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tabular_rasaThis is another one of those Wow-I-Think-Everyone's-Been-On-One-Side-Or-The-Other conversations, like Cassius and Brutus's disagreement over loyalty and principle.
From The Sorrows of Young Werther by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe.
Context: Werther, the narrator, is a sensitive young artist and (rather begrudging) law student who is spending a summer idling away in pastoral Germany in the late 1700s. He is in love with a girl named Charlotte who is betrothed to a Albert, a few years' Werther's senior. This scene between Albert and Werther has little to do with that, however.
Werther and Albert are discussing why Albert keeps his pistols unloaded. While Albert is taking a long time to explain, Werther, in boredom, puts one jokingly to his head. What follows is a discourse on suicide and the justification of passionate human emotion.
AUGUST 12.
. . . Upon this occasion, Albert was deeply immersed in his
subject: I ceased to listen to him, and became lost in reverie.
With a sudden motion, I pointed the mouth of the pistol to my
forehead, over the right eye. "What do you mean?" cried Albert,
turning back the pistol. "It is not loaded," said I. "And even
if not," he answered with impatience, "what can you mean? I
cannot comprehend how a man can be so mad as to shoot himself,
and the bare idea of it shocks me."
"But why should any one," said I, "in speaking of an action, venture
to pronounce it mad or wise, or good or bad? What is the meaning
of all this? Have you carefully studied the secret motives of our
actions? Do you understand -- can you explain the causes which
occasion them, and make them inevitable? If you can, you will be
less hasty with your decision."
"But you will allow," said Albert; "that some actions are criminal,
let them spring from whatever motives they may." I granted it,
and shrugged my shoulders.
"But still, my good friend," I continued, "there are some exceptions
here too. Theft is a crime; but the man who commits it from extreme
poverty, with no design but to save his family from perishing, is
he an object of pity, or of punishment? Who shall throw the first
stone at a husband, who, in the heat of just resentment, sacrifices
his faithless wife and her perfidious seducer? or at the young
maiden, who, in her weak hour of rapture, forgets herself in the
impetuous joys of love? Even our laws, cold and cruel as they
are, relent in such cases, and withhold their punishment."
"That is quite another thing," said Albert; "because a man under
the influence of violent passion loses all power of reflection,
and is regarded as intoxicated or insane."
"Oh! you people of sound understandings," I replied, smiling, "are
ever ready to exclaim 'Extravagance, and madness, and intoxication!'
You moral men are so calm and so subdued! You abhor the drunken
man, and detest the extravagant; you pass by, like the Levite,
and thank God, like the Pharisee, that you are not like one of
them. I have been more than once intoxicated, my passions have
always bordered on extravagance: I am not ashamed to confess it;
for I have learned, by my own experience, that all extraordinary
men, who have accomplished great and astonishing actions, have
ever been decried by the world as drunken or insane. And in
private life, too, is it not intolerable that no one can undertake
the execution of a noble or generous deed, without giving rise to
the exclamation that the doer is intoxicated or mad? Shame upon
you, ye sages!"
"This is another of your extravagant humours," said Albert: "you
always exaggerate a case, and in this matter you are undoubtedly
wrong; for we were speaking of suicide, which you compare with
great actions, when it is impossible to regard it as anything but
a weakness. It is much easier to die than to bear a life of misery
with fortitude."
I was on the point of breaking off the conversation, for nothing
puts me so completely out of patience as the utterance of a wretched
commonplace when I am talking from my inmost heart. However, I
composed myself, for I had often heard the same observation with
sufficient vexation; and I answered him, therefore, with a little
warmth, "You call this a weakness -- beware of being led astray
by appearances. When a nation, which has long groaned under the
intolerable yoke of a tyrant, rises at last and throws off its
chains, do you call that weakness? The man who, to rescue his
house from the flames, finds his physical strength redoubled, so
that he lifts burdens with ease, which, in the absence of excitement,
he could scarcely move; he who, under the rage of an insult, attacks
and puts to flight half a score of his enemies, are such persons
to be called weak? My good friend, if resistance be strength, how
can the highest degree of resistance be a weakness?"
Albert looked steadfastly at me, and said, "Pray forgive me, but
I do not see that the examples you have adduced bear any relation
to the question." "Very likely," I answered; "for I have often
been told that my style of illustration borders a little on the
absurd. But let us see if we cannot place the matter in another
point of view, by inquiring what can be a man's state of mind who
resolves to free himself from the burden of life, -- a burden often
so pleasant to bear, -- for we cannot otherwise reason fairly upon
the subject.
"Human nature," I continued, "has its limits. It is able to endure
a certain degree of joy, sorrow, and pain, but becomes annihilated
as soon as this measure is exceeded. The question, therefore, is,
not whether a man is strong or weak, but whether he is able to
endure the measure of his sufferings. The suffering may be moral
or physical; and in my opinion it is just as absurd to call a man
a coward who destroys himself, as to call a man a coward who dies
of a malignant fever."
"Paradox, all paradox!" exclaimed Albert. "Not so paradoxical as
you imagine," I replied. "You allow that we designate a disease
as mortal when nature is so severely attacked, and her strength
so far exhausted, that she cannot possibly recover her former
condition under any change that may take place.
"Now, my good friend, apply this to the mind; observe a man in his
natural, isolated condition; consider how ideas work, and how
impressions fasten on him, till at length a violent passion seizes
him, destroying all his powers of calm reflection, and utterly
ruining him.
"It is in vain that a man of sound mind and cool temper understands
the condition of such a wretched being, in vain he counsels him.
He can no more communicate his own wisdom to him than a healthy
man can instil his strength into the invalid, by whose bedside he
is seated."
Albert thought this too general. I reminded him of a girl who had
drowned herself a short time previously, and I related her history.
She was a good creature, who had grown up in the narrow sphere of
household industry and weekly appointed labour; one who knew no
pleasure beyond indulging in a walk on Sundays, arrayed in her
best attire, accompanied by her friends, or perhaps joining in the
dance now and then at some festival, and chatting away her spare
hours with a neighbour, discussing the scandal or the quarrels of
the village, trifles sufficient to occupy her heart. At length
the warmth of her nature is influenced by certain new and unknown
wishes. Inflamed by the flatteries of men, her former pleasures
become by degrees insipid, till at length she meets with a youth
to whom she is attracted by an indescribable feeling; upon him she
now rests all her hopes; she forgets the world around her; she
sees, hears, desires nothing but him, and him only. He alone
occupies all her thoughts. Uncorrupted by the idle indulgence of
an enervating vanity, her affection moving steadily toward its
object, she hopes to become his, and to realise, in an everlasting
union with him, all that happiness which she sought, all that bliss
for which she longed. His repeated promises confirm her hopes:
embraces and endearments, which increase the ardour of her desires,
overmaster her soul. She floats in a dim, delusive anticipation
of her happiness; and her feelings become excited to their utmost
tension. She stretches out her arms finally to embrace the object
of all her wishes and her lover forsakes her. Stunned and bewildered,
she stands upon a precipice. All is darkness around her. No
prospect, no hope, no consolation -- forsaken by him in whom her
existence was centred! She sees nothing of the wide world before
her, thinks nothing of the many individuals who might supply the
void in her heart; she feels herself deserted, forsaken by the
world; and, blinded and impelled by the agony which wrings her
soul, she plunges into the deep, to end her sufferings in the broad
embrace of death. See here, Albert, the history of thousands; and
tell me, is not this a case of physical infirmity? Nature has no
way to escape from the labyrinth: her powers are exhausted: she
can contend no longer, and the poor soul must die.
"Shame upon him who can look on calmly, and exclaim, 'The foolish
girl! she should have waited; she should have allowed time to wear
off the impression; her despair would have been softened, and she
would have found another lover to comfort her.' One might as well
say, 'The fool, to die of a fever! why did he not wait till his
strength was restored, till his blood became calm? all would then
have gone well, and he would have been alive now.'"
Albert, who could not see the justice of the comparison, offered
some further objections, and, amongst others, urged that I had
taken the case of a mere ignorant girl. But how any man of sense,
of more enlarged views and experience, could be excused, he was
unable to comprehend. "My friend!" I exclaimed, "man is but man;
and, whatever be the extent of his reasoning powers, they are of
little avail when passion rages within, and he feels himself
confined by the narrow limits of nature. It were better, then --
but we will talk of this some other time," I said, and caught up
my hat. Alas! my heart was full; and we parted without conviction
on either side. How rarely in this world do men understand each
other!
So, discounting that the passage is obviously more in favor of Werther with its first-person bias, my question is who do you agree with?
[Poll #1105772]
I made that limited because obviously the right answer lies somewhere between the two. (It always does). But if you had to pick one . . .
Also, discuss. Answers should have justifications-- and there's more going on there than just the issue I mentioned in the poll itself. Let's get a dialogue going; I feel like talking about this stuff in philosophical hypothetical.
From The Sorrows of Young Werther by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe.
Context: Werther, the narrator, is a sensitive young artist and (rather begrudging) law student who is spending a summer idling away in pastoral Germany in the late 1700s. He is in love with a girl named Charlotte who is betrothed to a Albert, a few years' Werther's senior. This scene between Albert and Werther has little to do with that, however.
Werther and Albert are discussing why Albert keeps his pistols unloaded. While Albert is taking a long time to explain, Werther, in boredom, puts one jokingly to his head. What follows is a discourse on suicide and the justification of passionate human emotion.
AUGUST 12.
. . . Upon this occasion, Albert was deeply immersed in his
subject: I ceased to listen to him, and became lost in reverie.
With a sudden motion, I pointed the mouth of the pistol to my
forehead, over the right eye. "What do you mean?" cried Albert,
turning back the pistol. "It is not loaded," said I. "And even
if not," he answered with impatience, "what can you mean? I
cannot comprehend how a man can be so mad as to shoot himself,
and the bare idea of it shocks me."
"But why should any one," said I, "in speaking of an action, venture
to pronounce it mad or wise, or good or bad? What is the meaning
of all this? Have you carefully studied the secret motives of our
actions? Do you understand -- can you explain the causes which
occasion them, and make them inevitable? If you can, you will be
less hasty with your decision."
"But you will allow," said Albert; "that some actions are criminal,
let them spring from whatever motives they may." I granted it,
and shrugged my shoulders.
"But still, my good friend," I continued, "there are some exceptions
here too. Theft is a crime; but the man who commits it from extreme
poverty, with no design but to save his family from perishing, is
he an object of pity, or of punishment? Who shall throw the first
stone at a husband, who, in the heat of just resentment, sacrifices
his faithless wife and her perfidious seducer? or at the young
maiden, who, in her weak hour of rapture, forgets herself in the
impetuous joys of love? Even our laws, cold and cruel as they
are, relent in such cases, and withhold their punishment."
"That is quite another thing," said Albert; "because a man under
the influence of violent passion loses all power of reflection,
and is regarded as intoxicated or insane."
"Oh! you people of sound understandings," I replied, smiling, "are
ever ready to exclaim 'Extravagance, and madness, and intoxication!'
You moral men are so calm and so subdued! You abhor the drunken
man, and detest the extravagant; you pass by, like the Levite,
and thank God, like the Pharisee, that you are not like one of
them. I have been more than once intoxicated, my passions have
always bordered on extravagance: I am not ashamed to confess it;
for I have learned, by my own experience, that all extraordinary
men, who have accomplished great and astonishing actions, have
ever been decried by the world as drunken or insane. And in
private life, too, is it not intolerable that no one can undertake
the execution of a noble or generous deed, without giving rise to
the exclamation that the doer is intoxicated or mad? Shame upon
you, ye sages!"
"This is another of your extravagant humours," said Albert: "you
always exaggerate a case, and in this matter you are undoubtedly
wrong; for we were speaking of suicide, which you compare with
great actions, when it is impossible to regard it as anything but
a weakness. It is much easier to die than to bear a life of misery
with fortitude."
I was on the point of breaking off the conversation, for nothing
puts me so completely out of patience as the utterance of a wretched
commonplace when I am talking from my inmost heart. However, I
composed myself, for I had often heard the same observation with
sufficient vexation; and I answered him, therefore, with a little
warmth, "You call this a weakness -- beware of being led astray
by appearances. When a nation, which has long groaned under the
intolerable yoke of a tyrant, rises at last and throws off its
chains, do you call that weakness? The man who, to rescue his
house from the flames, finds his physical strength redoubled, so
that he lifts burdens with ease, which, in the absence of excitement,
he could scarcely move; he who, under the rage of an insult, attacks
and puts to flight half a score of his enemies, are such persons
to be called weak? My good friend, if resistance be strength, how
can the highest degree of resistance be a weakness?"
Albert looked steadfastly at me, and said, "Pray forgive me, but
I do not see that the examples you have adduced bear any relation
to the question." "Very likely," I answered; "for I have often
been told that my style of illustration borders a little on the
absurd. But let us see if we cannot place the matter in another
point of view, by inquiring what can be a man's state of mind who
resolves to free himself from the burden of life, -- a burden often
so pleasant to bear, -- for we cannot otherwise reason fairly upon
the subject.
"Human nature," I continued, "has its limits. It is able to endure
a certain degree of joy, sorrow, and pain, but becomes annihilated
as soon as this measure is exceeded. The question, therefore, is,
not whether a man is strong or weak, but whether he is able to
endure the measure of his sufferings. The suffering may be moral
or physical; and in my opinion it is just as absurd to call a man
a coward who destroys himself, as to call a man a coward who dies
of a malignant fever."
"Paradox, all paradox!" exclaimed Albert. "Not so paradoxical as
you imagine," I replied. "You allow that we designate a disease
as mortal when nature is so severely attacked, and her strength
so far exhausted, that she cannot possibly recover her former
condition under any change that may take place.
"Now, my good friend, apply this to the mind; observe a man in his
natural, isolated condition; consider how ideas work, and how
impressions fasten on him, till at length a violent passion seizes
him, destroying all his powers of calm reflection, and utterly
ruining him.
"It is in vain that a man of sound mind and cool temper understands
the condition of such a wretched being, in vain he counsels him.
He can no more communicate his own wisdom to him than a healthy
man can instil his strength into the invalid, by whose bedside he
is seated."
Albert thought this too general. I reminded him of a girl who had
drowned herself a short time previously, and I related her history.
She was a good creature, who had grown up in the narrow sphere of
household industry and weekly appointed labour; one who knew no
pleasure beyond indulging in a walk on Sundays, arrayed in her
best attire, accompanied by her friends, or perhaps joining in the
dance now and then at some festival, and chatting away her spare
hours with a neighbour, discussing the scandal or the quarrels of
the village, trifles sufficient to occupy her heart. At length
the warmth of her nature is influenced by certain new and unknown
wishes. Inflamed by the flatteries of men, her former pleasures
become by degrees insipid, till at length she meets with a youth
to whom she is attracted by an indescribable feeling; upon him she
now rests all her hopes; she forgets the world around her; she
sees, hears, desires nothing but him, and him only. He alone
occupies all her thoughts. Uncorrupted by the idle indulgence of
an enervating vanity, her affection moving steadily toward its
object, she hopes to become his, and to realise, in an everlasting
union with him, all that happiness which she sought, all that bliss
for which she longed. His repeated promises confirm her hopes:
embraces and endearments, which increase the ardour of her desires,
overmaster her soul. She floats in a dim, delusive anticipation
of her happiness; and her feelings become excited to their utmost
tension. She stretches out her arms finally to embrace the object
of all her wishes and her lover forsakes her. Stunned and bewildered,
she stands upon a precipice. All is darkness around her. No
prospect, no hope, no consolation -- forsaken by him in whom her
existence was centred! She sees nothing of the wide world before
her, thinks nothing of the many individuals who might supply the
void in her heart; she feels herself deserted, forsaken by the
world; and, blinded and impelled by the agony which wrings her
soul, she plunges into the deep, to end her sufferings in the broad
embrace of death. See here, Albert, the history of thousands; and
tell me, is not this a case of physical infirmity? Nature has no
way to escape from the labyrinth: her powers are exhausted: she
can contend no longer, and the poor soul must die.
"Shame upon him who can look on calmly, and exclaim, 'The foolish
girl! she should have waited; she should have allowed time to wear
off the impression; her despair would have been softened, and she
would have found another lover to comfort her.' One might as well
say, 'The fool, to die of a fever! why did he not wait till his
strength was restored, till his blood became calm? all would then
have gone well, and he would have been alive now.'"
Albert, who could not see the justice of the comparison, offered
some further objections, and, amongst others, urged that I had
taken the case of a mere ignorant girl. But how any man of sense,
of more enlarged views and experience, could be excused, he was
unable to comprehend. "My friend!" I exclaimed, "man is but man;
and, whatever be the extent of his reasoning powers, they are of
little avail when passion rages within, and he feels himself
confined by the narrow limits of nature. It were better, then --
but we will talk of this some other time," I said, and caught up
my hat. Alas! my heart was full; and we parted without conviction
on either side. How rarely in this world do men understand each
other!
So, discounting that the passage is obviously more in favor of Werther with its first-person bias, my question is who do you agree with?
[Poll #1105772]
I made that limited because obviously the right answer lies somewhere between the two. (It always does). But if you had to pick one . . .
Also, discuss. Answers should have justifications-- and there's more going on there than just the issue I mentioned in the poll itself. Let's get a dialogue going; I feel like talking about this stuff in philosophical hypothetical.
