a
s
t
_________________________
Some
cannot
loosen
their own
chains yet
can
nonetheles
s liberate
their
friends.
--
Nietzsch
e
_________________________
There are few things that Schopenhauer vilified more than
the craving for fame. And, yet, oh how he craved it!
Fame plays an important role in his last
book,
Parerga and Paralipomena,
a two-volume
compilation of incidental observations, essays, and
aphorisms, completed in 1851, nine years before his death.
With a profound sense of accomplishment and relief, he
finished the book and said; "I will wipe my pen and say,
'the rest is silence.'"
But finding a publisher was a challenge: none of his
previous publishers would touch it, having lost too much
money on his other unread works. Even his magnum
opus,
The World as Will and Representation,
had sold only a few copies and received only a single, lack-luster review.
Finally, one of his loyal "evangelists" persuaded a Berlin
bookseller to publish a printing of 750 copies in 1853.
Schopenhauer was to receive ten free copies but no
royalties.
The first volume of
Parerga and Paralipomena
contains a striking triplet of essays on how to gain and
maintain a sense of self-worth. The first essay, "What a
Man Is," describes how creative thinking results in a sense
of inner wealth. Such a path provides self-esteem and
enables one to overcome the basic vacuity and boredom of
life, which results in a ceaseless pursuit of sexual
conquests, travel, and games of chance.
The second essay, "What a Man Has," dissects one
of the major techniques used to compensate for inner
poverty: the endless accumulation of possessions, which
ultimately results in one becoming possessed by one's
possessions.
It is the third essay, "What a Man Represents," that
most clearly expresses his views on fame. A person's self-worth or inner merit is the essential commodity, whereas
fame is something secondary, the mere shadow of merit. "It
is not fame but that whereby we merit it that is of true
value.... a man's greatest happiness is not that posterity
will know something about him but he himself will develop
thoughts that deserve consideration and preservation for
centuries." Self-esteem that is based on inner merit results
in personal autonomy which cannot be wrested from us--it
is in our power--whereas fame is never in our power.
He knew that ablating the desire for fame was not
easy; he likened it to "extracting an obstinate painful thorn
from our flesh" and agreed with Tacitus, who wrote, "The
thirst for fame is the last thing of all to be laid aside by wise men." And he, himself, was never able to lay aside the
thirst for fame. His writings are permeated with bitterness
about his lack of success. He regularly searched
newspapers and journals for some mention, any mention, of
himself or his work. Whenever he was away on a trip, he
assigned this scanning task to Julius Frauenstadt, his most
loyal evangelist. Though he could not stop chaffing at
being ignored, he ultimately resigned himself to never
knowing fame in his lifetime. In later introductions to his
books he explicitly addressed the future generations who
would discover him.
And then the unthinkable came.
Parerga and
Paralipomena,
the very book in which he described the
folly of pursuing fame, made him famous. In this final
work he softened his pessimism, staunched his flow of
jeremiads, and offered wise instruction on how to live.
Though he never renounced his belief that life is but a
"mouldy film on the surface of the earth," and "a useless
disturbing episode in the blissful repose of nothingness," he
took a more pragmatic path in the
Parerga and
Paralipomena.
We have no choice, he said, but to be
condemned to life and must therefore attempt to live with
as little pain as possible. (Schopenhauer always viewed
happiness as a negative state--an absence of suffering--
and treasured Aristotle's maxim "Not to pleasure but to
painlessness do the prudent aspire.")
Accordingly,
Parerga and Paralipomena
offers
lessons on how to think independently, how to retain
skepticism and rationality, how to avoid soothing
supernatural emollients, how to think well of ourselves,
keep our stakes low, and avoid attaching ourselves to what
can be lost. Even though "everyone must act in life's great
puppet play and feel the wire which sets us into motion,"
there is, nonetheless, comfort in maintaining the
philosopher's lofty perspective that, from the aspect of
eternity, nothing really matters--everything passes.
Parerga and Paralipomena
introduces a new tone.
While it continues to emphasize the tragic and lamentable
suffering of existence, it adds the dimension of
connectivity--that is, through the commonality of our
suffering, we are inexorably connected to one another. In
one remarkable passage the great misanthrope displays a
softer, more indulgent, view of his fellow bipeds.
The really proper address between one man and another
should be, instead of Sir, Monsieur,...
my fellow
sufferer.
However strange this may sound, it accords
with the facts, puts the other man in the most correct
light, and reminds us of that most necessary thing,
tolerance, patience, forbearance, and love of one's
neighbor, which everyone needs and each of us
therefore owes to another.
A few sentences later he adds a thought that could
serve well as an opening paragraph in a contemporary
textbook of psychotherapy.
We should treat with indulgence every human folly,
failing, and vice, bearing in mind that what we have
before us are simply our own failings, follies, and vices.
For they are just the failings of mankind to which we
also belong and accordingly we have all the same
failings buried within ourselves. We should not be
indignant with others for these vices simply because
they do not appear in us at the moment.
Parerga and Paralipomena
was a great success,
generating several compilations of selections published
separately under more popular titles
(Aphorisms on
Practical Wisdom, Counsels and Maxims, The Wisdom of
Life, Living Thoughts of Schopenhauer, The Art of
Literature, Religion: A Dialogue).
Soon Schopenhauer's words were on the tongue of the entire educated German
public. Even in neighboring Denmark, Kierkegaard wrote
in his 1854 journal that "all the literary gossips, journalists, and authorlings have begun to busy themselves with S."
Praise ultimately appeared in the press. Great Britain,
Arthur's almost-birthplace, was the first to honor him with
a stunning review of all of his work (titled "Iconoclasm in
German Philosophy") in the prestigious
Westminister
Review.
Shortly afterward this review was translated and widely read in Germany. Similar articles quickly appeared
in France and Italy, and Schopenhauer's life changed
dramatically.
Curious visitors flocked to the Englisher Hof to eye
the philosopher at lunch. Richard Wagner sent him the
original libretto of the
Ring of the Nibelungs
with a
dedication. Universities began to teach his work, learned
societies issued invitations for membership, eulogistic
letters arrived in the post, his previous books reappeared in
bookstores, townspeople greeted him on his walks, and pet
stores had a run on poodles similar to Schopenhauer's.
Schopenhauer's rapture and delight were very
evident. He wrote, "If a cat is stroked it purrs; and just as
inevitably if a man is praised, sweet rapture and delight are
reflected in his face, and expressed the hope" that "the
morning sun of my fame will gild with its first rays the
evening of my life and dispel its gloom." When the eminent
sculptress Elisabeth Ney visited Frankfurt for four weeks to
do a bust of him, Arthur purred, "She works all day at my
place. When I get home we have coffee together, we sit
together on the sofa, and I feel as if I were married."
Not since the best years of his life--the two years
spent as a child in Le Havre with the de Blesimaire
family--had Arthur spoken so tenderly and contentedly of
domestic life.
40
_________________________
At
the end
of
his
life,
no
man, if he
be sincere
and
in
possession
of
his
faculties,
would ever
wish to go
though it
again.
Rather
than this,
he
will
much
prefer to
choose
complete
nonexisten
ce.
_________________________
Members filed in for the penultimate meeting with
contrasting feelings: some felt sorrow about the looming
end of the group, some thought about personal work they
had left undone, some scanned Julius's face as though to
imprint it in their minds, and all were enormously curious
about Pam's response to Philip's revelations of the previous
meeting.
But Pam did not offer satisfaction; instead she
extracted a sheet of paper from her purse, slowly unfolded
it, and read aloud:
A carpenter does not come up to me and say, "listen to
me discourse about the art of carpentry." Instead he
makes a contract for a house and builds it.... Do the
same thing yourself: eat like a man; drink like a man....
get married, have children, take part in civic life, learn
how to put up with insults, and tolerate other people.
Then, turning to Philip, she said, "Written by...guess
who?"
Philip shrugged.
"Your man, Epictetus. That's why I bring it here. I
know you revere him--you brought Julius one of his
fables. Why am I quoting him? I'm merely speaking to the
point raised by Tony and Stuart and others last week that
you've never been 'in life.' I believe that you selectively
pick and choose various passages from philosophers to
support your position and--"
Gill interrupted, "Pam, this is our next-to-last
meeting. If this is another one of your get-Philip tirades, I
don't personally feel I've got time for it. Do what you tell
me to do. Get real and talk about your feelings. You must
have had strong reactions to what Philip said about you last
meeting."
"No, no, hear me out," Pam said quickly. "This is not
'get-Philip' stuff. My motivations are different. The iron is
cooling. I'm trying to say something helpful to Philip. I
think he's compounded his life avoidance by selectively
gathering support from philosophy. He draws from
Epictetus when he needs him and overlooks the same
Epictetus when he doesn't."
"That's a great point, Pam," said Rebecca. "You're
putting your finger on something important. You know, I
bought a copy of a little paperback called the
Wisdom of
Schopenhauer
at a used-book store and have been
skimming it the last couple of nights. It's all over the place: some of it's fabulous and some outrageous. There's a
passage I read yesterday that floored me. He says that if we
go into any cemetery, knock on the tombstones, and ask the
spirits dwelling there if they'd like to live again, every one of them would emphatically refuse." She turned to Philip.
"You believe this?" Without waiting for him to respond,
Rebecca continued, "Well, I don't. He's not speaking for
me. I'd like to check it out. Could we get a vote here?"
"I'd choose to live again. Life's a bitch, but it's a
kick too," said Tony. A chorus of "me too" spread around
the group. "I hesitate for one reason," explained Julius.
"The idea of once again bearing the pain of my wife's
death; but, even so, I'd say yes. I love being alive." Only
Philip held silent.
"Sorry," he said, "but I agree with Schopenhauer.
Life is suffering from start to finish. It would have been
better if life, all life, had never been."
"Better not have been
for whom
?" asked Pam. "For
Schopenhauer, you mean? Apparently not for the folks in
this room."
"Schopenhauer is hardly alone in his position.
Consider the millions of Buddhists. Remember that the first
of the Buddha's four noble truths is that life is suffering."
"Is that a serious answer, Philip? What's happened to