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On

the Significance of Philosophy

for the Present Age.

An Invitationto

a Series of Lectures on Philosophy

by

Johan Ludvig Heiberg

Copenhagen

Published by the University Bookseller C. A. Reitzel

Printed at C. G. Schiellerup’s

1833

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nyone who, with an attentive eye, has observed the present gen-

eration as it appears in the most civilized states and as it thus can be

said to represent humanity at its present level of development, will

without doubt have found that this generation—which is rich in the

experience which the previous centuries have provided and is armed

with the strength which only the living moment bestows—strives

powerfully forward in manifold new directions. However, it does not

itself know where many of these directions will lead it and thus doesnot know whether they all lead to a common goal or what that might

be. This generation is willing to sacrifice itself for ideas of which it is

not conscious. It is a brave soldier, who fights to the last breath

without knowing the plans of its general.

A condition of this kind is actually no condition; it is only a

transition from a previous condition to one that is yet to come. It is

not a fixed existence but only a I becoming, in which what is old endsand what is new begins, an appearance of existence, destined to take

the place of a real condition; in other words, it is a crisis. Humanity

has already experienced many such transitions, but it is only history

which has brought them to consciousness. While such moments last,

one seldom recognizes them as such. Only when they are over, do we

understand what they were, that is, in comparison with the ordered

and calm condition to which they led us.The critical periods in the development of humanity are every-

where the result of an increase in the objects of knowledge, such

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that, on account of their expansion, they no longer fit into the form

which contained them before. In order to make room for them-

selves, they thus break through the old form or carry out a revolu-

tion, which casts off the old yoke, but which contains a new organi-

zation in embryonic form. It is not—as one often imagines—the

growing population, the so-called overpopulation, which becomes

too large for the limits of the established order, since individuals as

such, i.e., as isolated and not acting en masse , are nothing in the state

and take up absolutely no room in it. Instead, it is the overpopula-

tion in the world of ideas which is dangerous for the existing I form;

for it is the ideas which ground every form, and only they can cause

a form to break down. One is tempted to deduce great effects from

small causes, yet the simplest observation teaches us that the effect

can contain nothing which was not already in the cause. If philoso-

phy did not teach it to us, then history would nevertheless demon-

strate that only ideas deserve with justice to be called “causes.” It may

seem that ideas are sometimes subjugated by force and sometimescunning, but one forgets that both force and cunning themselves are

forms of the eternal Idea or reason. Thus, no despot is more despotic

than this one, which demands the absolute submission of all and

employs every means, even brute force, to achieve this end. Force is

the Idea’s first and coarsest form; cunning is immediately a higher

and more refined form, but knowledge is the only thing which is

worthy of the Idea itself. Even that which we are accustomed to call“war” is a polemic among ideas; war is no more a struggle of canons

against canons or of bayonets against bayonets than the apple which

fell on Newton’s head was the cause of the discovery of gravity.

Philosophy is nothing other than the knowledge of the eternal or

the speculative Idea, reason, or truth; these different terms all desig-

nate the same substance. Philosophy presents the Idea as the I only

cause. Consequently, in all finite effects philosophy sees nothing but the Idea. But, one objects, “there are so many philosophies; the one

system contradicts and negates the other; in which of these can one

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find the truth?” To this one can answer that the different philosophi-

cal systems—assuming that they really are philosophical, i.e., that

they are penetrated by the speculative Idea, for otherwise they can-

not be considered—all contain the same philosophy, only seen from

different levels of culture in the development of humanity, just as the

different religions all contain the same God, viewed from different

standpoints in the religious Idea, and just as the different works of

art contain the same beauty in changing forms, and the different

forms of poetry contain the same poetry under different conditions.

All differences are grounded in unity; they are only moments in it,

i.e., they are the necessary stages in the unity’s own development.

The truth is not so empty or abstract that it could not, without

damage to itself, take up the conflicting moments and keep them in

the common womb. They contradict, they sublate each other; for

just this reason it is absurd to ask: “in which of them is the truth?” It

is in none of them, but they are all in it.

Every age which finds itself in a calm and orderly condition ratherthan a critical transition I has its philosophy, which is the result of all

the previous experience and the knowledge to which that experi-

ence has led. It is important to note that philosophy cannot appear

before there is material for it to take possession of, just as in the

order of nature a child cannot be born before the nourishment for it

has been prepared in the mother’s breast. Indeed, philosophy, as

knowledge of the eternal Idea, transcends all temporal change. But every determinate or individual philosophy appears in a specific age

and is tied to the conditions of that age. Its material therefore does

not lie in the future which neither is nor has been. It is not prophetic

and cannot, indeed, does not want to be. Likewise, its material can-

not be sought in the present because the present is not yet finished

and therefore partly falls within the limits of the future; if it were

finished or completed, then it would belong to the past. Only thepast is a finished and thus an actual material; but by taking possession

of the past, philosophy makes it something present since it indeed

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On the Significance of Philosophy for the Present Age 89

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expresses the highest and deepest thought about it by humanity at

that time . Thus, philosophy brings about the resurrection of the dead

to life. Hegel says most aptly that only when a form of life has become

old does philosophy come forth to it: “The Owl of Minerva begins

its I flight only with the onset of dusk.”*

An opinion which is no less in error than the one mentioned

above is that philosophy is not a creation of humanity itself but of

philosophers. What is substantial in philosophy is the Idea, truth and

reason; but philosophers do not create these. The different philo-

sophical systems represent different forms under which the un-

changeable substance is presented. Each of these is a product of its

age, an individual, to which the present has given birth, but whose

genealogical table reaches back through the entire past. No one will

assume that the teachers of religion have themselves produced the

religion which they teach. Indeed, no one would dare to make such

a claim about the founders of religions since this would be equiva-

lent to stating that there is no truth in any religion. Least of all could we, as Christians, assume that the founder of our religion was its

producer, for, indeed, he announced himself as the Son who was

sent by the Father. But the Father did not send the Son before the

fullness of times had come, i.e., when the present had ended and was

finished and therefore belonged to the past, to what is dead, when

there was a material, that is, a formless I substance which, in the

creation of a new form, could find a resurrection from what is dead.This material was the culture of the Roman Empire, which haunted

the living like a ghost from past ages, which had lost all meaning in

the present, thus demonstrating that it belonged with the dead. The

Roman religion, by idolizing the finite, little by little set it apart from

the infinite and set the divine apart from the human. The Idea,

reason and truth became a land which lay beyond. The hopeless

* Philosophie des Rechts , p. xxiv.

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demand which resulted from this was that one was supposed to rec-

ognize that everything finite and human amounted to nothing since

it was separated from the divine, that is, one was supposed to give up

the finite without ever receiving the infinite as a replacement. One

can say that under such conditions there was an inner necessity that

things had to be different, for the described condition had become

what was called above the “absence of a condition,” “a crisis,” “a

becoming,” i.e., a suspension between being and nothing, that is, a

contradiction, which, like every other contradiction, must be sub-

lated and pass over to an actual condition. The violent separation of

the divine from the human—this crisis, in which man felt aban-

doned by all gods, and for good reason since not only the great Pan

but the entire world of gods was dead—contained in itself the neces-

sity of the divine returning to man, I thus reconciling the finite with

the infinite. It was necessary that the divine, in human form, come to

live among humans. Therefore, one can say with justice that the

Christian religion was a work not of Christ but of humanity. This is why the Son was sent forth, not by himself, but by the Father, for any

work of humanity is thereby a work of God. This unity contains no

contradiction; on the contrary, such a contradiction would arise from

their separation and would remain insurmountable.

If we go further back in time, we find that earlier religions also

arose out of the dissolution of those which preceded them. Thus, the

formless and mysterious darkness of the Egyptian religion was thecondition for the clear, beautiful forms in the Greek religion; this is

perhaps already hinted at in the ancient myth that a Greek (Oedipus)

killed the Egyptian Sphinx after having solved its riddle , the content of

which was “Man , the free, self-knowing spirit.”*

The case is the same in art and poetry. Every age has its own art

and poetry, and all true works of art and poetry belong to their age

* Hegel, Philosophie der Religion , I, p. 376.

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and therefore to humanity. It is only the bad and failed I works which

are the artist’s or the poet’s own and which can justifiably be called

their private property, just as books which lie around unread are the

property of the author and not of the public.

Art, poetry, religion, philosophy, these forms of humanity’s high-

est thought can give us nothing actually new, for this would presup-

pose a relation of one individual to another but not of humanity to

itself. On the contrary, they give us what is our own and what is oldest

of all. They do not increase our property but open our eyes to what

we already possess.

But humanity does have its representatives, those individuals

among whom the consciousness of humanity is awakened to a higher

clarity, while it remains more or less asleep among the masses. These

representatives we call “artists,” “poets,” “teachers of religion,” and

“philosophers.” We also call them “humanity’s teachers” and “educa-

tors.” And so they are, but not by virtue of their own individual

power. They earn these titles by presenting the mirror in whichhumanity sees itself and becomes conscious of itself as its own object.

They do not have the spirit of themselves but of God. But God’s spirit

is humanity’s spirit. We would be bad Christians if we separated what

Christ had united and thereby turned back to the last crisis of the

dissolved Roman religion. I

Philosophy cannot arise before there is material at hand. Further,

the material must belong to the past and thus to that which is now dead and whose form has dissolved. By shaping it into a new form,

philosophy calls it back to life and to the present. Thus, the present

generation cannot have its philosophy yet since it is itself in a crisis,

that is, in a period of transition in which the material is still present

and thus not completed or incorporated into the realm of the dead,

and this lack is what the manifold conflicting undertakings of the

age, sometimes consciously, more often unconsciously, try to set right, even though this goal cannot be reached before the critical

time has been survived. But in the age, as in every becoming, there

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lies the force necessary to sublate itself and become a condition. The

critical ferment has no other goal than to bring forth its opposite:

the calm clarity which can serve as a mirror for the Idea.

But what belongs to the past and what to the present? This ques-

tion cannot be decided absolutely for every object, for what is present

for the one can be past for another. Just as, for example, one person

may be better at walking than another and thus have covered the

road upon which the other still finds I himself, so also certain expe-

riences, opinions, perceptions and systems can be placed ad acta for

the one, while the other, who finds himself right in the middle of

them, has yet to go through the crisis which will lead him to the same

goal. Is this not a familiar transition in the different ages of a human

being? The child stretches out his arms for the moon and the stars

and would like to put them on a string in order to carry them around

on his neck. A short time is sufficient to consign this wish to the past;

but for the older child and the young person in the different periods

of youth, new undertakings constantly replace one another such that the death of the one is the birth of the other, none of them any more

likely to be realized than the first childhood wish. Only manhood is

accustomed to determine for itself a sphere of action inside the

limits of what is possible. But old age has time to reflect on how many

of the plans of manhood were not carried out and which ones con-

sequently, for just this reason, belonged to the impossible. In this

long series of failed undertakings, each one of them originally ap-pears as resting in the future, but it passes immediately over into the

past without having been brought into the existence of the present.

Thus, if in the gradual development of humanity one individual

is ahead of another, then I it is self-evident that the representatives of

humanity, as we have called them, must be in the vanguard. From

there they are able to observe the masses which still occupy many of

the stages which these representatives themselves have already cov-ered and which have also been covered by humanity itself to the

extent that they are representatives. The masses, inasmuch as they

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approach these representatives or lag far behind them, occupy dif-

ferent standpoints whose position itself determines the varying rela-

tionship between the past and the present. If one wants to observe

again the differences in this manifold from two main points of view,

then we could divide the individuals into the cultured and the un-

cultured, the latter of which could likewise be regarded as represen-

tatives of humanity, but, as it were, in a larger and more popular

chamber, a kind of lower house, in contrast to the aristocratic, less

numerous chamber, which consists of those to whom we actually

gave the name of representatives. By contrast, the uncultured, hav-

ing confined themselves merely to their own lives, are excluded from

all representation beyond that of their own persons.

If we cast a glance at the present age, then we find first of all that

certain undertakings, which among the uncultured have the life of

the present and the interest of the moment, are regarded by the

cultured as already completed material, belonging to the past. The I

most striking example of this is our frequent theological disputes which are carried out exclusively for the edification of the uncul-

tured, while the cultured, who have gone beyond that standpoint,

are almost entirely unaffected by them but have their heaven and

hell in the ferment of politics. I dare say the spokesmen for both

theological parties are themselves counted among the class of the

cultured, but this does not matter, for since the attacking party turns

itself to the uncultured masses, so must the defense. The culturedknow very well that literalism in faith and heresy-hunting are ghosts

of a past age, without flesh and blood, but they fear them like one

fears ghosts which can molest the living by becoming involved in the

affairs of life. Therefore, they like the so-called rationalism because it

strews linseed before their doors in order to keep the ghosts out. But

their friendship with rationalism does not go any further; in itself it is

a matter of indifference to them, for they have a feeling that it toobelongs to the past and, at best, can be exploited like a rusty old

sword, which one makes do with until new weapons are forged. The

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favor in which rationalism stands is therefore of a merely negative

nature: one regards what is old as an army conscripted to protect us

against what is even older; yet, when the latter is totally destroyed

and peace I has been achieved, it is then best to get rid of the army.

Cultured people in our times are thus by no means rationalists. How

could they be? Rationalism has come to the result that God is inscru-

table and cannot be known, and with this result it wants to preserve

religion. But people have been more consistent, for they have taken

the result alone and preserved it, and after thus having taken the

head off the church, they now strive to keep that church out of their

dreamt republic.

It is of no use to hide or gloss over the truth; we must confess that

religion in our age is for the most part a matter for the uncultured,

while for the cultured it belongs to the past, to the road already

traveled. This sad result had been reached even before the first

French Revolution, which merely brought it closer to consciousness

and brought it about that a great mass of the uncultured went over tothe class of the cultured, for the cultured are in recent times the

people engaged in politics, and with the Revolution almost everyone

became a politician. Politics is indeed in our times the present in

which the cultured world lives. But precisely because it is the present,

its material is not yet complete, at least not for those who live in this

present, for another question is whether those who constitute I what

was called above “humanity’s upper house” have come so far that they can regard the political question as answered and can regard

the cultured masses’ uncritical ideas about freedom as completed

material for a new and higher form. What they, in any case, must see

is that it is the very political character of the age which constitutes its

crisis and which therefore is a contradiction. For after having cast out

religion, that is, knowledge of the infinite, the age has only finite

determinations left, and with these it nonetheless wants to build aneternal state and constitution. It is due to the feeling of this contra-

diction that the better people have turned back to the abandoned

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religion, but this is of no use, for it is impossible for them to recap-

ture the faith of past ages. Rather, they act in religious matters like

merchants who, although near bankruptcy, nevertheless do not dare

to admit their poverty to themselves. Things look even more doubt-

ful with regard to their followers, for whom religion has now become

a matter of fashion. But a matter of fashion is never a serious thing,

and it, moreover, has only become a matter of fashion for the pre-

tentious, not for the truly cultured.

In an unhappy age—and a critical age is always unhappy—people

have a vague sense of what is missing. What then makes more sense

than that many people call upon religion, that old consoler, for help?

But no sooner does this happen than religion itself is caught up in I

the conflict. It becomes a part of the affair instead of a peacemaker

standing above all parties, and those in conflict end up by showing it

the door, like a busybody who interferes in the dispute of others.

Let one consider whether among the honest believers of our

age—that is, those who lie only to themselves but not to oth-ers—there can be found a single one, who, if God’s existence and

the immortality of the soul could be proved to him as clearly as a

mathematical proposition, would not with eagerness, indeed thank-

fulness, seize the proof and feel infinitely happier than theretofore?

Would he not admit that he only now had certainty while what he

previously called solid faith was nothing more than a hope and there-

fore a doubt? But it is easy to see that the aforementioned truths canonly be proved for someone who already knows them; for a proof is

based on reasons, and these in turn are based on previous reasons,

and so on, either in an infinite series, in which thus no certainty can

be achieved, or to those limit-points, to which one ascribes immedi-

ate certainty, just like the axioms of geometry. But what truth can

have immediate certainty if the existence of God does not have it? Is

it not obtuse to demand a proof for the thing in which all proofs aregrounded? Thus, if God’s existence comes about as the result of a

proof, then it itself must be the premise I in the proof. To be the last

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thing, with which one ends up, it must be the first thing, with which

one begins. Since this is very obvious, the believers of our age look

with contempt upon the so-called philosophical proofs, whereas they

would prefer to have a revelation from the world of spirit, in the crass

belief that the sensible phenomenon can teach them what science

cannot. But they ignore the contradiction which this thought in-

volves. If people in our time do not believe in reason, they believe

even less in the senses. And even if miracle after miracle took place,

our skepticism would soon finish them off. We would be more than

happy to believe that Christ rose from the dead. Unfortunately, we

ourselves did not see it happen. But can we then for a single moment

imagine we would believe it if we actually did see it? Could the senses,

which so often deceive, appear to us as more reliable witnesses than

history? And how could we accept sense experience as immediately

certain and indisputable when at the same time we demand that

certainty about the divine be produced with a proof? If Christ were to

come back to Christians of the present day, he would hardly be muchbetter treated by them than formerly by the Jews. Since torture has

been abolished, I do not suppose that they would crucify him, but

our doctors would claim I he was a quack, our jurists would claim he

was a disrupter of the civil order; and the theologians, his born

defenders, how would they receive him? The orthodox would call

him a false teacher, and the rationalists, a fanatic.

If it goes like this with religion, it will not fare much better withart and poetry, the spheres in which a person, just as in religion, is

supposed to have immediate certainty of the divine and the eternal

and to enjoy in the present what one otherwise, under the name of

another life, expects in the future. It is only by presupposing this

certainty that art and poetry have a true existence and that their

effects, even in the most profane jest, can be explained. But when

the cultured world has discarded religion, one cannot expect itssisters to carry much weight. In this case art and poetry can at most

be merely a pleasant luxury. Even if, following the example of the

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Romans, some countries put drama in the same class as bread, then

it only means that nowadays luxury belongs among the first necessi-

ties of life. It is even debatable whether it would not be better for

religion to be abolished than for art and poetry to be tolerated; it is

debatable whether these two, which stand as high above all political

undertakings, as the infinite over the finite, are not doubly wronged I

by being relegated to a simple recreation amidst the seriousness of

political life. Be that as it may, tolerance toward art and poetry must

be preferred to intolerance toward religion, for they provide, none-

theless, a glimmer of a higher life and the seed of a new condition.

Let the serious, politically reasoning and politically acting citizen

remain unaware that his actual life lies in what he considers mere

amusements. The time will come when he will have his eyes opened.

But that time has not yet arrived. Likewise, it is not art and poetry

which will put an end to the present confusion; it is already a great

deal for them to maintain a secret connection to the infinite without

their friends noticing it. If they made it known publicly, then theirrelationship to religion would be all too obvious, and our politicians,

who already have excluded religion, would soon do the same to art

and poetry.

What is it then that will bring order to the present chaos? Or, to

use a term which cannot be misunderstood so easily—for the order-

ing principle cannot be something new which comes to what exists,

like a deus ex machina , but must be contained in the fermentingmaterial and must be developed out of it—what is the goal towards

which the present confusion strives? What is the unity towards which

the present difference will be developed? The answer is easy after all

the I preceding considerations: it is philosophy which will put an end

to the confusion. It is towards this that the conflicting forces are

directed. For truth is at once philosophy’s content and form; truth is,

further, its only content and its only form. Philosophy is truth itself and nothing else; and truth is for all times the only unchallenged

power. One can doubt God; as atheist, one can completely deny

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Him. All this is possible, but one can neither doubt nor deny the

truth. If one denies God, then it is because one regards the truth to

be in this negation. One can act badly; like the criminal, one can

sacrifice good for evil. But even this happens with the recognition of

the truth in the sense that one posits the truth or the good in that

which the law calls the opposite. One can claim that man can know

nothing, that the truth, therefore, is not for man; but even then one

must regard this proposition not only as a truth but as the only truth,

i.e., as truth itself. Both in the theoretical and in the practical, one

can reason away the infinite and live in merely finite determinations;

but then one posits truth in the finite and regards the infinite as its

opposite. The truth is thus the watchword which unites humanity

under all possible kinds of divergence; I it is the only power of which

no one under any condition whatsoever would deprive oneself. For

however conflicting our opinions might be, they nonetheless are in

agreement that only under the presupposition of the truth which

they contain, do they make a claim for validity.It is in this sense that philosophy can be said to stand above art,

poetry and religion, even though it, like them, has the infinite as its

object. For since the form in which it presents this object is the truth,

all other forms of the infinite have their justification in it. Therefore,

philosophy is the highest judge whose authority no one will under-

estimate. For even those who disparage philosophy as an empty and

good-for-nothing discipline, by this only mean certain specific philo-sophical systems; and even in the reproach against these systems lies

the recognition of the true philosophy which should sublate them.

For even if one denies the possibility of such a true philosophy, then

the knowledge of this purported truth itself is the true philosophy. If

thus art, poetry and especially religion are abandoned in the present

crisis, then they are not what is called to put an end to the crisis. But

now the time has come for that which humanity can never give upwithout giving up itself: the truth, i.e., philosophy. Indeed, art, poetry

and religion contain the same I truth as philosophy, but not in the

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truth’s own form: the truth is in the former as substance and has

there its different contingent forms; but the Concept is the truth in

the latter, and the Concept has only one form, just like material.

It was remarked at the beginning of the treatise that critical tran-

sitions occur in the development of humanity when the objects of

knowledge have developed to the point that they no longer fit into

the form or into the system which had contained them previously.

They burst out of the old form and work forward blindly and chaoti-

cally until a new one has emerged. And this is where we in fact find

ourselves at the moment. It is sufficient to name the expansion which

the natural sciences and politics have experienced and which could

not be reached without limiting religion and setting aside art and

poetry. For the natural sciences and politics, these two undertakings

with which academic life at present is concerned (though the former

is itself already beginning to be regarded more and more as subor-

dinate to the latter), are undertakings in the realm of the finite,

whereas art, poetry and religion are realizations of the infinite. Al-though the latter three activities present the infinite as realized in

the finite, it nonetheless lies in the contingent character of their

forms that finitude, which constitutes their I foundation, can only be

abstract finitude, or finitude in general, so that they can never ex-

haust the infinite manifold of finite determinations which constitute

the finite. Thus, with respect to our present undertakings, the recon-

ciliation of the infinite with the finite, which religion presents and which art and poetry also present, though in other contingent forms,

can only be a reconciliation of the infinite with nature and the state

in general, but not with the infinitely many determinate details in

which these finite things have their existence. The specific investiga-

tion of the laws of nature and of the relations of the state must

necessarily remain foreign to art, poetry and religion, and therefore,

the latter also remain just as foreign to the former.Thus, here the aforementioned case comes on the scene: the

expansion of the objects of knowledge (which, since they could ex-

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perience an expansion, are finite) bursts the form of what exists, and

since the form itself is the infinite, the infinite retreats away from the

finite and becomes an unknown, undiscoverable and unattainable

land lying beyond. But likewise one can, on the contrary, claim that

this far-away land, precisely because it is infinitely far-away, is known,

discovered and attained. For by making the infinite the opposite of

the finite, one makes it the same determination as the latter, that is,

the finite I itself, in whose ground we have taken root and in whose

presence we live. With greater truth we could therefore say that the

infinite is destroyed or that God does not really exist in the age or in

the country or in the person which does not believe in Him. For

when God is not in consciousness, He can only exist as a slumbering

God, that is, only in blind reason, which fills up unconscious nature

whose eternal laws are the final refuge where human arbitrariness

cannot penetrate.

Thus, the infinite, having departed from our finite relation, can

only be won back by seeing these relations in their truth , i.e., recog-nizing them as striving toward philosophy. What was formerly able to

reconcile the divine with the human, is no longer capable of doing

so because knowledge of the human has, so to speak, grown higher

than knowledge of the divine. Religion, art, and poetry, since they

were not able to posit themselves in the undertakings of the age, neces-

sarily had to posit themselves beyond them . But the age would not be

satisfied with this, for it will not let anyone steal from it that for whichit fights, and it is right not to since the infinite now, as before, must

be won by the development of the finite undertakings, not by their

sudden I cessation. Only philosophy can go into the many details of

our finite goals, particularly our political ones. Only it can see their

tendency toward the infinite and, with this knowledge, clarify their

obscure aspects. Only it is in a position to sublate them without

destroying them; on the contrary, in their sublation to the infinite it affirms their validity. In this manner our finite undertaking becomes

grafted into the infinite, the human into the divine, and the limita-

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tion has disappeared; our sciences become philosophy, and our state

wins back its regulating form.

But just as philosophy confirms the legitimacy of our finite un-

dertakings, specifically by showing how the infinite is their goal, so

also, by the same action, it reinvests the infinite in its rights by deter-

mining it as the goal, thereby, as it were, giving it an estate in the

actual world. Far from wanting to make art, poetry and religion

superfluous, on the contrary, philosophy wants to create for them

recognition in actuality. It wants to do this for its own sake since it

cannot do without them. If at the moment they lack this recognition,

it is not because people doubt the truth as substance but only be-

cause they question whether it is contained in the contingent I forms

in which these activities present it. Thus, it is a matter of grasping

these three spheres of spirit as an actual relation of substantiality,

that is, of conceiving them or understanding them in their Concept .

But when one raises oneself to the Concept, one has raised oneself

above substantiality; one has come out above the changing, contin-gent forms and has reached the only and the necessary form which is

identical with its content, namely, the form of the Concept, which is

the Concept itself, the truth, which itself is the form of truth. Thus,

art, poetry and religion receive their justification in philosophy, and

philosophy documents its own validity by documenting theirs, for

which reason it was said above that philosophy itself cannot do with-

out them. For if philosophy is supposed to show itself as philosophy precisely by the fact that it sees the Concept in the substantial , then it

can no more do without the substantial than without any other mo-

ment in its development.

But—one will perhaps object—if art, poetry and religion are to

win back the significance that they formerly had for humanity, must

this not happen by their own infinite power? How is it conceivable

that they, not by their own power but by an authority outside them-selves, namely, philosophy, may be restored to their rightful position?

The answer is that philosophy is not outside them but in them, that

15 ] that is, of conceiving [at begribe ] them or understanding them in their

Concept [Begreb ].

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it is their own immanent I power which they themselves only need to

develop. All three of them contain truth and, therefore, philosophy;

this is their common substance with which from the beginning they

have announced their divine origin. But the substance is the dark

truth veiled under its contingent form. In previous ages when so

much of what now has developed was still veiled in a dark seed, the

dark substance itself was able to be a sufficient light in this darkness.

But just as the light which shines for us at night is hardly noticed in

the rays of the day, so also in an age where so much else has been

developed from its seed, the truth, as long as it is substance and

therefore in the form of contingency, must shine with a dim light.

Thus, the age justifiably demands that it be developed from its husk

in order to become the naked truth, the transparent truth, which has

cast off its contingent dress so that its form no longer veils it, but, as

nakedness, shows, indeed is , truth itself. By this action it documents

that it really was substance; for if art, poetry and religion could not

develop themselves to philosophy, then it would mean that the sub-stance could not develop itself to the Concept and was therefore not

substance. Then these higher activities would be lacking substance,

i.e., would be empty of content, and thus would not be what we took

them to be, but, on the contrary, I would be false directions of the

human spirit. If in an age which demands to know what the previous

ones have felt and believed , they want to demonstrate their valid claim,

then they must expose their truth, i.e., must develop themselves to theform of the Concept in which they themselves could be conceived.

Only thereby would we receive the certainty that our feelings, our

faith, were not empty but really were filled with the substantial con-

tent. Therefore, far from knowledge putting an end to feeling and

faith, it, on the contrary, makes them more secure, for only when we

know that they contain the truth, can we freely abandon ourselves to

them.Concerning religion in particular, it coincides with philosophy

insofar as religion contains it. But insofar as philosophy is a content of

24 ] they must expose their truth, i.e., must develop themselves to the form of

the Concept [Begrebets ] in which they themselves could be conceived [begribes ].

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religion, against which religion itself constitutes its own form, reli-

gion is thereby different from philosophy. Philosophy presents the

same content but in its own form, which is not distinct from its

content and which thus does not exist separately as a content. When

regarding religion as distinct from philosophy, one regards it in its

own determinate form, by which it is distinguished from philosophy.

The form of religion is thus, to this extent, religion itself, that in

which it consists or its essence. But, by contrast, the form, as contin-

gent and opposed to substantial content, is itself inessential, so that

the essence of religion can be said to be I the inessential. Further, the

form of religion is a determinate form, against which one must posit

other equally determinate forms, while the form of philosophy, on

the contrary, is the form itself in its infinity or the sole form in which

all determinate differences are sublated. Since, furthermore, the

finite is precisely the determinate, i.e., that which excludes all other

determinations, it thus follows that religion, though it, like philoso-

phy, has the infinite for its object, nonetheless, insofar as it is different

from philosophy, presents the infinite from the standpoint of the

finite . Thus, since what is characteristic of religion (in its opposition

to philosophy), its nature or its essence, is posited in its determina-

tion, finitude, limit or limitation, it is then the nature of religion to

be a determinate religion . To be sure, philosophy in each of its systems

is also a determinate philosophy, but this contingent nature is ines-

sential for philosophy, while it is essential for religion. The differencein the systems is sublated in philosophy itself, and each system is only

philosophical due to the fact that it contains more than its own

determination. But the different religions are not sublated in reli-

gion itself since that in which the determination consists would

thereby itself be sublated. One can deny all philosophical systems,

but by doing so, one must admit I philosophy itself. By contrast, one

cannot deny all individual religions without denying religion itself;for only someone who has a certain determinate religion, has reli-

gion in general. Just as the different philosophical systems—as re-

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marked previously—all represent the same philosophy at different

stages of development, so also all religions admittedly contain the

same God and therefore the same truth. In this point religion is

identical with philosophy. But since the difference between the two

lies in the fact that religion makes the contingent into the essential,

the differences among the different religions become essential dif-

ferences (since they are grounded in contingency), so that when a

certain determinate religion is declared to be true, the others are

necessarily declared to be false—a relation that in no way is found

among the different philosophies. One may justly praise the toler-

ance of the Christian religion insofar as Christianity is far from de-

manding that the confessors of other religions be persecuted with

fire and sword. But if one understands by tolerance that Christianity

grants to the other religions the same substantial essence that it itself

possesses, then such praise is obviously not warranted. In this sense it

is not tolerant and cannot and should not be, for it must, like every

religion, posit its essence in the contingent difference which existsbetween it and the others. I

The relation in which art and poetry stand to philosophy is rather

of a different kind. They do not—like religion—present the infinite

from the standpoint of finitude. For them, therefore, the contingent

form is inessential. The Muses are sisters: one art or poetic art does

not stand in hostile opposition to another. Each is equally good, for

they all have the same substantial essence. In this they distinguishthemselves from religion and are in agreement with philosophy. But

their difference from philosophy must not be overlooked. The con-

tingent and inessential form, with which works of art and poetry are

distinguished, are for each of these arts again the essential form (the

form, which is posited opposite the material, not opposite the sub-

stance). So this contingent form is in each of them the only or

necessary form and is just as essential as their very essence (colors,sounds, language, etc.). But it can be incomplete, i.e., distinct from

the essence (form distinct from matter), so that it takes ability and

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virtuosity to unite them. Hereby the work of art or of poetry may be

considered under the category of infinite closeness to an ideal; and

in this, art and poetry are different from philosophy, in which matter

and form, thought and its organization, are not able to be distin-

guished because they are one, and the ideal therefore is realized

rather than merely sought. I

Philosophy is thus the ground in which all our goals, both finite

and infinite, find their truth and thereby their justification and de-

mand for validity. When one recognizes that the truth is the com-

mon, substantial content which unites them, while what distinguishes

them is only their contingent form—and one knows this by conceiving

them, i.e., by grasping their common substance as Concept , in which

the contingent form with its differences are sublated, and this is what

philosophy is—then one realizes that they all can exist peacefully

alongside one another. This is the case since each of them is deter-

mined by its limit and in this limiting has its freedom; each of them

is assured that no more will it be encroached upon by the others thanit itself will encroach upon them. The only thing that is unlimited is

the truth in which all these limitations rest in sublated independence

and therefore in peaceful existence. Illness appears in the corporeal,

organic world when an individual activity, a moment in life, tries to

assert itself as the whole, but only life itself has this absolute right.

Similarly, the moral world is ill when finite activities, even if they are

finite in different ways or to different degrees, e.g., politics and reli-gion, each on their own make themselves the infinite, that is, the

whole, when only the moral life , the truth, is really the infinite I and

the whole. Every illness is a crisis, and under this last appellation the

character of the age is also given, just as was remarked that as long as

the age was in its crisis, it could not have its philosophy. Yet, its crisis

cannot be sublated except by philosophy. An illness cannot stop

before health has appeared, but neither can health appear beforethe illness has stopped. This circle takes place in all real activity, and

it is only a misunderstanding when one believes that something is the

11 ] one knows this by conceiving [at begribe ] them, i.e., by grasping the com-

mon substance as Concept [Begreb ] . . . .

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first in this in some absolute sense. For whatever is the first must

precisely express this by the fact that it is the last, and vice versa.

Every true result is its own presupposition, and every true conclusion

is its own premise. Philosophy could not be the final thing in which

all finite activities lose themselves if it were not the first thing from

which they all sprang forth as from their substantial foundation.

Only with this insight can one understand that art, poetry and reli-

gion contain the same substance as philosophy; for from where could

they have received it if not from philosophy? They have received

their substance from philosophy, and to philosophy they return it.

We have previously regarded the crisis of the present age as striving

towards philosophy and seeking its sublation in it. In order to make

the truth I complete, we now add that it is philosophy itself which has

evoked this crisis, i.e., it is philosophy which leads the deviating

directions back to their source. The critical transition of the age is

thus of such a sort that shall produce the philosophy of the age. But

the latter is already present since it has produced the former; inother words, what is produced is here what produces, and what is

sought is what is found. It is found since a pair of humanity’s highest

representatives in our times have already presented it in the name of

humanity; it is sought since the majority of the cultured still have not

appropriated it and thus are not conscious of it.

Goethe and Hegel are undoubtedly the two greatest men the mod-

ern age has produced. No others deserve to the same degree to becalled the representatives of our age, for their works contain the

entire life of spirit of our age, as existing and present, i.e., encom-

passing the future in unity with the past. Though they now have both

been called away from their earthly life—and this almost simulta-

neously as if by a curious coincidence, which would complete the

parallel between them in this last circumstance, though the one only

seemed to follow the command of lawful nature, while the other wastorn away perhaps at the culminating point of his work—neverthe-

less far from I already belonging to the past, to the dead, they, as the

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most present of all spirits, will, on the contrary, only be understood

and grasped completely by future generations. With regard to Hegel,

most people openly acknowledge that they do not understand him;

but the fact that Goethe is at bottom no better understood is evinced

if only by the fact that poetry, for the enjoyment both of poets and of

the public, is driven in a manifold of inferior directions, which from

the standpoint of Goethe’s poetry are past and already covered and

above which his poetry is raised, just as the Idea is raised above all its

inferior, finite levels of development. The reason that our cultured

literary world can nonetheless find pleasure in Goethe, though they

actually do not understand him, must presumably be sought pre-

cisely in the fact that he was a poet, for poetry does not present the

truth in its own form, but rather in a contingent one, so that one can

relate to it and thus grasp exoterically what only the esoteric observer

sees in the correct light. But in this sense there is not any great

reason to place Goethe high above other poets; and one can there-

fore also be quite certain that when one hears this enthusiastic state-ment, it is seldom meant seriously but is only an echo of the judg-

ment of some critical coryphaeus.

What distinguishes Goethe from all contemporary poets is the

same thing that distinguishes Dante and Calderon I from their con-

temporaries: namely, that they present their age’s philosophy insofar

as poetry can do so without forsaking its own characteristic nature

(and hereby one must recall what was said above, that poetry can gointo the details of our finite goals but not to the same degree as

philosophy itself). These three poets are perhaps, since the rebirth

of the sciences, the only ones about which this is true, and thus the

only ones which one can with justice call “speculative poets.” For

indeed all true poetry is penetrated by the speculative Idea or the

truth. Indeed, it is always idealist since it lets the finite lose itself in the

infinite or presents the finite, not for its own sake, but as a vehicle forthe presentation of the infinite. But this is not always true of the

poets themselves, for they are not so rational as poetry and are in

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many cases realists who do not themselves know that their poetry is

idealist. (Realism is the view, which stops with things which are finite;

idealism, by contrast, is the conviction of their sublation in the Idea , in

the infinite.) Thus, even though poetry is idealist in itself and in spite

of all those who produce it, one can nonetheless divide up poets into

realists and idealists, and only the latter are conscious both of what

poetry is and what they themselves are. The idealists I or speculative

poets are themselves philosophers and produce philosophy just like

the actual philosophers, only with the difference which poetry’s con-

tingent form stipulates. But the contingent form, which disappears

in philosophy itself while it is present in poetry, is inessential here (as

in all art in general), while it is essential in religion. For this reason

the speculative poet can regard the difference between poetry and

philosophy as inessential and present philosophy in his works. The

teacher of religion cannot do the same since the essence of religion

consists precisely in the difference. In an age which is not religious,

religion then comes into the aforementioned dangerous position, which actually is a dichotomy: namely, either to exist in this distinc-

tion from philosophy, which means destruction, or to eliminate the

difference, which is to eliminate itself. By contrast, poetry in an age

which is not poetic retains the expedient of becoming philosophy

and, instead of being eliminated in this transformation, on the con-

trary, finds its eternal existence therein. It must also be admitted that

poetry has partly supplanted religion in the present cultured worldsince true edification is sought more often in it than in religion. It is

no wonder, for simply reaching the barren conclusion that human

nature is infinitely distant I from the deity and offering the hopeless

prospect of an unattainable eternity are not edifying; on the con-

trary, true edification is that which creates a happy, cheerful enjoy-

ment of the divine in the present and thus really reconciles the deity

with man.How poetry becomes philosophy can be said in two words: it

happens with the didactic poem . But these two words are so ambiguous

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that they require many others for their explanation. By “didactic

poem” one should not understand what is usually designated by the

term, namely, a versified presentation of finite practical matters, such

as agriculture, gardening, navigation, etc., or theoretical ones, such

as propositions of physics, astronomy and psychology, etc. All such

objects are, because of their finitude, incommensurable with poetry,

and a true didactic poem is therefore only that which has for its

object knowledge of the infinite, i.e., philosophical knowledge. From

this it follows that the didactic poem, understood in this manner,

does not belong to the genres of poetry, but, on the contrary, desig-

nates the highest development of poetry. The old cosmogonies were

true didactic poems, for they did not present, like the more recent

ones, the world’s coming into existence from a previously assumed

material—which is to presuppose the world in order to explain its

origin—but rather they explained I the question from the specula-

tive point of view of pure logic: nothing, as the ground for every-

thing.Dante’s famous poem is a didactic poem in the true, speculative

meaning of the word; its purpose is to present consciously what other

poetry unconsciously portrays: the sublation of everything finite in

the infinite. In the three parts of which it consists, hell , purgatory and

paradise —which in no way correspond to the limited moral concep-

tions which people otherwise usually associate with these words—he

portrays the world of thought, nature and spirit, or to express it withterms from logic, the world of immediacy, reflection and the Con-

cept, in their difference and unity. (Hell is for him precisely indepen-

dence grounded in immediacy , which is only an isolation from every-

thing—a state which needs nothing but is likewise not needed by

anything else.)

Calderon, that most wondrous of all poets, is at first glance con-

tradiction personified, at once the most repulsive and the most de-lightful, the most prejudiced by national prejudices, shortcomings

and limitations, who nonetheless has expressed what no one before

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or since has been able to, a Scribe, who with hundreds of works,

clothed in the most popular form, i.e., theatrical works, won the

constant praise and thundering applause of both the cultured and

the uncultured masses, while he, like the speculative philosopher, set

down in these works—which are admired by the cultured public

and I the riffraff alike—his age’s highest perception and deepest

comprehension of nature, the state, religion, philosophy—in short,

of all life’s interests. He was also a didactic poet. For even if not all of

his, from a certain point of view ephemeral, works can be thus des-

ignated, nevertheless his work in general, that is, the essence of all of

them, is the greatest and most impressive didactic poem which litera-

ture has to show.

Certain critics have in our time regarded Shakespeare as a similar

poetic representative of humanity. It would be odd if England, which

has never been rooted in anything but finite undertakings and whose

literary history does not have a single speculative mind to its name,

should in a single individual have been raised so high above itself.But this is not the case: Shakespeare was all too national not to be a

realist insofar as a great poet can be. Interesting character portrayals,

remarkable events which awaken wonder and fear, psychological and

historical memorabilia are the objects in which he loses himself. But

one does not see any consciousness of the fact that these very things,

as finite and transitory sides both of life and of the poetic art, are lost

in the perception of the infinite. Our wonder of Shakespeare iscertainly justified, but it can be exaggerated; and to make his works

the Bible of I poetry is both laughable and inexcusable in an age

which possesses a much greater poet. Thus, England’s new Shakes-

peare, Walter Scott, who is blind to what is present and simply lives in

the past, is also realist because he is national, indeed, even provin-

cial. Lord Byron, who sometimes hated his countrymen and held

them in disdain, just as he himself was the object of their hatred anddisdain, became an idealist poet. But he let himself be caught in the

net of his own dialectic, came to a halt with skepticism and could not

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achieve unity. Nonetheless the Continent’s anglophiles have pre-

ferred the dissonance of Byron to the harmony of Goethe.

What Schiller, with his powerfully striving spirit, would have be-

come if he had lived to experience the present age is difficult to

decide. Such as he now stands for us, he is an idealist poet; but the

subjective, and thus the finite and limited direction of his idealism

precludes inscribing his name alongside those of the three afore-

mentioned speculative poets. But just as he is, he provides a proof of

the existence of speculative poetry, for his works are didactic poems

which present Fichte’s philosophical system. The earlier Kantian

system, as a merely critical undertaking, could in no way be born

again in poetry. With Fichte the Kantian critique became a dogmatism ,

which consistently excluded nature from all interaction with I man,

who, with the postulate of the pure “I,” created his nature and ex-

isted in a world of individual duties. The poetry of Schiller, which was

contemporary with Fichte’s philosophy, wholly appropriated this

character. Goethe, by contrast, whom this subjective, nature-exclud-ing orientation could no more satisfy than it could satisfy humanity

at a time when the natural sciences were beginning to assert their

hegemony, let Fichte’s system pass by unnoticed and affiliated him-

self, by contrast, along with everyone else, with Schelling’s philoso-

phy of nature, which perhaps also, as prepared by its Fichtean oppo-

site, appeared by necessity. Schiller himself had a feeling for the

one-sidedness of subjective idealism, but instead of adopting theidealism of Schelling—which leaned towards the objective side and

therefore suffered from the opposite one-sidedness and could not be

united with the view he had accepted—he thought, at least for a

moment, that he merely could find reassurance by turning back to

Kant,* something which, moreover, neither had nor could have had

* Schillers und Goethes Briefwechsel , Part I, p. 56. Flyvende Post , 1830, no. 114,

where I am no longer satisfied with my introduction to the quoted passage.

44n

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influence on his poetry. Thus, if the number of poets, who truly

deserve the name of “speculative,” I is small, then there are all the

more who, by striving towards a speculative and idealist poetry, have

felt and expressed the age’s need for it. Lessing, Novalis, Tieck, von

Kleist and the brothers Schlegel are examples of this, and—not to

pass over our own literature—the earlier Oehlenschlager and all of

Schack Staffeldt.

With respect to Goethe , it now remains to specify how precisely his

poetry presents the philosophy which the age seeks. Not only are

some of his most significant works, such as Wilhelm Meister , Tasso and

in particular Faust , didactic poems in the previously defined sense of

the word, but the speculative Idea penetrates the composition of

almost all his works, even those, which cannot actually be character-

ized by this name. For in his Tasso it is uncertain whether he prefers

the poet or the diplomat, and all of his portrayals both of characters

and of events are kept as subordinate moments in the unity, as finite

elements, which are only valid inside their limits. Only when they areseen in this way, are they seen in their sublation and therefore in

their truth. However, he effects this sublation, unlike Dante and

Calderon, with a very abstract perception of the finite in universality.

On the contrary, no one goes into more details of nature and human

life than he. No one lingers with greater desire on all our I finite

determinations and relations. Indeed, he has taught us that poetry,

without becoming either trivial or unpopular, can go much moredeeply into these details, determinations and relations than had pre-

viously been suspected. What is grandiose, what is imposing, in Goe-

the is thus seen in the love with which he seems to lose himself in

these finitudes, while he suddenly surprises us by standing above

them and recognizing them for what they are.

A one-sided comprehension of one or another of these moments

has evoked many coarse, undigested opinions, which Goethe’s oppo-nents have brought against him. Those who keep to the first moment

find him fixated on the senses and the material; those who keep to

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the second moment find him without warmth and enthusiasm and

say that he does not mean anything seriously. The first of these

charges is easy to understand and the second no less so when one

remembers that realist poets, whose activity is directed more toward

the limits of things than toward the unlimited which dwells inside

and outside of the limits, have accustomed us to being continually

enthused about a hero or a lover, instead of being enthused about

the ideas which are contained in such individual and personal limi-

tations. But Goethe was no more serious about the finite limitations

than are nature and reason, which sublate them. That he is enthused

only about I what really deserves our enthusiasm, justifies the admi-

ration he has received. Yet each of these opposing criticisms easily

leads to further charges: that he is immoral since he presents the

moral rules of duty—by which the masses are reassured since they

regard them as solid points—in their finitude and deprives them of

their allegedly absolute validity, or, further, that he is irreligious since

his poetry, instead of being placed below religion, has, on the con-trary, taken up the religious standpoint into its own scope by merging

with philosophy. In both of these respects Goethe has, however, done

nothing more than bring our own thoughts to our consciousness;

but it is precisely this, which many people take badly. No one in his

actions regards the isolated rules of duty as absolute, but one never-

theless wants to imagine that one does so. Likewise, concerning the

religious point, the world is quite in agreement that religion shouldbe an object for our knowledge, not vice versa. Although people no

longer feel compelled to submit to the hierarchy, with regard either

to the universal or to the individual, they nevertheless do so when

they accuse Goethe of being irreligious because he brings this, our

serious thought, to consciousness. I

Hegel’s system is the same as Goethe’s. That two great spirits at the

same time have come to the same result cannot help but awaken afavorable conception of the result and must encourage those who

demand evidence of the correctness of the thing before they famil-

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iarize themselves with it. To characterize the Hegelian philosophy in

a few words, one can say that, like Goethe’s poetry, it reconciles the

ideal with actuality, our demands with what we possess, and our

wishes with what is achieved.

To understand our poetry, to understand our religion, these are our

most immediate demands because they are individual. For as indi-

viduals, we find ourselves in these two spheres, and in them we as

individuals already partake of the infinite. But it is also a matter of

understanding our finite essence, on the one hand, in its subjective

form as mere soul and not yet spirit in which we are also individuals,

but finite and transitory, and, on the other hand, in its objective

form, the state, in which the individual is nothing and the whole is

everything. Nature also demands to be understood, not merely in its

finite determinations, which are objects for empirical observation,

but comprehended as the middle realm (called by Dante “purga-

tory”) which proceeds from thought and strives toward spirit.

In a word, philosophy , developed in its I own form, i.e., in thetruth’s essential, naked form, is what is needed at the moment. And

with this the occasion for contributing to its promotion is sufficiently

motivated for anyone who knows he is in a position to do so.

That the author of the present work is convinced that he belongs

among those who are called to this vocation, he demonstrates with

the publication of this work and with the invitation to the oral lec-

tures. However, he cannot show to what extent he is in a position to justify his own conviction to others, without putting his hand to the

task.

The system to which he will particularly tie his presentation is the

Hegelian. Yet he will be careful to distinguish between what is only

thought to be particular to Hegel and what the latter has expressed

in the name of humanity; for only the latter, not the former, is our

common property, our true philosophy. In every human work thereis much that is imperfect. It would be laughable to assume such was

not the case here; but perfection is also there , and we will keep to it.

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In order to prevent all misunderstanding, it is perhaps not super-

fluous to repeat what has already been said expressly and to which

the entire treatise refers: that neither in the Hegelian system nor in

any other true system can philosophy be regarded as something

new, which comes to what exists just like a panacea, I which once

taken is supposed to quickly free us from all evils. But it is this goal

to which our political activity, our science, our art, our poetry and

our religion, in short, all our interests strive according to their own

inner force, so that philosophy cannot be anything other than the

knowledge of the truth to which these undertakings have already

come. And on that basis the Hegelian system must be recognized as

heretofore the most comprehensive one, which has grounded the

greatest mass of these undertakings and most correctly compre-

hended the common direction in which they converge in a central

science.

The fact that Hegelian philosophy, in all the years which have

passed since its founder first presented it, has not yet had a greaterinfluence on the course of the world or won popularity cannot justify

any prejudice against it. Experience teaches, and, moreover, it lies in

the nature of the matter that what ferments darkly and struggles in

the ideas of humanity needs a long time before it can achieve the

form of consciousness. The culture which in our times is so wide-

spread, which has become so general that it seems almost to be

present at birth, has little by little had to struggle out of centuries of barbarism and darkness. The idea of Luther’s Reformation needed

several centuries to be I incorporated into the general consciousness.

For even in the Thirty-Years’ War, which was the Reformation’s first

great work, people had, on the whole, only a vague conception of

what it actually was that they were fighting for. Religion has always

prepared the way with the sword and only later produced conviction.

But philosophy employs nothing but conviction, and religious warscannot be replaced by philosophical wars, at least not by any other

than those which are carried out with pen and ink. To be sure, the

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systems of Kant, Fichte, and Schelling were adopted more quickly

and more generally than that of Hegel, but they were also one-sided,

and therefore, easier to gain a general knowledge of. But for the

same reason they were also far from expressing the thought of hu-

manity and therefore could not satisfy it for very long. But Hegelian

philosophy, which makes a claim to be the age’s own, needs, like any

great work, a much longer time to be accepted. So much more ought

anyone who has understood this claim feel called to contribute his

part to realizing it.

Here it is merely a matter of opening our eyes to that which we

already see without knowing it, of unfolding our consciousness and

showing ourselves what it contains. The art, which one must use as

the means to this end, is to tie the philosophical concepts to our

representations , or, so to speak, translate the latter I into the language

spoken by the former. For we are all at home in representations, but

we feel alienated in the Concept until we realize that it also rests in

representations, like an unknown room in the house in which welive. Philosophy lies unconsciously in ordinary common sense. Just as

we eat, drink and digest, walk, stand and run, all without knowing

our internal structure or the organization of our muscles, so also

humanity’s common opinions and actions contain the absolute truth

or the Concept; and language—which is the body for thought, of

which we avail ourselves without having studied its organization, just

as we avail ourselves of our material body without having studied itsanatomy—is built in agreement with strict principles of logic and is

formed from the inevitable reason which expresses itself in the un-

conscious as in the conscious. Philosophy’s presentation must be tied

to this firm point of support; only in this manner is it possible to

popularize it. And just as this undertaking has heretofore been lack-

ing in accounts of philosophy—partly because philosophy, even

among philosophers, had to educate itself to a greater clarity beforethose philosophers could make it clear for others, and it had to, as it

were, become ripe before the world could enjoy its fruit—so also it is

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now precisely this undertaking to which I our activity in particular

must be referred since the demands of the age assert themselves

more and more.

The author of the present work nourishes at least the hope that

he has now advanced sufficiently that he will be able to contribute to

the attainment of the aforementioned end, so that in a series of

lectures he will be able to present an “Introduction to Philosophy”

accessible to all cultured people . Indeed, this hope is so alive in him

that he does not even assume that he needs to limit himself to a

lecture for gentlemen but dares to believe that cultured ladies will also

be able to participate in the lecture’s serious investigations, in that

they make the group more beautiful by their presence. For if men

usually have a sharper and more consistent understanding, a greater

dialectical proclivity, then the feminine sex is accustomed to having a

more certain, infallible disposition for immediately comprehending

the truth and, undisturbed by all finite determinations, for looking

into the infinite in which they rest, the unity, in which they consist.The author sees the one ability as just as effective for knowledge as

the other.

The author will close with the declaration that although he sees

the present work as popularly conceived, he nonetheless is well aware

that it demands an unusual attentiveness and reflection before it can

be understood. But in this respect he believes that he can excuse

himself with the remark that I the work does not constitute a part of the lectures and that it consequently is not meant to be heard but to be read ,

and that much, which in the oral presentation would pose difficulty

for the listeners (provided that it is not developed more closely or is

not conveyed with different formulations to the faculty of represen-

tation), can in the written presentation be understood by sensible

and calm readers in a more concise exposition and with less beating

around the bush.

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The course will consist of about 16 to 20 lectures. Admission for

gentlemen and ladies can be paid with 5 rix-dollar notes for each

person. One may enroll for the time being at the publisher of this

work of invitation, the University Bookseller, Mr. Reitzel , Store

Kjøbmagergade no. 6. When a sufficient number of auditors has

enrolled, the admission cards can be picked up at the same place

after a more detailed announcement in the Adresse-Avis . The time

and place will also be fixed at that time.

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on the significance

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