modes of action which lie before me. Of the mental act, however, which, according to thy assertion, I perform in the representation of an object out of myself, I am not conscious at all. Do not be deceived of these acts of the mind that thou art only conscious by proceeding through previous states of irresolution and indetermination, to which these acts put an end. In the case I have supposed, there is no previous indecision. The mind has no need of deliberation concerning the object producing a definite sensation. An act of the mind of which we are conscious, as such, is called freedom. An act without consciousness of action is called spontaneity. I by no means assume as necessary any immediate consciousness of the act, but merely that on subsequent reflection thou should perceive it to be an act. The higher question of what it is that prevents any such state of indecision or any consciousness of the act, we may perhaps subsequently be able to solve. This act of the mind is called thought, a word which I also shall employ, and it is said that thought is a spontaneous act to distinguish it from sensation in which the mind is merely receptive and passive. How then does it happen that to the sensation which thou certainly hast, thou addest in thy thought an object of which thou knowest nothing? I assume as certain that my sensation must have a cause. Will thou then not explain to me what is a cause? I find a certain thing determined this way or that. I am not content with knowing that it is so. I assume that it has become so, and that not by and through itself only. But by means of a power outside of itself, this foreign power that made it what it is contains then its cause. That my sensation must have a cause means merely that it must be produced in me by a force out of myself. This force or cause thou addest in thought to the sensation of which thou art immediately conscious, and thus arises in thee the conception of an object. Let it be so, but now take notice. If thy sensation must have a cause, I admit the correctness of the inference, and I see with what perfect right is assumed the existence of things out of thyself, of which thou knowest nothing. But how then does thou know, and how can it be proved, that thy sensation must have a cause? Or in the more general manner in which thou hast stated the proposition, why can't thou not be satisfied to know that something is? Why must thou assume that it has become so, or that it has become so by means of an extraneous force? I cannot avoid thinking thus. It seems as if I knew this immediately. What this answer, thou knowest it immediately, may signify. We shall see if we are brought back to it as to the only possible one. We will, however, first try all other methods of obtaining, by reasoning, the grounds of the assertion that everything must have a cause. Does thou know this by immediate perception? How could I? Since in perception there is nothing more than a consciousness that in me something is, by no means, however, that it has become so, far less that it has become so by an extraneous force lying beyond the limits of perception. Or is this idea obtained by generalizing thy observation of things out of thyself, whose cause thou hast invariably discovered to lie out of themselves, and applying this observation subsequently to thyself and the very states of thine own being? Do not treat me like a child and ascribe to me evident absurdities. By the idea of cause I first arrive at a knowledge of the existence of things out of myself. How then can I, by observation of these things, attain the idea of a cause? Shall the earth rest on the great elephant, and the great elephant again upon the earth? Is then this idea deduced from another general truth? Which again could be found neither in immediate perception nor in the observation of external things, and concerning the origin of which thou wouldst start further questions. I must say I obtain this fundamental truth by immediate knowledge. It is better that I should say this at once of the idea of causality. Let it be so. We should then obtain besides the first immediate knowledge, by sensation, another immediate knowledge concerning a general truth. This knowledge that thy sensation must have a cause is entirely independent of the knowledge of the things in themselves. Certainly, for the latter is obtained only by means of it. And thou hast it absolutely in thyself? Absolutely. For only by means of it can I proceed out of myself. Out of thyself, therefore, and through thyself, thou prescribes laws to existence and their relations. If I wish to speak accurately, I must say that I prescribe laws to the images of these existences and their relations, which are formed in my own mind. Be it so. Art thou conscious of these laws in any other manner, then by acting in accordance with them? My consciousness of them begins with that of sensation, my representation of an object according to the law of causality is simultaneous with a sensation. Both the consciousness of my own state and the representation of the object producing it are inseparably united. No consciousness occurs between these two, and it is impossible that I should be conscious of this law previously to acting in accordance with it. Thou actest in accordance with this law, therefore, unconsciously and instantaneously. Yet but a short time since, thou didst declare thyself conscious of it and expressed it as a general proposition. How is this? Doubtless thus I observe my own mind subsequently to having thus acted and comprehend these observations in one general proposition. Thou canst therefore become conscious of these acts? Most certainly I can, and I divine thy intention in asking this question. This is the above-mentioned second kind of immediate consciousness that of my actions, as the first is that of my sensation, or passive states. Right. Thou canst become conscious of thine own act subsequently by free observation of thyself and by reflection. Thou art not, however, immediately conscious of it in acting? I must be so, for I am conscious of my representation of the object at the same moment as of this sensation. I have discovered the solution. I am immediately conscious of my act. Only not as such, for it presents itself to me as a consciousness of the object. Subsequently, by free reflection, I become conscious of this as of the act of my own mind. My immediate consciousness is twofold, consisting of a consciousness of a state of suffering, which is sensation, and of action in the representation of an object according to the law of causality, the latter consciousness being immediately connected with the former. My consciousness of the object is only a yet unrecognized consciousness of my production of the representation of an object. Of this production, I know no more than that it is I who produce, and thus is all consciousness, no more than a consciousness of myself, and so far perfectly comprehensible. Am I in the right? Perfectly so. But once then is derived the necessity and universality thou hast ascribed to these propositions to that of causality, for instance. From the immediate feeling that I cannot act otherwise as long as I have reason, and that no other reasonable being can act otherwise, when I say that all that is contingent, such as my sensation, must have a cause, I mean that a cause always was, is, and will be conceived by me, and by every thinking being in a similar case. It appears then that all thy knowledge is merely a knowledge of thyself, that thy consciousness never proceeds beyond thyself, and that what thou hast regarded as a consciousness of the real existence of the object is no more than a consciousness of thine own representation or conception of an object produced according to an inward law of thought and necessarily co-existing with thy sensation. End of Section 6