The Rudolf Steiner Archive

Today our subject is one that undoubtedly concerns all human beings, for the words “illness” and “death” express something which enters in every life, often as an uninvited guest, often too in a vexing, frustrating, frightening guise, and death presents itself as the greatest riddle of existence; so that when anyone has solved the question of its nature he has also solved that other question—the nature of life. Frequently we hear it said that death is an unsolved riddle—a riddle which no-one will ever solve. People who speak thus have no idea how arrogant these words are; they have no idea that there does exist a solution to the riddle which, however, they do not happen to understand. Today, when we are to deal with such an all-embracing and important subject, I beg you particularly to bear in mind how impossible it is for us to do more than answer the above question: “What do we understand by illness and death?” Hence we cannot go into detail where such things as illness and health are concerned, but must confine ourselves to the essential question: How do we arrive at an understanding of these two important problems of our existence?

The most familiar answer to this question concerning the nature of death, one that has held good for centuries but today has little importance attached to it by the majority of educated people, is contained in St. Paul's words: “For the wages of sin is death”. As we have said in previous lectures, for many centuries these words were in a way a solution of the riddle of death. Today those who think in modern terms will not be able to make anything of such an answer; they would be mystified by the idea that sin—something entirely moral and having to do only with human conduct—could be the cause of a physical fact or should be supposed to have anything to do with the nature of illness and death.

Perhaps it will be helpful if we refer to the present utter lack of understanding of the text “the wages of sin is death”. For Paul and those who lived in his day did not attribute at all the same meaning to the word “sin” that is done by the philistine of today. Paul did not think of sin as being a fault in the ordinary sense nor one of a deeper kind; he understood sin to be anything proceeding from selfishness and egoism. Every action is sin that has selfishness and egoism as its driving force—in contrast to what springs from positive, objective impulses—and the fact that the human being has become independent and conscious of self pre-supposes egoism and selfishness. This must be recognised when we make a deep study of the way in which a spirit such as that of Paul thinks.

Whoever is not content with a merely superficial understanding of both Old and New Testament records but penetrates really to their spirit, knows that a quite definite method of thinking—one might call it that of innate philosophy—forms the undercurrent of these records. The undercurrent is something of this kind: All living creatures in the world are directed towards a determined goal. We come across lower beings who have a perfectly neutral attitude towards pleasure and pain, joy and sorrow. We then find how life evolves, something being bound up with it. Let those who shudder at the word teleology realise that here we have no thought-out theory but a simple fact—the whole kingdom of living beings right up to man is moving towards a definite goal, a summit of the living being, which shows itself in the possibility of personal consciousness.

The initiates of the Old and New Testaments looked down to the animal kingdom; they saw the whole kingdom striving towards the advent of a free personality, which would then be able to act out of its own impulses. With the essential being of such a personality is connected all that makes for egoistic, selfish action. But a thinker like St. Paul would say: If a personality who is able to act egoistically lives in a body, then this body must be mortal. For in an immortal body there could never live a soul who had independence, consciousness, and consequently egoism. Hence a mortal body goes together with a soul having consciousness of personality and a one-sided development of the personality towards impulses to action. This the Bible calls “sin” and thus Paul defines death as the “wages of sin”. Here indeed you see that we have to modify certain biblical sayings because in the course of centuries they have become inverted. And if we do modify them, not by altering their meaning but by making it clear that we change the present theological meaning back to its original one, we see that we often find a very profound understanding of the matter, not far removed from what today we are once again able to grasp. This is mentioned in order to make our position clear.

But the thinkers, the searchers after a world-conception, have in all ages been occupied with the question of death, which for thousands of years we may find answered in apparently the most diverse ways. We cannot embark upon an historical survey of these solutions; hence let us mention here two thinkers only, that you may see how even present-day philosophers cannot contribute anything of consequence about the question. One of these thinkers is Schopenhauer.

You all know the pessimistic trend of his thinking, and whoever has met with the sentence: “Life is a precarious affair and I have decided to spend my life to ponder it”, will understand how the only solution Schopenhauer could arrive at was that death consoles us for life, life for death;—that life is an unpleasant affair and would be unbearable were we not aware that death ends it. If we are afraid of death we need only convince ourselves that life is not any better than death and that nothing is determined by death.—This is the pessimistic way in which he thinks, which simply leads to what he makes the Earth-spirit say: “You wish that new life should always be arising; if that were so, I would need more room.” Schopenhauer therefore is to a certain extent clear that for life to propagate, for it to go on bringing forth fresh life, it is necessary for the old to die to make room for the new. Further than this Schopenhauer has nothing of weight to bring forward, for the gist of anything else that he says is contained in those few words.

The other thinker is Eduard von Hartmann. Von Hartmann in his last book has dealt with the riddle of death, and says: When we look at the highest evolved being we find that, after one or two new generations, a man no longer understands the world. When he has become old he can no longer comprehend youth; hence it is necessary for the old to die and the new again to come to the fore.—In any case you will find no answer here that could bring us nearer to an understanding of the riddle of death.

We will therefore contribute to the present-day world-conceptions what spiritual science—or anthroposophy, as we call it today—has to say about the causes of death and illness. In so doing, however, one thing will have to be made clear—that spiritual science is not so fortunate as the other sciences as to be able to speak in a definite manner about every subject. The modern scientist would not understand that when speaking of illness and death a distinction has to be made between animal and man; and that if the question in our lecture today is to be understood we must limit ourselves to these phenomena in human beings. Since living beings have not only their abstract similarity to one another, but each one has his own nature and individuality, much that is said today will be applicable also to the animal kingdom, perhaps even to the plants. But in essentials we shall be speaking about men, and other things will be drawn upon merely by way of illustration.

If we want to understand death and illness in human beings we must above all consider how complicated human nature is in the sense of spiritual science; and we must understand its nature in accordance with the four members—first the outwardly visible physical body, secondly the etheric or life body, then the astral body, and fourthly the human ego, the central point of man's being. We must then be clear that in the physical body the same forces and substances are present which are in the physical world outside; in the etheric body there lies what calls these substances to life, and this etheric body man possesses in common with the whole plant-kingdom. The astral body which man has in common with the animals is the bearer of the whole life of feeling—of desire, pleasure and its opposite, of joy and pain. It is only man who has the ego and this makes him the crown of earthly creation.

In contemplating man as physical organism we must be aware that within this physical organism the other three members are working as formative principles and architects. But the formative principle of the physical organism works only in part in physical man, in another part is active essentially the etheric body, yet in another the astral body, again in a further part man's ego is active. To spiritual science men consist from the physical side of bones, muscles, those members that support man and give him a form sufficiently firm to move about on the earth. In the strictest sense of spiritual science these things alone are reckoned as belonging to the members which come into being through the physical principle. To them are added the actual sense-organs, where we have to do with physical contrivances—in the eye with a kind of camera obscura, in the ear with a very complicated musical instrument. It is a question here of what the organs are built from. They are built by the first principle. On the other hand all the organs connected with growth, propagation, digestion and so on, are not built simply in accordance with the physical principle, but with that of the etheric or life body, which permeates the physical organs as well. Only the structure built-up in accordance with physical law is in the care of the physical principle, the processes of digestion, propagation and growth, however, being an affair of the etheric principle. The astral body is creator of the whole nervous system, right up to the brain and the fibres which run to the brain in the form of sense-nerve fibres. Finally the ego is the architect of the circulatory system of the blood. If, therefore, in the true sense of spiritual science we have to do with a human organism, it is plain to us that even within the physical organism these four members are blended in a man like four distinct dissimilar beings who have been made to work together. These things which jointly compose the human organism have quite different values, and we shall estimate their significance for men if we look into the way in which the development of the individual members is connected with the human being.

Today we shall speak more from the physiological standpoint of the work of the physical principle in the human organism. This work is accomplished in the period from birth to the change of teeth. At that time the physical principle works upon the physical body in the same way as, before the birth of a child, the forces and substances of the mother's organism work upon the embryo. In the physical body from the seventh year until puberty, the working of the etheric body is paramount, and, from puberty on, that of the forces anchored in the astral body. Thus we have the right conception of man's development when we think of the human being as enclosed within the mother's body up to the moment of birth; with birth he, as it were, pushes back the maternal body and his senses become free, so that it is then possible for the outer world to begin having its effect on the human organism. The human being thrusts a sheath away, and his development is understood only when we grasp that something that resembles a physical birth takes place in spiritual life at the changing of the teeth. At about the seventh year the human being is actually born a second time; that is to say, his etheric body is born to free activity just as his physical body is at the moment of physical birth. As before birth the mother's body works on the human embryo, up to the change of teeth spiritual forces of the cosmic ether in a similar way work upon the etheric body of the human being, and about the seventh year these forces are thrust back just as the maternal body is at the time of birth. Up to the seventh year the etheric body is as if latent in the physical body, and about the time the teeth are changed what happens to the etheric body can be compared to the igniting of a match. It is bound up with the physical body, but now comes to its own free, independent activity. The signal for this free activity of the etheric body is indeed the change of teeth. For anyone who has a deeper insight into nature this change of teeth holds a quite special place. In a human being up to his seventh year we have to do with the free working of the physical principle in the physical body; but united with it and not yet delivered from their spiritual sheaths are the etheric principle and astral principle.

If we study the human being up to his seventh year we find that he contains a great deal of what is founded on heredity, which he has not built up with his own principle but has inherited from his ancestors. To this belongs what are called the milk teeth. Only the teeth that come with the change of teeth are the creation of the child's own principle, which physically has the task of forming firm supports. What is expressed in the teeth is working within up to the time they change; it comes, as it were, to a head and produce in the teeth the hardest part of those members that give support, because it still has bound up within it as bearer of growth the etheric or life body.

After the casting off of this principle, the etheric body gains its freedom and works upon the physical organs up to the time of puberty, when a sheath, the outer astral sheath, is thrust away as the maternal sheath is thrust away at birth. The human being at puberty has his third birth, this time in an astral sense. The forces that were working in connection with the etheric body now come to a culmination with their creative activity in man by bringing him his sex maturity, with its organs and capacity for propagation. As in the seventh year the physical principle comes to maturity in the teeth, creating in them the last hard organs, whereby the etheric body, the principle of growth, becomes free, in like manner the moment the astral principle is free it sets up the greatest concentration of impulses, desires, for the outer expressions of life, in so far as we have to do with physical nature. As we have the physical principle concentrated in the teeth, the principle of growth is thus concentrated in puberty. Then the astral body, the sheath of the ego, is free and the ego works upon the astral body.

The man of culture in Europe does not follow simply his impulses and desires; he has purified them and transformed them into moral perceptions and ethical ideals. Compare a savage to an average European, or perhaps to a Schiller or Francis of Assisi, and it may be said that the impulses of these men have been purified and transformed by their ego. Thus we can say that there are always two parts of this astral body, one arising out of original tendencies, and the other which the ego itself has brought forth. We understand the work of the ego only when we are clear that a man is subject of re-incarnation—to repeated lives on earth—that he brings with him through birth in four different bodies the outcome and the fruits of former earth-lives, which are the measure of his energy and forces for the coming life. One man—because earlier he has brought things to this point—is born with a great deal of energy in life, with forces strong to transform his astral body; another will soon grow weak. When we are able to investigate clairvoyantly how the ego begins to work freely on the astral body and to gain mastery over the desires, impulses and passions, then—if we are able to estimate the amount of energy brought by the ego—we might say: this amount suffices for the ego to work on the transformation for such and such a time and no more. For every human being who has reached puberty possesses a certain amount of energy from which can be estimated when he will have transformed all that comes from his astral body, according to the forces that has been apportioned to him in his life. What man in his heart and mind (Gemüt) transformed and purified, maintains itself. So long as this amount lasts he lives at the cost of his self-maintaining astral body. Once this is exhausted he can summon-up no more courage to transform fresh impulses—in short he has no more energy to work upon himself. Then the thread of life is broken, and this must be broken in accordance with the measure apportioned to each human being. The time has then arrived when the astral body has to draw its forces from the principle of human life lying nearest to it, namely, from the etheric body, the time when the astral body lives at the expense of the force stored up in the etheric body. This comes to expression in the human being when his memory, his creative imaginative force, gradually disappears.

We have often heard here how the etheric body is the bearer of creative imagination, of memory and of all that we call hope and courage in life. When these feelings have acquired a lasting quality they cling to the etheric body. They are then drawn upon by the astral body, and after the astral body has lived in this way at the expense of the etheric body and has sucked up all it had to give, the creative forces of the physical body begin to be consumed by the astral body. When these are consumed, the life-force of the physical body disappears, the body hardens, the pulse becomes slow. The astral body finally feeds upon this physical body too, deprives it of its force; and when it has thus consumed it there is no longer any possibility for the physical body to be maintained by the physical principle.

If the astral body is to reach the point of being free, so that it becomes part of the life and work of the ego, it is then necessary that in the second half of life this emancipated astral body—once the measure of its work being exhausted—should consume its sheaths just as they were formed. In this way the individual life is created out of the ego.

The following is given as an illustration. Imagine you have a piece of wood and that you set it on fire; were the wood not constituted as it is you would be unable to do so. Flames leap out of the wood, at the same time consuming it. It is in the nature of a flame to get free of the wood and then to consume the mother-ground from which it springs. Now the astral body is born three times in this way, consuming its own foundations as the flame consumes the wood. The possibility for individual life arises through the consuming of foundations. The root of individual life is death, and were there no death there could not be any conscious individual life. We understand death only by seeking to know its origin; and we form a concept of life by recognising its relation to death. In a similar way we learn to know the nature of illness, which throws still more light on the nature of death. Every illness is seen to be in some way a destroyer of life.

Now what is illness? Let us be clear what happens when a man as a living being confronts the rest of nature. With every breath, with every sound nourishment and light that he takes up into himself, a man enters into a mutual relation with the nature all around him. If you study the matter closely you will find, without being clairvoyant, that outside things actually form and build the physical organs. When certain animals migrate in dark caverns, in time their eyes atrophy. Where there is no light there can no longer be eyes susceptible to light; vice versa, eyes susceptible to light can be formed only where there is light. For this reason Goethe says that the eye is formed by the light for the light. Naturally the physical body is built in accordance with the ways of its inner architect. Man is a physical being and outer substances are the materials out of which—in harmony with the inner architect—the whole man is built. Then will the relation of individual forces and substances give us a very different picture. Those who have had the true mystic's deeper insight into these matters will have particularly much to tell us here. For Paracelsus the whole external world is one great explanation of the human organism, and a man is like an extract of the whole external world. When we see a plant, in accordance with Paracelsus we may say: In this plant is an organism conforming to law, and there is something in man which, in the healthy or the sick organism, corresponds to this plant. Hence Paracelsus calls a cholera patient, for example, an “arsenicus”, and arsenic is to him the cure for cholera. Thus there exists a relation between each of man's organs and what is around him in nature; we need only take a natural substance, give it human form, and we have man. The single letters of an alphabet are set out in the whole of nature, and we have man if we put them together. Here you get a notion of how the whole of nature works upon man, and how he is called upon to piece his being together out of nature. Strictly speaking, everything in us is drawn from nature outside and taken up into the process of life. When we understand the secret of bringing the external forces and substance to life, we shall be able to form a concept of the nature of illness.

We touch here on ground where it is difficult for educated men of today to understand that there are many spheres in medicine which work in a nebulous way. What a suggestive effect it has in a present-day gathering when someone skilled in nature-healing mentions the word “poison”. What is a poison and how does anything work unnaturally in the human organism? Whatever you introduce into the human organism works in accordance with the laws of nature, and it is a mystery how anyone can speak as if it could work in the body in any other way. Then what is a poison? Water is a strong poison if you consume it by the bucketful in a short time; and what today is poison could have the most beneficial effect if rightly administered. It depends always on the quantity, and under which circumstances, one takes a substance into oneself; in itself, there is no poison.

In Africa there is a tribe who employ a certain breed of dog for hunting. But there is a fly in those parts carrying a poison deadly to the dogs that they sting. Now these savages of the Zambesi river have found a way of dealing with this sting. They take the pregnant dogs to a district where there is an abundance of tsetse flies and let these animals be bitten, choosing the time when they are just going to whelp, with the result that the puppies are immune and can be used for hunting.

Something happens here which is very important for the understanding of life—a poison is taken up into a life process, where a descending line passes over in an ascending one, in such a way that the poison becomes a substance inherent in the organism. What is thus taken from external nature strengthens us and is of use to us.

Spiritual science shows us that in this way the whole human organism is built up—if we like to put it so, simply out of things that were originally poisons. The foods you enjoy today have been made edible by their harmful effects being overcome through a recurrent similar process. We are all the stronger for having thus taken such substances in us; and we make ourselves defenseless against outer nature by rejecting them.—In regions where medicine is founded on occultism, the doctor throws his whole personality into the process. There are cures, for example, for which the doctor administers to himself some kind of snake poison in order to use his saliva as a means to heal bites from that species of snake. He introduces the poison into his own life-process, thereby making himself the bearer of healing forces; he grows strong, and so strengthens others to resist the poison in question.

All that is most harmless in the organism has arisen in this way and the organism has need of the incorporation into it of the external world—of nature; but then it must also be possible for the matter to swing over to the other side like a pendulum. The possibility is always there when a man is exposed to such substances—and at all times he is so exposed—that the effects of the remedy are reversed. The organism is strengthened to resist the remedy the moment it is strong enough to absorb the substance. It is impossible to avoid illness if we wish for health. All possibility of strengthening ourselves against outside influences rests on our being able to have diseases, to become ill. Illness is the condition of health; this development is an absolute reality. It belongs to the very nature and condition of health that a man is obliged to acquire his strength. What survives the beat of the pendulum contains the fruit of immunity from sickness—even from death.

Whoever goes further into these things will indeed gain some kind of understanding of the nature of illness and of death. If we wish to be strong, if we wish for health, then as a preliminary condition we must accept illness into the bargain. If we want to be strong we must arm ourselves against weakness by taking the weakness into us and transforming it into strength. When we grasp this in a living way we shall find illness and death comprehensible. These concepts will be brought to mankind by spiritual science. Today this may well speak to the understanding of many people, but when the understanding has fully accepted the matter it will bring about in man a deep, harmonious mood of soul which will then become the wisdom of life.

Have you not heard that it is possible for anthroposophical truths derived from occultism to become dangerous? Haven't we countless opponents who assert that anthroposophy must be accepted for the strengthening of human beings—that it is not just a subject for discussion but something which proves itself in life to be a spiritual means of healing.

Spiritual science knows too that the physical is built up from the spiritual. If the spiritual forces work upon the etheric body, they work also health giving in the physical body. If our conceptions of the world and of life are sound, then these sound thoughts are most potent remedies, and the truths given out by anthroposophy work injuriously only on those natures who have grown weak through materialism and naturalism. These truths must be taken into the body to make it strong. Only when it produces strong human beings does anthroposophy fulfil its task.

Goethe has answered our questions about life and death in a most beautiful way when saying that everything in nature is life and that nature has only invented death to have more life.¹ And we might say that besides death she has invented illness to produce greater health; therefore she has had to make of wisdom an apparently harmful remedy, in order that this wisdom may work upon mankind in a strengthening and healing way.

This is just the difference between the world movement of spiritual science and other movements—that it promotes strife and discussion when logical proof of it is demanded. Anthroposophy is not meant simply to be confirmed by logical argument; it is something to make human beings both spiritually and bodily sound. The more it shows its effect on life outside by so enhancing it that life's sorrows are transformed into the happiness of life, the more will anthroposophy prove itself in a really living way. However firmly people today believe they are able to bring forward logical objections to it, spiritual science is something which, appearing to be poison, is transformed into a means of healing, and then works in life in a fructifying way. It does not assert itself by mere logic. It is not to be merely demonstrated—it will prove itself in life.

• 1. “Life is here fairest invention, death but her artifice whereby to have much life.” Hymn to Nature.

This week something will be given in the communications addressed to members in these columns, which may serve to bring us to a further understanding of the weekly ‘Leading Thoughts’.

The understanding of anthroposophical truth can be furthered if the relation which exists between man and the world is constantly brought before the human soul.

When man turns his attention to the world into which he is born and out of which he dies, he is surrounded in the first place by the fullness of his sense-impressions. He forms thoughts about these sense-impressions.

In bringing the following to his consciousness: ‘I am forming thoughts about what my senses reveal to me as the world’, he has already come to the point where he can contemplate himself. He can say to himself: In my thoughts ‘I’ live. The world gives me the opportunity of experiencing myself in thought. I find myself in the thoughts in which I contemplate the world.

And continuing to reflect in this way, he ceases to be conscious of the world; he becomes conscious of the ‘I’. He ceases to have the world before him; he begins to experience the self.

If the experience be reversed, and the attention directed to the inner life in which the world is mirrored, then those events emerge into consciousness which belong to our life's destiny, and in which our human self has flowed along from the point of time to which our memory goes back. In following up the events of his destiny, a man experiences his own existence.

In bringing this to his consciousness: ‘I with my own self have experienced something that destiny brought to me’, a man has already come to the point where he will contemplate the world. He can say to himself: I was not alone in my fate; the world played a part in my experience. I willed this or that; the world streamed into my will. I find the world in my will when I experience this will in self-contemplation.

Continuing thus to enter into his own being, man ceases to be conscious of the self, he becomes conscious of the world; he ceases to experience himself, he becomes feelingly aware of the world.

I send my thoughts out into the world, there I find myself; I sink into myself, there I find the world. If a man experiences this strongly enough, he is confronted with the great riddles of the World and Man.

For to have the feeling: I have taken endless pains to understand the world through thinking, and after all there is but myself in this thinking—this gives rise to the first great riddle. And to feel that one's own self is formed through destiny, yet to perceive in this process the onward flow of world-happenings—this presents the second riddle.

In the experience of this problem of Man and the World germinates the frame of mind in which man can so confront Anthroposophy that he receives from it in his inner being an impression which rouses his attention.

For Anthroposophy asserts that there is a spiritual experience which does not lose the world when thinking. One can also live in thought. Anthroposophy tells of an inward experience in which one does not lose the sense-world when thinking, but gains the Spirit-world. Instead of penetrating into the ego in which the sense-world is felt to disappear, one penetrates into the Spirit-world in which the ego feels established.

Anthroposophy shows, further, that there is an experience of destiny in which one does not lose the self. In fate, too, one can still feel oneself to be active. Anthroposophy points out, in the impartial, unegoistic observation of human destiny, an experience in which one learns to love the world and not only one's own existence. Instead of staring into the world which carries the ego on the waves of fortune and misfortune, one finds the ego which shapes its own fate voluntarily. Instead of striking against the world, on which the ego is dashed to pieces, one penetrates into the self, which feels itself united with the course of events in the world.

Man's destiny comes to him from the world that is revealed to him by his senses. If then he finds his own activity in the working of his destiny, his real self rises up before him not only out of his inner being but out of the sense-world too.

If a person is able to feel, however faintly, how the spiritual part of the world appears in the self, and how the self proves to be working in the outer world of sense, he has already learned to understand Anthroposophy correctly. For he will then realise that in Anthroposophy it is possible to describe the Spirit-world which the self can comprehend. And this will enable him to understand that in the sense-world the self can also be found—in a different way than by diving within. Anthroposophy finds the self by showing how the sense-world reveals to man not only sense-perceptions but also the after-effects of his life before birth and his former earthly lives.

Man can now gaze on the world perceptible to his senses and say: It contains not only colour, sound, warmth; in it are active the experiences passed through by souls before their present earthly life. And he can look into himself and say: I find there not only my ego but, in addition, a spiritual world is revealed.

In an understanding of this kind, a person who really feels—who is not unmoved by—the great riddles of Man and the World, can meet on a common ground with the Initiate who in accordance with his insight is obliged to speak of the outer world of the senses as manifesting not only sensible perceptions but also the impressions of what human souls have done in their life before birth and in past earthly lives, and who has to say of the world of the inner self that it reveals spiritual events which produce impressions and are as effective as the perceptions of the sense-world.

The would-be active members should consciously make themselves mediators between what the questioning human soul feels as the problems of Man and the Universe, and what the knowledge of the Initiates has to recount, when it draws forth a past world out of the destiny of human beings, and when by strengthening the soul it opens up the perception of a spiritual world.

In this way, through the work of the would-be active members, the Anthroposophical Society may become a true preparatory school for the school of Initiates. It was the intention of the Christmas Assembly to indicate this very forcibly; and one who truly understands what that Assembly meant will continue to point this out until the sufficient understanding of it can bring the Society fresh tasks and possibilities again.

[ 1 ] This week something will be given in the communications addressed to members in these columns, which may serve to bring us to a further understanding of the weekly ‘Leading Thoughts.’

[ 2 ] The understanding of anthroposophical truth can be furthered if the relation which exists between man and the world is constantly brought before the human soul.

[ 3 ] When man turns his attention to the world into which he is born and out of which he dies, he is surrounded in the first place by the fullness of his sense-impressions. He forms thoughts about these sense-impressions.

[ 4] In bringing the following to his consciousness: ‘I am forming thoughts about what my senses reveal to me as the world,’ he has already come to the point where he can contemplate himself. He can say to himself: In my thoughts ‘I’ live. The world gives me the opportunity of experiencing myself in thoughts. I find myself in my thoughts when I contemplate the world.

[ 5 ] And continuing to reflect in this way, he ceases to be conscious of the world; he becomes conscious of the ‘I’. He ceases to have the world before him; he begins to experience the self.

[ 6 ] If the experience be reversed, and the attention directed to the inner life in which the world is mirrored, then those events emerge into consciousness which belong to our life's destiny, and in which our human self has flowed along from the point of time to which our memory goes back. In following up the events of his destiny, a man experiences his own existence.

[ 7 ] In bringing this to his consciousness: ‘I with my own self have experienced something that destiny brought to me,’ a man has already come to the point where he will contemplate the world. He can say to himself: I was not alone in my fate; the world played a part in my experience. I willed this or that; the world streamed into my will. I find the world in my will when I experience this will in self-contemplation.

[ 8 ] Continuing thus to enter into his own being, man ceases to be conscious of the self, he becomes conscious of the world; he ceases to experience himself, he becomes feelingly aware of the world.

[ 9 ] ‘I send my thoughts out into the World, there I find myself; I sink into myself, there I find the World.’ If a man experiences this strongly enough he is confronted with the great riddles of the World and Man.

[ 10 ] For to have the feeling: I have taken endless pains to understand the world through thinking, and after all there is but myself in this thinking—this gives rise to the first great riddle.

[ 11 ] And to feel that one's own self is formed through destiny, yet to perceive in this process the onward flow of world-happenings—this presents the second riddle.

[ 12 ] In the experience of this problem of Man and the World germinates the frame of mind in which man can so confront Anthroposophy that he receives from it in his inner being an impression which rouses his attention.

[ 13 ] For Anthroposophy asserts that there is a spiritual experience which does not lose the world when thinking. One can also live in thought. Anthroposophy tells of an inward experience in which one does not lose the sense-world when thinking, but gains the Spirit-world. Instead of penetrating into the ego in which the sense-world is felt to disappear, one penetrates into the Spirit-world in which the ego feels established.

[ 14 ] Anthroposophy shows, further, that there is an experience of destiny in which one does not lose the self. In fate, too, one can still feel oneself to be active. Anthroposophy points out, in the impartial, unegoistic observation of human destiny, an experience in which one learns to love the world and not only one's own existence. Instead of staring into the world which carries the ego on the waves of fortune and misfortune, one finds the ego which shapes its own fate voluntarily. Instead of striking against the world on which the ego is dashed to pieces, one penetrates into the self, which feels itself united with the course of events in the world.

[ 15 ] Man's destiny comes to him from the world that is revealed to him by his senses. If then he finds his own activity in the working of his destiny, his real self rises up before him not only out of his inner being but out of the sense-world too.

[ 16 ] If a person is able to feel, however faintly, how the spiritual part of the world appears in the self, and how the self proves to be working in the outer world of sense, he has already learned to understand Anthroposophy correctly.

[ 17 ] For he will then realise that in Anthroposophy it is possible to describe the Spirit-world which the self can comprehend. And this will enable him to understand that in the sense-world the self can also be found—in a different way than by diving within. Anthroposophy finds the self by showing how the sense-world reveals to man not only sense-perceptions but also the after-effects of his life before birth and his former earthly lives.

[ 18 ] Man can now gaze on the world perceptible to his senses and say: It contains not only colour, sound, warmth; in it are active the experiences passed through by souls before their present earthly life. And he can look into himself and say: I find there not only my ego but, in addition, a spiritual world is revealed.

[ 19 ] In an understanding of this kind, a person who really feels—who is not unmoved by—the great riddles of Man and the World, can meet on a common ground with the Initiate who in accordance with his insight is obliged to speak of the outer world of the senses as manifesting not only sense-perceptions but also the impressions of what human souls have done in their life before birth and in past earthly lives, and who has to say of the world of the inner self that it reveals spiritual events which produce impressions and are as effective as the perceptions of the sense-world.

[ 20 ] The would-be active members should consciously make themselves mediators between what the questioning human soul feels as the problems of Man and the Universe, and what the knowledge of the Initiates has to recount, when it draws forth a past world out of the destiny of human beings, and when by strengthening the soul it opens up the perception of a spiritual world.

[ 21 ] In this way, through the work of the would-be active members, the Anthroposophical Society may become a true preparatory school for the school of Initiates. It was the intention of the Christmas Meeting to indicate this very forcibly; and one who truly understands what that Meeting meant will continue to point this out until sufficient understanding of it can bring the Society fresh tasks and possibilities again.

[ 22] May the Leading Thoughts to be given in this number proceed, therefore, out of this spirit.

Further Leading Thoughts issued from the Goetheanum for the Anthroposophical Society

[ 23 ] 62. In our sense-perceptions, the world of the senses bears on to the surface only a portion of the being that lies concealed in the depths of its waves beneath. Penetrative spiritual observation reveals within these depths the after-effects of what was done by souls of men in ages long gone by.

[ 24 ] 63. To ordinary self-observation the inner world of man reveals only a portion of that, in the midst of which it stands. Intensified experience in consciousness shows it to be contained within a living spiritual Reality.

[ 25] 64. The destiny of man reveals the workings, not only of an external world, but of the man's own Self.

[ 26 ] 65. The experiences of the human soul reveal not only a Self but a world of the Spirit, which the Self can know by deeper spiritual knowledge as a world united with its own being.

Further Leading Thoughts issued from the Goetheanum for the Anthroposophical Society

[ 27 ] 66. The Beings of the Third Hierarchy reveal themselves in the life which is unfolded as a spiritual background in human Thinking. In the human activity of thought this life is concealed. If it worked on in its own essence in human thought, man could not attain to Freedom. Where cosmic Thought activity ceases, human Thought-activity begins.

[ 28 ] 67. The Beings of the Second Hierarchy manifest themselves in a world-of-soul beyond humanity—a world of cosmic soul-activities, hidden from human Feeling. This cosmic world-of-soul is ever creative in the background of human Feeling. Out of the being of man it first creates the organism of Feeling; only then can it bring Feeling itself to life therein.

[ 29 ] 68. The Beings of the First Hierarchy manifest themselves in spiritual creation beyond humanity—a cosmic world of spiritual Being which indwells the human Willing. This world of cosmic Spirit experiences itself in creative action when man wills. It first creates the connection of man's being with the Universe beyond humanity; only then does man himself become, through his organism of Will, a freely willing being.

[ 1 ] When I see how a billiard ball, when struck, communicates its motion to another ball, I remain entirely without influence on the course of this event which I observe. The direction and velocity of the second ball is determined by the direction and velocity of the first. As long as I do no more than observe, I cannot say anything about the motion of the second ball until it actually moves. The situation alters if I begin to reflect on the content of my observation. The purpose of my reflection is to form concepts of the event. I bring the concept of an elastic ball into connection with certain other concepts of mechanics, and take into consideration the special circumstances prevailing in this particular instance. In other words, to the action taking place without my doing, I try to add a second action which unfolds in the conceptual sphere. The latter is dependent on me. This is shown by the fact that I could rest content with the observation and forgo all search for concepts if I had no need of them. If, however, this need is present, then I am not satisfied until I have brought the concepts ball, elasticity, motion, impact, velocity, etc., into a certain connection, to which the observed process is related in a definite way. As certain as it is that the event takes place independently of me, so certain is it also that the conceptual process cannot take place without my doing it.

[ 2 ] We shall consider later whether this activity of mine is really a product of my own independent being or whether the modern physiologists are right who say that we cannot think as we will, but that we must think exactly as the thoughts and thought-connections present in our consciousness determine.¹⁷ For the time being we wish merely to establish the fact that we constantly feel compelled to seek for concepts and connections of concepts standing in a certain relation to objects and events given independently of us. Whether this activity is really ours, or whether we accomplish it according to an unalterable necessity, we shall leave aside for the moment. That at first sight it appears to be our activity is beyond doubt. We know with absolute certainty that we are not given the concepts together with the objects. That I myself am the doer may be illusion, but to immediate observation this certainly appears to be the case. The question here is: What do we gain by finding a conceptual counterpart to an event?

[ 3 ] There is a profound difference between the ways in which, for me, the parts of an event are related to one another before and after the discovery of the corresponding concepts. Mere observation can follow the parts of a given event as they occur, but their connection remains obscure without the help of concepts. I see the first billiard ball move toward the second in a certain direction and with a definite velocity. I must wait for what will happen after the impact, and again I can follow what happens only with my eyes. Let us assume that at the moment the impact occurs someone obstructs my view of the field where the event takes place: then—as mere onlooker—I have no knowledge of what happens afterward. The situation is different if before my view was obstructed I had discovered the concepts corresponding to the nexus of events. In that case I can estimate what occurs, even when I am no longer able to observe. An object or event which has only been observed does not of itself reveal anything about its connection with other objects or events. This connection comes to light only when observation combines with thinking.

[ 4 ] Observation and thinking are the two points of departure for all spiritual striving of man insofar as he is conscious of such striving. What is accomplished by ordinary human reason as well as by the most complicated scientific investigations rests on these two fundamental pillars of our spirit. Philosophers have started from various primary antitheses: idea and reality, subject and object, appearance and thing-in-itself, ego and non-ego, idea and will, concept and matter, force and substance, the conscious and the unconscious. It is easy to show, however, that all these antitheses must be preceded by that of observation and thinking, as the one the most important for man.

[ 5 ] Whatever principle we wish to advance, we must prove that somewhere we have observed it, or express it in the form of a clear thought which can be re-thought by others. Every philosopher who begins to speak about his fundamental principles must make use of the conceptual form, and thereby makes use of thinking. He therefore indirectly admits that for his activity he presupposes thinking. Whether thinking or something else is the main element in the evolution of the world, we shall not decide as yet. But that without thinking the philosopher can gain no knowledge of the evolution of the world, is immediately clear. Thinking may play a minor part in the coming into being of world phenomena, but thinking certainly plays a major part in the coming into being of a view about them.

[ 6 ] As regards observation, it is due to our organization that we need it. For us, our thinking about a horse and the object horse are two separate things. But we have access to the object only through observation. As little as we can form a concept of a horse by merely staring at it, just as little are we able to produce a corresponding object by mere thinking.

[ 7 ] In sequence of time, observation even precedes thinking. For even thinking we learn to know first by means of observation. It was essentially a description of an observation when, at the opening of this chapter, we gave an account of how thinking is kindled by an event and of how it goes beyond what is given without its activity. Whatever enters the circle of our experiences we first become aware of through observation. The contents of sensation, of perception, of contemplation, of feelings, of acts of will, of the pictures of dreams and fantasy, of representations, of concepts and ideas, of all illusions and hallucinations are given us through observation.

[ 8 ] However, as object of observation, thinking differs essentially from all other objects. The observation of a table or a tree occurs in me as soon as these objects appear within the range of my experience. But my thinking that goes on about these things, I do not observe at the same time. I observe the table; the thinking about the table I carry out, but I do not observe it at the same moment. I would first have to transport myself to a place outside my own activity if, besides observing the table, I wanted also to observe my thinking about the table. Whereas observation of things and events, and thinking about them, are but ordinary occurrences filling daily life, the observation of thinking itself is a sort of exceptional situation. This fact must be taken into account sufficiently when we come to determine the relation of thinking to all other contents of observation. It is essential to be clear about the fact that when thinking is observed the same procedure is applied to it as the one we normally apply to the rest of the world-content, only in ordinary life we do not apply it to thinking.

[ 9 ] Someone might object that what I have said here about thinking also holds good for feeling and for all other soul activities. When, for example, we feel pleasure, the feeling is also kindled by an object, and it is this object I observe, and not the feeling of pleasure. This objection, however, is based upon an error. Pleasure does not have at all the same relationship to its object has has the concept which thinking builds up. I am absolutely conscious of the fact that the concept of a thing is built up by my activity, whereas pleasure is produced in me by an object in the same way as, for instance, a change is caused in an object by a stone which falls upon it. For observation, a pleasure is given in exactly the same way as that is given which causes it. The same is not true of concepts. I can ask: Why does a particular event arouse in me a feeling of pleasure? But it is never possible to ask: Why does an event produce in me a certain number of concepts? That simply has no sense. When I reflect about an event there is no question of an effect on me. I learn nothing about myself by knowing the concepts which correspond to the change observed in a pane of glass when a stone is thrown against it. But I very definitely do learn something about my personality when I know the feeling which a certain event arouses in me. When I say of an observed object: This is a rose, I say absolutely nothing about myself; but when I say of the same thing: It gives me a feeling of pleasure, I characterize not only the rose but also myself in my relation to the rose.

[ 10 ] There can, therefore, be no question of comparing thinking and feeling as objects of observation. And the same could easily be shown concerning other activities of the human soul. Unlike thinking, they belong in the same sphere as other observed objects and events. It is characteristic of the nature of thinking that it is an activity directed solely upon the observed object and not upon the thinking personality. This can already be seen from the way we express our thoughts, as distinct from the way we express our feelings or acts of will in relation to objects. When I see an object and recognize it as a table, generally I would not say: I am thinking of a table, but: This is a table. But I would say: I am pleased with the table. In the first instance I am not at all interested in pointing out that I have entered into any relationship with the table, whereas in the second it is just this relationship that matters. In saying: I am thinking of a table, I already enter the exceptional situation characterized above, where something is made an object of observation which is always contained within our soul's activity, only normally it is not made an object of observation.

[ 11 ] It is characteristic of thinking that the thinker forgets thinking while doing it. What occupies him is not thinking, but the object of thinking which he observes.

[ 12 ] The first thing then, that we observe about thinking is that it is the unobserved element in our ordinary life of thought.

[ 13 ] The reason we do not observe thinking in our daily life of thought is because it depends upon our own activity. What I myself do not bring about, enters my field of observation as something objective. I find myself confronted by it as by something that has come about independently of me; it comes to meet me; I must take it as the presupposition of my thinking process. While I reflect on the object, I am occupied with it, my attention is turned to it. This activity is, in fact, thinking contemplation. My attention is directed not to my activity but to the object of this activity. In other words: while I think, I do not look at my thinking which I produce, but at the object of thinking which I do not produce.

[ 14 ] I am even in the same position when I let the exceptional situation come about and think about my own thinking. I can never observe my present thinking, but only afterward can I make into an object of thinking the experience I have had of my thinking-process. If I wanted to observe my present thinking, I would have to split myself into two persons: one to do the thinking, the other to observe this thinking. This I cannot do. I can only accomplish it in two separate acts. The thinking to be observed is never the one actually being produced, but another one. Whether for this purpose I observe my own earlier thinking, or follow the thinking process of another person, or else, as in the above example of the movements of the billiard balls, presuppose an imaginary thinking process, makes no difference.

[ 15 ] Two things that do not go together are actively producing something and confronting this in contemplation. This is already shown in the First Book of Moses. The latter represents God as creating the world in the first six days, and only when the world is there is the possibility of contemplating it also present: “And God saw everything that he had made and, behold, it was very good.” So it is also with our thinking. It must first be present before we can observe it.

[ 16 ] The reason it is impossible for us to observe thinking when it is actually taking place, is also the reason it is possible for us to know it more directly and more intimately than any other process in the world. It is just because we ourselves bring it forth that we know the characteristic features of its course, the manner in which the process takes place. What in the other spheres of observation can be found only indirectly: the relevant context and the connection between the individual objects—in the case of thinking is known to us in an absolutely direct way. Off-hand, I do not know why, for my observation, thunder follows lightning, but from the content of the two concepts I know immediately why my thinking connects the concept of thunder with the concept of lightning. Naturally here it does not matter whether I have correct concepts of thunder and lightning. The connection between those concepts I have is clear to me, and indeed this is the case through the concepts themselves.

[ 17 ] This transparent clarity of the process of thinking is quite independent of our knowledge of the physiological basis of thinking. I speak here of thinking insofar as it presents itself to observation of our spiritual activity. How one material process in my brain causes or influences another while I carry out a line of thought, does not come into consideration at all. What I see when I observe thinking is not what process in my brain connects the concept of lightning with the concept of thunder, but I see what motivates me to bring the two concepts into a particular relationship. My observation of thinking shows me that there is nothing that directs me in my connecting one thought with another, except the content of my thoughts; I am not directed by the material processes in my brain. In a less materialistic age than ours this remark would of course be entirely superfluous. Today however, when there are people who believe: When we know what matter is, we shall also know how matter thinks,—it has to be said that it is possible to speak about thinking without entering the domain of brain physiology at the same time. Today many people find it difficult to grasp the concept of thinking in its purity. Anyone who wants to contrast the representation of thinking I have here developed, with Cabanis ¹⁸ statement, “The brain secretes thoughts as the liver does gall or the spittle-glands spittle, etc.,” simply does not know what I am talking about. He tries to find thinking by means of a mere process of observation such as we apply to other objects that make up the content of the world. He cannot find it in this manner because as I have shown, it eludes normal observation. Whoever cannot overcome materialism lacks the ability to bring about in himself the exceptional situation described above, which brings to his consciousness what remains unconscious in all other spiritual activities. If a person does not have the good will to place himself in this situation, then one can no more speak to him about thinking than one can speak about color to a person who is blind. However, he must not believe that we consider physiological processes to be thinking. He cannot explain thinking because he simply does not see it.

[ 18 ] However, one possessing the ability to observe thinking,—and with goodwill every normally organized person has this ability,—this observation is the most important he can make. For he observes something which he himself brings to existence; he finds himself confronted not by a foreign object, to begin with, but by his own activity. He knows how what he observes comes to be. He sees through the connections and relations. A firm point is attained from which, with well-founded hope, one can seek for the explanation of the rest of the world's phenomena.

[ 19 ] The feeling of possessing such a firm point caused the founder of modern philosophy, Renatus Cartesius,¹⁹ to base the whole of human knowledge on the principle, I think, therefore I am. All other things, all other events are present independent of me. Whether they are there as truth or illusion or dream I know not. Only one thing do I know with absolute certainty, for I myself bring it to its sure existence: my thinking. Perhaps it also has some other origin as well, perhaps it comes from God or from elsewhere, but that it is present in the sense that I myself bring it forth, of that I am certain. Cartesius had, to begin with, no justification for giving his statement any other meaning. He could maintain only that within the whole world content it is in my thinking that I grasp myself within that activity which is most essentially my own. What is meant by the attached therefore I am, has been much debated. It can have a meaning in one sense only. The simplest assertion I can make about something is that it is, that it exists. How this existence can be further defined I cannot say straight away about anything that comes to meet me. Each thing must first be studied in its relation to others before it can be determined in what sense it can be said to exist. An event that comes to meet me may be a set of perceptions, but it could also be a dream, a hallucination, and so forth. In short, I am unable to say in what sense it exists. I cannot gather this from the event in itself, but I shall learn it when I consider the event in its relation to other things. From this, however, I can, again, learn no more than how it is related to these other things. My search only reaches solid ground if I find an object which exists in a sense which I can derive from the object itself. As thinker I am such an object, for I give my existence the definite, self-dependent content of the activity of thinking. Having reached this, I can go on from here and ask: Do the other objects exist in the same or in some other sense?

[ 20 ] When thinking is made the object of observation, to the rest of the elements to be observed is added something which usually escapes attention; but the manner in which the other things are approached by man is not altered. One increases the number of observed objects, but not the number of methods of observation. While we are observing the other things, there mingles in the universal process—in which I now include observation—one process which is overlooked. Something different from all other processes is present, but is not noticed. But when I observe my thinking, no such unnoticed element is present. For what now hovers in the background is, again, nothing but thinking. The observed object is qualitatively the same as the activity directed upon it. And that is another characteristic feature of thinking. When we observe it, we do not find ourselves compelled to do so with the help of something qualitatively different, but can remain within the same element.

[ 21 ] When I weave an object, given independently of me, into my thinking, then I go beyond my observation, and the question is: Have I any right to do so? Why do I not simply let the object act upon me? In what way is it possible that my thinking could be related to the object? These are questions which everyone who reflects on his own thought processes must put to himself. They cease to exist when one thinks about thinking. We do not add anything foreign to thinking, and consequently do not have to justify such an addition.

[ 22 ] Schelling ²⁰ says: “To gain knowledge of nature means to create nature.” If these words of the bold nature-philosopher are taken literally, we should have to renounce forever all knowledge of nature. For after all, nature is there already, and in order to create it a second time, one must know the principles according to which it originated. From the nature already in existence one would have to learn the conditions of its existence in order to apply them to the nature one wanted to create. But this learning, which would have to precede the creating, would, however, be knowing nature, and would remain this even if, after the learning, no creation took place. Only a nature not yet in existence could be created without knowing it beforehand.

[ 23 ] What is impossible with regard to nature: creating before knowing, we achieve in the case of thinking. If we wanted to wait and not think until we had first learned to know thinking, then we would never think at all. We have to plunge straight into thinking in order to be able, afterward, to know thinking by observing what we ourselves have done. We ourselves first create an object when we observe thinking. All other objects have been created without our help.

[ 24 ] Against my sentence, We must think before we can contemplate thinking, someone might easily set another sentence as being equally valid: We cannot wait with digesting, either, until we have observed the process of digestion. This objection would be similar to the one made by Pascal ²¹ against Cartesius, when he maintained that one could also say: I go for a walk, therefore I am. Certainly I must resolutely get on with digesting before I have studied the physiological process of digestion. But this could only be compared with the contemplation of thinking if, after having digested, I were not to contemplate it with thinking, but were to eat and digest it. It is, after all, not without significance that whereas digestion cannot become the object of digestion, thinking can very well become the object of thinking.

[ 25 ] This, then, is beyond doubt: In thinking we are grasping a corner of the universal process, where our presence is required if anything is to come about. And, after all, this is just the point. The reason things are so enigmatical to me is that I do not participate in their creation. I simply find them there, whereas in the case of thinking I know how it is made. This is why a more basic starting point than thinking, from which to consider all else in the world, does not exist.

[ 26 ] Here I should mention another widely current error which prevails with regard to thinking. It consists in this, that it is said: Thinking, as it is in itself, we never encounter. That thinking which connects the observations we make of our experiences and weaves them into a network of concepts, is not at all the same as that thinking which later we extract from the objects we have observed and then make the object of our consideration. What we first unconsciously weave into things is something quite different from what we consciously extract from them afterward.

[ 27 ] To draw such conclusions is not to see that in this way it is impossible to escape from thinking. It is absolutely impossible to come out of thinking if one wants to consider it. When one distinguishes an unconscious thinking from a later conscious thinking, then one must not forget that this distinction is quite external and has nothing to do with thinking as such. I do not in the least alter a thing by considering it with my thinking. I can well imagine that a being with quite differently organized sense organs and with a differently functioning intelligence would have a quite different representation of a horse from mine, but I cannot imagine that my own thinking becomes something different because I observe it. What I observe is what I myself bring about. What my thinking looks like to an intelligence different from mine is not what we are speaking about now; we are speaking about what it looks like to me. In any case, the picture of my thinking in another intelligence cannot be truer than my own picture of it. Only if I were not myself the thinking being, but thinking confronted me as the activity of a being foreign to me, could I say that my picture of thinking appeared in quite a definite way, and that I could not know what in itself the thinking of the being was like.

[ 28 ] So far there is not the slightest reason to view my own thinking from a standpoint different from the one applied to other things. After all, I consider the rest of the world by means of thinking. How should I make of my thinking an exception?

[ 29 ] With this I consider that I have sufficiently justified making thinking my starting point in my approach to an understanding of the world. When Archimedes ²² had discovered the lever, he thought that with its help he could lift the whole cosmos from its hinges if only he could find a point upon which he could support his instrument. He needed something that was supported by itself, that was not carried by anything else. In thinking we have a principle which exists by means of itself. From this principle let us attempt to understand the world. Thinking we can understand through itself. So the question is only whether we can also understand other things through it.

[ 30 ] I have so far spoken of thinking without considering its vehicle, man's consciousness. Most present-day philosophers would object: Before there can be thinking, there must be consciousness. Therefore, one should begin, not from thinking, but from consciousness. No thinking can exist without consciousness. To them I must reply: If I want to have an explanation of what relation exists between thinking and consciousness, I must think about it. In doing so I presuppose thinking. To this could be said: When the philosopher wants to understand consciousness he makes use of thinking, and to that extent presupposes it, but in the ordinary course of life thinking does arise within consciousness and, therefore, presupposes this. If this answer were given to the World Creator who wished to create thinking, it would no doubt be justified. One naturally cannot let thinking arise without first having brought about consciousness. However, the philosopher is not concerned with the creation of the world, but with the understanding of it. Therefore he has to find the starting point, not for the creation, but for the understanding of the world. I consider it most extraordinary that a philosopher should be reproached for being concerned first and foremost about the correctness of his principles, rather than turning straight to the objects he wants to understand. The World Creator had to know, above all, how to find a vehicle for thinking; the philosopher has to find a secure foundation for his understanding of what already exists. How can it help us to start from consciousness and apply thinking to it, if first we do not know whether it is possible to reach any explanation of things by means of thinking?

[ 31 ] We must first consider thinking quite impartially, without reference to a thinking subject or a thought object. For in subject and object we already have concepts formed by thinking. There is no denying: Before anything else can be understood, thinking must be understood. To deny this is to fail to realize that man is not a first link in creation, but the last. Therefore, for an explanation of the world by means of concepts, one cannot start from the first elements of existence, but must begin with what is nearest to us and is most intimately ours. We cannot at one bound transport ourselves to the beginning of the world, in order to begin our investigations there; we must start from the present moment and see whether we cannot ascend from the later to the earlier. As long as geology spoke in terms of assumed revolutions in order to explain the present condition of the earth, it groped in darkness. It was only when it made its beginnings from the investigations of those processes at present at work on the earth, and from these drew conclusions about the past, that it gained a secure foundation. As long as philosophy assumes all sorts of principles such as atom, motion, matter, will, the unconscious, it will get nowhere. Only when the philosopher recognizes as his absolute first that which came as the absolute last, can he reach his goal. But this absolute last in world evolution is Thinking.

[ 32 ] There are people who say: Whether or not our thinking is right in itself cannot be established with certainty, after all. And to this extent the point of departure is still a doubtful one. It would be just as sensible to raise doubts as to whether in itself a tree is right or wrong. Thinking is a fact, and to speak of the rightness or wrongness of a fact has no sense. At most, I can have doubts as to whether thinking is being rightly applied, just as I can doubt whether a certain tree supplies a wood suitable for making tools for a particular purpose. To show to what extent the application of thinking to the world is right or wrong, is just the task of this book. I can understand anyone doubting whether we can ascertain anything about the world by means of thinking, but it is incomprehensible to me how anyone can doubt the rightness of thinking in itself.

Addition to the Revised Edition (1918):

[ 33 ] In the preceding discussion, the significant difference between thinking and all other activities of the soul has been referred to as a fact which reveals itself to a really unprejudiced observation. Unless this unprejudiced observation is achieved, against this discussion one is tempted to raise objections such as these: When I think about a rose, then, after all, this also is only an expression of a relation of my “I” to the rose, just as when I feel the beauty of the rose. In the case of thinking, a relation between “I” and object exists in the same way as in the case of feeling or perceiving. To make this objection is to fail to realize that it is only in the activity of thinking that the “I” knows itself to be completely at one with that which is active-going into all the ramifications of the activity. In the case of no other soul activity is this completely so. When, for example, a pleasure is felt, a more sensitive observation can quite easily detect to what extent the “I” knows itself to be one with something active, and to what extent there is something passive in it so that the pleasure merely happens to the “I.” And this is the case with the other soul activities. But one should not confuse “having thought-images” with the working through of thought by means of thinking. Thought-images can arise in the soul in the same way as dreams or vague intimations. This is not thinking.—To this could be said: If this is what is meant by thinking, then the element of will is within thinking, and so we have to do not merely with thinking, but also with the will within thinking. However, this would only justify one in saying: Real thinking must always be willed. But this has nothing to do with the characterization of thinking as given in this discussion. The nature of thinking may be such that it must necessarily always be willed; the point is that everything that is willed is—while being willed—surveyed by the “I” as an activity entirely its own. Indeed it must be said that just because this is the nature of thinking, it appears to the observer as willed through and through. Anyone who really takes the trouble to understand all that has to be considered in order to reach a judgment about thinking, cannot fail to recognize that this soul activity does have the unique character we have described here.

[ 34 ] A personality highly appreciated as a thinker by the author of this book, has objected that it is impossible to speak about thinking as is done here, because what one believes one is observing as active thinking only appears to be so. In reality one is observing only the results of an unconscious activity, which is the foundation of thinking. Only because this unconscious activity is not observed does the illusion arise that the observed thinking exists through itself, just as when in an illumination made by a rapid succession of electric sparks one believes one is seeing a continuous movement. This objection, too, rests on an inaccurate examination of the facts. To make it means that one has not taken into consideration that it is the “I” itself, standing within thinking, that observes its own activity. The “I” would have to stand outside thinking to be deluded as in the case of an illumination with a rapid succession of electric sparks. Indeed one could say: To make such a comparison is to deceive oneself forcibly, like someone who, seeing a moving light, insisted that it was being freshly lit by an unknown hand at every point where it appeared.—No, whoever wants to see in thinking anything other than a surveyable activity brought about within the “I,” must first make himself blind to the plain facts that are there for the seeing, in order to be able to set up a hypothetical activity as the basis of thinking. He who does not so blind himself cannot fail to recognize that everything he “thinks into” thinking in this manner takes him away from the essence of thinking. Unprejudiced observation shows that nothing belongs to thinking's own nature that is not found in thinking itself. If one leaves the realm of thinking, one cannot come to what causes it.

• 17. See Ziehen, Theodore, Leitfaden der Physiologischen Psychologie, Guide to Physiological Psychology, Jena, 1893, p. 171 of the Ger. ed.
• 18. Pierre Jean George Cabanis (1757–1808), French physiologist. A precocious child, Cabanis was enrolled at the age of 10 in the College of Brives. Later studied in Paris, afterward traveled widely in Poland and Germany. In 1789 he was appointed administrator of hospitals for Paris, and in 1795 became professor of hygiene and history of medicine in the medical school of that city. In 1799 he was made professor of legal medicine and history of medicine. He was an intimate friend of Mirabeau, and attended him as physician in his last illness. He had a deep interest in medical and psychological problems. Active in the cause of the French Revolution, Cabanis was a member of the Council of Five Hundred. Though Napoleon Bonaparte repeatedly offered him governmental positions, Cabanis declined them, since he was a foe of the former's policies. Cabanis died at Meulan on May 5, 1808, principally honored for his contributions to medical science, and especially for his main work, Rapports du physique et du moral de l'homme, a series of papers read to the Institute in 1796–97. The sentence quoted is probably from Cabanis' book, written in 1802, translated into German, 2 vols., 1808, under the title, Verhältnis der Seele zum Körper, Relationship of the Soul to the Body. The thought has also been paraphrased: “Just as the stomach and intestines receive food and digest it, so the brain receives impressions, digests them, and has as its organic secretion, thought.”
• 19. Renatus Cartesius, Rene Descartes (1596–1650). The father of modern rationalism, soldier of fortune, scholar, pilgrim, traveler, and firm adherent of the Roman Catholic faith. His philosophical work, which has often been summed up in his words, J pense, donc je suis (Cogito ergo sum), “I think, therefore I am,” was given significant impulse by a dream he had on November 10, 1619. This revealed to him the method of philosophical speculation he was to follow, and his subsequent work is said to have stemmed from this experience. An extensive literature on Descartes and his teachings exists in English translation. See any standard encyclopedia for further details.
• 20. Friedrich Wilhelm Joseph von Schelling (1775–1854). Often referred to as the Proteus among philosophers, Schelling was noted for his ever-changing alertness and brightness of mind and expression. Goethe (see note 16, above) had a very high regard for him, and spoke of him as “the most congenial philosopher I know.” Schelling had a profound influence among the thinkers of his time, including philosophers of France and England. His last years were dedicated to what he termed “positive philosophy,” radically different from the philosophy of identity, the transcendental idealism, and the pantheistic tendencies of his earlier time. Rudolf Steiner made extensive reference to Schelling in his writings and lectures, on various occasions praising that philosopher's “important inspirations and suggestions for what must afterwards be said by Anthroposophy, directly out of spiritual vision, on many points of Christianity.” Steiner further spoke of Schelling, “who really always made a significant impression whenever he appeared in public—the short, thick-set man, with the extremely impressive head, and eyes which even in extreme old age were sparkling with fire, for from his eyes there spoke the fire of Truth, the fire of Knowledge.” (From a lecture given at Dornach, Switzerland, Sept. 16, 1924) Perhaps Steiner's greatest study of Schelling is to be found in his Die Rätsel der Philosophie, The Riddles of Philosophy, Vol. I, Ch. 7. For English translations of Schelling and further details on his life, see any standard encyclopedia.
• 21. Blaise Pascal (1623–1662). Known as one of the greatest of mathematicians and physicists, Pascal's tame long ago spread far beyond the confines of his native France. His contributions to the establishment of the mathematical theory of probability, to the science of hydrodynamics, to the study of gravity and the vacuum, and his elaboration of the theory of conic sections have given Pascal a lasting place among the great men of science. As a Christian thinker, his devotion to truth and piety, and his acceptance of mystical experience have made his name revered. His philosophical speculations and deep psychological insight, as well as his remarkable gifts as a writer of French prose have secured him a leading position among philosophers and literary historians. Pascal's Pensées, Thoughts, is one of the great books of the world. For details on Pascal's very eventful and highly interesting life, as well as an account of his fundamental ideas, see any standard encyclopedia.
• 22. Archimedes (c 287–212 B.C.) Greek mathematician and inventor. He was born at Syracuse in Sicily, and studied at the famous university in Alexandria. Archimedes spent the remainder of his life at Syracuse, where he engaged in constant mathematical research. He is noted for his many mechanical inventions, but his first love was mathematics. His work as a pioneer in mechanics is illustrated by his famous remark, “Give me a place to stand, and I will move the earth!” During the sack of Syracuse by the army of the Roman general, Marcellus, Archimedes was discovered drawing a mathematical figure in the sand beside his garden bench. Deep in meditation upon the problem before him, Archimedes was instantly killed when he was run through the body by a sword in the hand of a Roman infantryman. For details on the life of Archimedes, see Plutarch's Life of Marcellus. A complete, standard edition of the Works of Archimedes with valuable notes by T. L. Heath was issued by Cambridge University Press, 1897.

The basis for the further life of the soul is given in the sensory perceptions. Based on the sensations of the first three senses, as well as those of smells, tastes, colors, sounds, etc., the ideas arise from the interaction of the human being with the outside world, through which what is given from the outside is reflected in the soul. The judgments arise through which the human being orients himself within this outside world. Experiences of sympathy or antipathy arise, in which the emotional life is formed; desires, longings and will develop. If one wants to have a characteristic for this inner life of the human soul, one must focus one's attention on how it is held together and, as it were, permeated by what one calls one's own “I”. A sensory perception becomes a soul experience when it is taken up from the realm of the senses into the realm of the “I”. One can gain a justified idea of this fact by making the following simple consideration. For example, one perceives the warmth of a certain object. As long as one touches the object, there is an interrelationship between the “I” and the external world. In this interrelationship, the idea of the temperature of the object in question is formed in the “I”. When you remove your hand from the object, the idea remains in the “I”. This idea now forms something essential within the soul life. It should not be neglected to note that the idea is that which detaches itself from the sensory experience and lives on in the soul. Within certain limits, a person can now call the experiences that he has with the help of the senses, and which then continue in the soul, his world.

But anyone who now reflects on how this world enters his realm will be forced to assume a different existence for this world. For how can this world only be an experience of the soul; how can man know anything about it? Only through having senses. Before the world can present itself to man as a sensory perception, these senses themselves must first be born out of it. For man the world would be soundless if he had no sense of hearing, and cold if he had no sense of warmth. But just as this is true, so is the other: in a world in which there were no sounds, no sense of hearing could arise; in a cold world no sense of warmth could develop. One need only think of how eyes do not develop in beings that live in the dark; or how, in beings that have developed eyes under the influence of light, these eyes atrophy when their bearers exchange their stay in the light for one in the dark. One need only think this through with complete clarity to realize that the world given to man through his senses, and on which he builds his soul life, must be based on another world, which makes this sensory world possible only by allowing the senses to arise out of itself. And this world cannot fall within the realm of the sensory, since it must precede it entirely.

Thus, contemplation is opened up to a world that lies beyond the sensory world, which cannot itself be perceived by the senses, but from which the sensory world arises as if from an ocean of existence that lies beyond it. The sense of warmth perceives warmth; behind it lies something that has formed the sense of warmth. The eye perceives through light; behind it lies something that forms the eye. One must distinguish between a world as it is given to man through the senses and one that underlies it. Is it impossible to say anything about this latter world through mere reflection? We can say something if we consider the following. Through the interrelationship between man and the external world, as mediated by sense perception, the world of perception, feeling and desire arises within man. In the same way, one can think about the relationship between the assumed other world and man. Through them, the organs of sensory perception arise in him. In everything that can be experienced in the sensory world, the human being is there with his “I”, in which the soul world is built up on the basis of sensory experiences. The construction of the sensory organs, which necessarily precedes all sensory perception, must take place in a realm of reality into which no sensory perception can penetrate. (There is hardly any need to consider the objection that might briefly occur to someone that a person could observe the structure of the sense organs in another being. After all, what he can perceive there, he perceives through the senses. One can indeed observe how a hammer is made without using a hammer; but one cannot observe with the senses how a sense organ is formed without using one.)

It is entirely justified to speak of the sense organs as having to be built from a world that is itself supersensible. And the essence of sense perceptions as described here provides food for thought for saying more about this world. Since the sense organs ultimately appear to be the result of the activity of this world, it can be said that this activity is a manifold one. It acts on man from as many sides as there are sense organs. The currents of this world pour into the wells that lie in the sense organs, so that man can draw from these wells for his soul life. And because that which is drawn from these wells ultimately comes together in the 'I', it must, although it comes from different sides, originally flow from a single source. In the 'I', the various sensory perceptions come together in unity. In this unity, they present themselves as belonging together. What strikes the soul in sensory perception is such that the inner life of the ego can be detached from it. From this it can be seen that behind the sensory world, in a supersensible one, there are as many sources of activity as there are sensory organs. These sources of activity reveal themselves through their effect, which consists in the structure of the sensory organs.

The range of these sources of activity thus includes a number of these sources that is equal to the number of sense organs. And one can say that the outermost limits of this range may be assumed to be the “I” on the one hand and the “sense of touch” on the other, although the sense of touch, like the “I”, may not be counted as part of the actual sensory life. What once belonged to the “I” has detached itself from sensory perception, and so, because it is a completely inner experience, can no longer be counted among the latter. But it belongs to the essential nature of every sensory perception that it can become an “I” experience. To do so, every sense organ must be predisposed from the supersensible world to provide something that can become an “I” experience. And the sense of touch, in a sense, provides experiences of the opposite kind. What it reveals about an object presents itself as something that lies entirely outside of the human being. Thus, the human being as a whole must be constructed out of the supersensible world in such a way that, on the basis of tactile experiences, he confronts a world outside of himself.

If we survey the life of the human soul as it develops out of sense experiences, the sense organs appear as fixed points, as if in a circumference; and the “I” appears as the movable element, which, by passing through this circumference in various ways, gains the experiences of the soul. The whole structure of the human organism, insofar as it is expressed in the sense organs, points to its causes in the supersensible world. There are as many sense areas as there are such causes; and within the realm of these causes, there is a unified supersensible principle, which becomes apparent in the organization towards the unity of the I.

A further consideration shows that the supersensible activity revealed in the structure of the sense organs works in different ways. In the three spheres of the sense of life, the sense of self-movement and the sense of equilibrium, the activity starts from within the human body and manifests itself within the limits of the skin. This kind of activity is also present in the senses of smell, taste, sight, warmth and hearing; but it is joined by another, which must be said to proceed from the outside inward. The organ of hearing, for example, is a member of the human organism. Within this organism, the forces must be at work that shape this organ in accordance with the nature of the body as a whole. From the outside, however, the hidden supersensible forces in the world of sound must come together, forming this organ in such a way that it is receptive to sound. In the case of the five sense organs mentioned, an encounter of forces is thus indicated on the surface of the human body, as it were: forces act in the direction from the inside of the body outwards and shape the individual sense organs according to the nature of the whole organism; the forces that meet them come from the outside inwards and shape the organs in such a way that they adapt to the various manifestations of the external world. In the case of the senses of life, self-movement and equilibrium, only one of these two directions, the one striving from the inside outwards, is present. It further follows that in the case of the senses of speech and of concepts, the direction from the inside outwards does not apply, and that these senses are built into the human being from the outside in. For these senses, therefore, the supersensible activity as characterized reveals itself in such a way that it already approaches the inner life of the soul in terms of its formation. Insofar as we must also see the 'I' predisposed in the above-characterized way in the supersensible forces that build up the senses, we can say that in the 'I' these forces betray their own nature most of all. Only that this essential nature is, as it were, concentrated in a point in the 'I'. If we observe the 'I', we find in it a nature that is spread out in the most abundant profusion in a supersensible world and reveals itself out of this only in its effects, in the building of the senses. In this respect, too, the sense of touch presents itself as the opposite of the 'I'. In the sense of touch, that part of the supersensible world (or, if you will, the extra-sensible world) is revealed that cannot become an inner experience of the human being, but is accessed through corresponding inner experiences.

Anthropology describes the sense organs as sensory phenomena. It is consistent with the above findings that it does not yet designate special organs for the senses of life, self-movement and balance. The forces acting from the inside out shape the human being as a general sense organism that experiences and maintains itself. The organs of these three sense areas spread out, as it were, in the general physicality. It is only with the sense of balance that anthropology points to the three semicircular canals as a hint of a special sensory organ, because it is with this sense that the human being enters into an elementary relationship with the outside world, namely with the spatial directions. For the five intermediate senses there are separate organs, which readily show that the abilities characterized, from outside inward and from inside outward, interact in a variety of ways in their formation. (Even if there are still some doubts for anthropology regarding the external sense organ for warmth, these doubts will be resolved as science advances.) External organs for the sense of sound and the sense of conception cannot be described in the same way as for the other senses because these organs are already located where physical life internalizes itself in the soul. But the organ of touch will present itself to science more and more clearly as what it must be in the sense of the above considerations. It must work in such a way that the human being withdraws into himself in the touched objects, so to speak, shutting himself off from the areas of this sense in inner bodily experiences. We must therefore recognize in the structures spread over the entire surface of the body, which are regarded as organs of touch, something that essentially has to do with the body's surface withdrawing from the external world that is touched. The organs of touch are therefore actually formative for the interior of the human body; they give the body the form through which it withdraws from the external world that touches it from all sides. (In those places where the organs of touch show a greater sensitivity, the human being relates to the outside world differently than in those places of lesser sensitivity. He pushes himself more or less, as it were, against the outside world in one case or the other. From this it can be seen that the shape of the body is, in a certain respect, a result of the nature of the organs of touch at the various points on the surface of the body.)

In order to characterize the astral human being, it was necessary to point out the trinity of image-sensation, desire and impulse of movement. The “I-human being”, insofar as he is directly experienced in his sensory processes, shows himself as a unity. All sensory experiences are only, as the preceding considerations show, differently modified or graded I-experiences. In the experience of the I itself, the human being is in direct relationship with the supersensible world. The other I-experiences are mediated to him through organs. And through the organs, the I-experiences reveal themselves in the diversity of the sense fields. Now, with two organs, the sense of concept and the sense of sound, one can easily follow the development of the sense ability to a certain degree. When a concept is perceived, the concepts acquired in the person's previous life prove to be what absorbs the new concept. A person proves to be understanding of a concept that approaches him to the extent that he has previously absorbed this or that concept. In the understanding of a concept, there is therefore an opening of the person to the outside and a sinking of what has been absorbed into the structure of the already existing concept organism. The life that unfolds there blossoms outwards and takes root in the conceptual organism. A similar thing happens for the sense of sound. A person is receptive to a new sound meaning to the extent that he has already acquired other sound meanings. The human being really carries a conceptual and a sound organism within him. Both must be present before the I-experiences can take place through conceptual and sound organisms. The I-human being cannot bring about the creation of this sound and conceptual organism through forces that lie in the sense life. And a third thing is necessary. The I unfolds its experiencing in all directions, as it were; it cannot experience itself in this experiencing. It must confront its own experiencing with something that is itself an experience of the self. It confronts itself as a sensation. We see, then, that the sense of 'I', the experiences of the sense of concept and the sense of sound, are brought to the 'I' by three organisms. We can count the 'I' organism as a fourth. If we keep to the image chosen above, we can say that the experience of the I unfolds on all sides; it is rooted on one side in a supersensible world that is like itself and strives into the conceptual and phonetic organisms in such a way that its own experience grows towards it, as if it were bringing the I-organism, the conceptual and phonetic organisms to full bloom, like a flower. If we imagine the human being as a being of the sensory world, as the direction characterized is incorporated in it, we must think of the contrast between above and below. “From top to bottom” is a direction in which we can imagine the development of I-experience; from “bottom to top” this development is opposed by the I-organism, towards which the I-experiences grow. Just as the leaves attach to the leaf stalk of a plant, unfolding from bottom to top, so the structures of the conceptual and phonetic organisms attach to the ego organism from top to bottom. If we now say, as is justified from the above, that the original ego experience unfolds out of a supersensible world, then we can assume that for the formation of the ego, conceptual and phonetic organisms, their coming into being, forces are at work which possess the same material as is present in the I-experience. However, they build this material into forms that must already be there when the I-experience is perceived by the senses. It is therefore self-evident that human ego-experience is one that flows from a supersensible world, but can only be perceived when it takes root in an organism that is a structure of ego, concept and sound. We can also say that it is an organism that unfolds its sense organs in these three. To this we can add the description of the astral body given above. The image-feeling, desire and impulse to move of the astral human being point to its essence. It is easy to see that there is an image-feeling in the ego organism that is not the result of a sensory experience. For the I-organism is, after all, the I-experience itself, which opposes itself in the opposite direction. In the conceptual organism, forces can be recognized which unfold towards the inside of the human being - in the astral human being - as desire. In the attraction that the concept organism has for newly added concepts, a careful self-examination will easily be able to notice the desire of this concept organism. But the same applies to the sound organism. It develops this desire for the new meanings. From this one can recognize the activity of the “astral body” in the formation of the ego, concept and sound organism.

A being that did not experience the I within, as humans do, but observed it from the outside, would be able to follow the emergence of the I organism, the organism of sounds and concepts. Such a being would have to perceive the I-experience itself in such a way that it does not allow any of this I-experience to enter into itself, but only penetrates to the boundary, and at this boundary the being of the I radiates back into itself. One sees that this is the opposite of the so-called sense of touch. With this sense, the outer world is touched and nothing of its essence is absorbed. This is also the case with the assumed being's relationship to the I. But whereas in the sense of touch the I only kindles its own experiences through the touch, thus only experiences its own content, the being presses its own content into the I-experiences, so that within the I-experiences it becomes I-perception. So when the ego perceives itself, it does so as a result of its activity, which has the same content as its own experience and differs from it only in that it shows the ego its own nature from the outside, whereas the ego can only experience this nature within itself. In the case of the conceptual sense, when the I comes into contact with this assumed being, it would not only have to reflect back the conceptual experiences, but it would have to push them back into the I-experience, so that they form the structure of the conceptual organism there. Nothing need be added to these conceptual experiences, but they must be preserved within the conceptual experience. However, in the case of the sound organism, preservation would not suffice. Something must be added to the concepts if they are to become sounds. The hypothetically assumed being would have to transfer some of its own content into the I-experience. A survey of the given conditions shows that in the I-organism only the own nature of the I is reflected back from the outside, in the concept organism the own I-experience in a different form can be directed back into itself through an external expression; in the sound organism something of the nature of the external itself pours over into the I-experience. The perceived external being would have to perceive the emergence of the I-organism as a kind of reverse sense of touch. It would sense the forming of the conceptual organism, just as a human being senses his own life processes through the sense of life. The only difference is that in the sense of life an inner structure is sensed; but the assumed being would have to sense, in its corresponding sense, the way it forms itself into the I-experience of the human being. In the sense of sound, there is then a pouring in from the outside. Should the assumed external being experience this, it would have to happen through a reverse sense of its own movement. Through this, the human being perceives his own movements; through the reversal of the same, that being would perceive the inward movement of its own being into the I-experience. It would experience itself in the execution of an external movement of the I-human being.

Now, the sense of life in the human being must be based on his own life processes. As has been shown, the life processes can be divided into breathing, warming, nourishing, secreting, maintaining, growing and producing processes. One can indeed imagine the process of forming the organ of the sense as a process of production directed from the outside inward, and the formation of the sound organism as a growing-into of the I-experience by a part of the assumed external entity. Only one must bear in mind that the I-experiences themselves are used as the material for this production and growing.

It is now possible, by extending the assumed mode of observation, to interpret the other sense experiences in relation to that which stands behind them. For the sense of hearing, the experience is that the sound points to an external object, but the organ of hearing itself points to an activity by which it is formed in a similar way to the way the conceptual organism is formed by the reverse sense of life, and the sound organism by the reverse sense of its own movement. Now imagine that the sense of equilibrium shows itself in its opposite essence. Instead of causing a person to maintain their uprightness against the three external spatial directions, in its opposite state it would produce a rebellion against the three spatial directions directed inwardly in another being. If now the external being, as assumed above, really did place itself in relation to the human being in such a way that it poured its own nature into him and brought about a rebellion against the three spatial directions within him, then it could work in such a way that the essence poured into the inner life of the I is sensed as an inner experience, but the activity of the reverse sense of balance is not sensed, but acts in a similar way to the force that forms the conceptual organism in the reverse sense of life and the sound organism in the reverse sense of self-movement. In the auditory system, the reverse sense of balance then had a formative effect. Thus, the sound points to the inside of an outside that pours into the experience of the self; the organ of hearing points to a reverse sense of balance that has accumulated and organically arranged the structures of one's own being in a similar way to how the reverse sense of life accumulates and organises conceptual experiences. If the external being, as postulated, is then really taken up as clay, which is permeated by a reversed sense of balance, then it can also be thought that the development of the auditory system is based on a process that enables the organ, when it comes into contact with the human being, which flows as sound into the experience of the I. The opposite sense of balance represents the activity on which the sound is based and from which the auditory system has developed out of the organism towards the experience of sound.

The interpretation of the sense of warmth can be understood by thinking of the reverse of the olfactory experience. In the sense of smell, the external substance penetrates the human being, and the olfactory experience is an immediate reciprocal relationship with the substance. The reverse would be the case if the assumed external substance consisted of the content of the sensation of warmth, but was imbued with an activity that enters into a direct reciprocal relationship with the human being. Behind the content of the sensation of warmth, there would then be an activity forming the warmth. It would be such that warmth flows out from it, as smell flows out from the smelling substance. Just as the odor spreads out in all directions into the external world, so would this activity be conceived as radiating out from the human being in all directions, unfolding in this radiance the organ-forming power for the sense of warmth. And just as the external substance reveals itself to the sense of smell, so the inner human being would have to reveal itself to this activity. Such a revelation would be given if the activity striving outwards were based on a kind of life process; that is, if this activity filled the human being with its own essence. The sense of warmth would thus be based on a kind of nourishment of the human being with the substance that is revealed in the warmth-sense experience according to its content.

For the interpretation of the sense of sight, the reversal of the taste experience should be considered. If the organ of sight were to come about through an external activity of a being, as hypothetically assumed above, so that, for example, color filled this being but it was completely permeated by an activity that represents a reverse tasting, then this taste-radiating activity could be thought of as the organ-forming power of the sense of sight. The situation would have to be that the effect of an external substance is not felt in the taste experience, but that the human being's inner being flows towards the radiant taste of this being. Just as in the case of taste there is a change in the substance brought about by the human being, so too would the external being have to carry out a change with the human being. However, such a change is present in the inner processes of life, for example, in warmth. The warmth would have to arise in the human being from the taste radiating out from within. Only this warmth would not express itself in the same way as an external warmth, because it has not external warmth to the substance, but something that is the same as the content of the face-sense experience. One sees that in this warmth, which is given by the activity radiating from the inside of the human being and based on the color of the adopted being, lies the inner nature of the light itself. Not the visual experience, but the inner nature of light that underlies the visual experience, arouses a warmth that lives in the organ-forming power of the visual sense in the same way that the substance lives in the interaction with the sense of taste in the taste experience.

The sense of taste can also be described as a reversed sense of smell. Only here the reversal has a different meaning than in the comparison of the sense of taste and the sense of sight. If we imagine that such a reversal takes place in the organ of smell that does not send the smell from a substance into the human interior, but lets it rebound on contact, then we would indeed have an analogy of the human organ of taste. Only the human interior itself would have to be placed in the place of the external being assumed above. That is, for the sense of smell within the human being, an essence equal to that assumed external essence would have to be presupposed. But whereas that hypothetical essence allows its nature to approach the human being from the outside, for the sense of smell its image would have to be enclosed within the human being. In so far as the human organism presents itself as an odoriferous agent, it is filled with something essentially external and alien to it. An external factor has become internal and unfolds from the internal such forces as were active in the formation of the organs of sight, hearing and warmth. It is evident that something must express itself in the sense of smell that can be equated with an inner essence of the external itself. And if the sense of taste is the reverse of this, then it is justified to say that what strikes man in the taste experience as a revelation from outside is the same as what is effective in the inner being through the organ of smell. But then between the sense of taste and the sense of smell is the point where the outer world and the inner world show themselves to be the same. And we may imagine that behind the experience of smell there is something that really behaves as an organ-forming substance of the external world within the human being, namely in the structure of the organ of taste. This, then, is built by the substance of the external world. And in the organ of smell, only the outward flowing substance itself can be imagined, which is directly perceived as such in the experience of smell. The sensation of smell would thus be the self-perception of the substance, and the organ of taste the self-animation of the substance.

These remarks should indicate that there is no need to think of anything material behind the sense experiences, but only of spiritual entities. The sense experiences would then be the revelations of the spiritual. The sense experience reveals itself directly to the senses, but not the spiritual behind it.

If, from the observation of the I-experience in the I-organism, in the concept and sound organism, an image emerged like that of a plant form that strives from top to bottom, then one can imagine the rest of the human being as that which opposes the I-experience from bottom to top and inhibits it in its flow from top to bottom, so to speak, damming it up into itself. In this remaining human being, the essence that comes into existence through birth is given. This essence is the temporal prerequisite of what, in the above image, strives from top to bottom. One can therefore say that what opposes the experience of the self from bottom to top enters the earth with birth. In this human being, therefore, what has already taken place must have been described in the above as the activities that form the sense organs. The formation of these sense organs can then only be imagined in such a way that the forces forming the sense organs bore into the human being striving from bottom to top as currents. This then gives the picture of forces striving from different sides. These forces encircle the human being and must in turn encounter an inhibition, just as the ego experience flowing from top to bottom encounters an inhibition in the entire human being striving from bottom to top. This inhibition is present when we think of the forces that form the sense organs as encountering those present in the life processes. If we imagine the sense of equilibrium striving in the opposite direction to the activity of the tone force, we have the rudiment of the organ of hearing; if we imagine the sense of smell striving in the opposite direction to the warmth-experience force, we have the rudiment of the warmth organ. This extends throughout the whole human being. This fact fits into the picture when we consider that the reverse sense of taste runs in the opposite direction to the reverse senses of smell and balance. The reverse sense of smell then runs through the whole body, and from the other side the reverse sense of taste runs to prove itself as organ-forming for the sense of sight with the power of the light experience. In the sense of taste, the substance that is revealed in the sense of smell has an organ-building effect, and finds its inhibition in the organism that has been built up by the other senses. In the sense of smell, the substance-inner strives towards the substance-inner. One arrives at the image of a periphery from which the organ-building forces emanate to take effect in the human being as if in the center of the periphery. If only these forces were effective in forming organs, then the formation and order of the sense organs would be quite different from what they actually are. This can only be the case, however, if the organ-forming forces themselves are inhibited in their development. Suppose, for example, that the organ-forming force of the auditory system is strengthened at one point and weakened at others; then it will become particularly noticeable at one point. But this is the case when other forces are acting on the organ-forming forces themselves. The question now is whether there is anything in man to indicate that there are such forces outside of him. First of all, something special can be seen in the life processes. These continue even when the sensory experiences are at rest during sleep. This shows that there must be formative forces at work in their organs, which continue to function even when the senses are dormant. The forces that form the sense organs are thus, so to speak, only one side of the organ-forming activity. The life processes must, before they can be present, be prepared by the organ-forming forces of the life organs. The forces that underlie the life organs are even more remote from human consciousness than those that build the sense organs. In the sense organs, forces reveal their effects through the sense organs. In the life organs, however, it is not the forces that build them that reveal themselves, but only their effects, namely the organs themselves. Through the sense of warmth, warmth is sensed; through the sense of life, the life organs. The formation of the life organs thus presupposes a different world from that of the sense organs. But now the sense organs must fit harmoniously into the life organs. That is to say, in order for sense organs to arise in their corresponding form, the formative forces of the life organs must already contain the predispositions for the sense organs. This, however, points to a world in which the formative forces of the life organs work in such a way that they lay the potential for sense organs in these life organs, but do not yet form them themselves in them. Only after the life organs have been formed do they imprint the sense organs on the form of these life organs. Now, however, not all sense organs need to be present in the same way in the organ-forming forces of the life organs. The organs of the so-called sense of touch do not need to be present at all. This is because they only reflect the experiences of the life organs within themselves. But even of the life, self-movement and equilibrium senses, nothing needs to be present that only has a meaning when sense organs are imprinted on the life organs. Thus, what relates to the emotional experiences of the sense of life and self-movement at the sense organs themselves is not included in the indicated predispositions. But this points to a world in which the organ-forming forces of the life organs and the predispositions for the organ-forming forces of the senses of hearing, warmth, sight, taste and smell can be found. If the sense organs impress themselves on the already existing life organs, then the formative forces of the life organs must have created a foundation in these life organs. On this basis, the life organs develop the life processes, and the organ-forming forces of the senses radiate their currents into these life processes. These organ-forming forces thus encounter an inhibition in the life organs. Their activity collides with this inhibition. The senses can only be developed where the life organs allow it. The image of the human being shows that the distribution of the sense organs mentioned above is reflected in the contrast between “left-right” and “right-left”. And the symmetrical structure of the human being in these directions shows once again that the relationship between the life organs and the sense organs is twofold. One need only observe the sense organs in a human being facing forward to arrive at the picture, for instance, that the right ear, in so far as it owes its origin to the stage in which the formative forces of the life organs hold sway, is shaped from left to right, and that it has become a sense organ through the sense-forming forces having opposed its formation from right to left. The reverse would apply to the left ear. Similar considerations apply to the other symmetrically arranged sense organs.

In so far as man is a being who has experiences through sense organs, his origin can be sought in that world from which it is said above that the astral man comes from. If we now consider that the forces that form the sense organs are the inverted sense experiences themselves, we may assume that we are talking about the world from which the astral man comes when we presuppose the existence of a being that forms the sense organs through forces that, as it were, collide from outside. For it has been shown that, during the formation of the sense organs, the reverse sense experiences flow into the human interior. Thus pictorial sensations are aroused by these forces. But the pictorial sensations, along with desires and impulses of movement, are what points to the astral body of the human being. If we now consider the forces that form the sense organs, also as a reversal of movement impulses and desires, we have an idea of how the human astral body, as the shaper of the sense organisms, is taken from an imperceptibly imperceptible world. - This presupposes a world underlying the world of sense experiences, which has been called the 'astral world'. We then have to take everything that man experiences through the senses as immediate reality and assume an astral reality hidden within it. The first is called the physical world. The astral world underlies it. It has now been shown that the latter is based on yet another. The formative forces of the life organs and the predispositions for hearing, warmth, sight and taste are rooted in this. Since it contains the formative forces for the organs of life, it can be said that the human being himself, insofar as he has the formative forces of the organs of life in his body, also comes from it. If we now call the sum of the formative forces of the human life organs (in the sense of §53) the “etheric” body of man, we can recognize that this etheric body has its origin in the world beyond the astral. This world has now been called the “lower spiritual world”, whereby again nothing more is to be thought of by this name than what is stated here.

Among the processes of life, there are three whose organs point beyond the world in which, according to what has been presented above, the origin of the organs of life is to be sought. In generation, the living physical body repeats its own structures; in growth, it adds something new to what already exists, out of the material of that which already exists; in maintenance, what already exists acts on what already exists; and in secretion, something that was only present in the living process is secreted out of it. These, then, are the life processes that take place within the life organs themselves. It is not so with nutrition, warmth, and breathing. These processes are only possible if the life organs absorb something from an external world.

Among the sense experiences, there are five whose organs point out in the same way to the world in which the origin of the organs corresponding to the other sense experiences is to be found. According to the above, the sense of taste is a kind of inverted sense of smell, in that the taste organ turns the experience felt by the sense of smell on the outer substance inward, so that the smell of the substance already inside the body is tasted. The sense of taste therefore presupposes a substance that is already in the organism. The sense of smell, however, requires the substance of the external world. Regarding the sense of sight, it is clear from the above considerations that its organ comes into being when an entity is active in this process of becoming, which does not treat the color experiences as they are when they are perceived through the sense of sight, but when it sets them in motion in an activity that is the opposite of that which builds up the sense of taste. Thus, if such an activity is present in an organism, a visual organ can arise from a preexisting taste organ being transformed into a visual organ. Thus, while an olfactory organ is inconceivable without contact with an external substance, and a gustatory organ is an inward-facing olfactory organ, and therefore requires a substance to be present within the body, the visual organ can come into being if a gustatory organ that is present in the germ is not developed as such but is transformed internally. Then the substance must also pour inwardly to this organ. It is the same with the organ of warmth. For the same reason as that given for the organ of sight, it can be regarded as an organ of smell that is arrested in its formation and transformed inwardly. (Thus the organ of taste would be regarded as a simply upturned organ of smell, and the organ of warmth as a transformed organ of smell.) The organ of hearing would be regarded in the same sense as a transformed organ of equilibrium, the organ of sound as an organ of the sense of one's own movement, whose formation was halted early on, and the organ of concept as an organ of the sense of life, transformed in its very origin. The formation of these organs does not presuppose the presence of an external substance, but it is only necessary that the substance flowing within is grasped by higher formative forces than those that prevail in the sense of smell.

On the other hand, contact with an external substance is necessary for the sense of smell. Now, the sense of equilibrium does not presuppose contact with the external substance, but it does presuppose a relationship to the three directions of space. If these directions were such in empty space, the sense of equilibrium could not exist; it can only exist if space is filled with matter and the material filling is permeated by forces with which the human body comes into contact. But for a reciprocal relationship to come about, other forces must be related to forces. Thus, the human body must counter the three forces of the material filling the space with three forces of its own material. The human body must therefore have an organ that is not only related to the external material in the same way as the organ of smell, but through which its three directions of force can be sensed. It has been shown above that the inverted sense of balance can be thought of as active in the formation of the organ of hearing. Now, let us assume that this inverted sense of balance takes an existing auditory system beyond the formation of an organ of hearing, that is, it does not end this formation at the moment when it has become an organ of hearing, but continues to develop it from that point on. Then the auditory system would become an organ of balance. In the same way, it can now be imagined that the reversed sense of self-movement would lead an organ of sound beyond the character of the organ of sound. Then, through a corresponding organ, the human being would not perceive sounds, but would sense the relationships that exist with the forces of external matter. And if the reversed sense of life were to lead an organ of perception far beyond its formation, then it would sense through a corresponding organ the relationship of its own substance to external substance. For this to be possible, the substance would not only have to prove effective in the human body, but it would have to be able to enter the body from the outside, without touching it, and allow its powers to play within. Then there would be three organs in the sense of balance, the sense of self-movement and the sense of life, for which the external world would be necessary for their development. But this is clear from the sense of touch, since it only recognizes an external world through a hidden judgment, and thus necessarily presupposes one. One can thus say that in the organs of taste, sight, warmth and hearing, organs are given that can be formed in the organism by the forces of the material flowing in it; for the sense of smell, sense of balance, sense of one's own movement, sense of life and sense of touch, external material with its forces proves to be a condition.

Just as the organs of life point to the material outside world in breathing, warming, and nourishing, so do the organs of the sensory organs mentioned. In contrast, secretion, maintenance, growth, production, taste, vision, hearing, speech, thought, and ego organisms presuppose inner formative principles that can only be active in internalized material.

What Goethe actually means by understanding becomes clear to us when we consider the three stages of mental activity through which, in his view, man rises to the highest possible understanding of things.

Several years ago, I pointed out that Goethe must have set down these views in an essay of his own, which he sent to Schiller in 1798. At the time, I tried to reconstruct the content of this essay, which may have been lost but may also still be found, based on the correspondence.

I said at the time that Goethe distinguished three levels of knowledge of nature: firstly, the point of view of common empiricism, which deals with empirical phenomena. This point of view collects the individual phenomena, describes and organizes them for the mind.

The second point of view is that of ordinary scientific knowledge, which deals with scientific phenomena. Here, the phenomena as they appear to us in nature are intensified in an attempt to understand them. Man not only observes nature, he sets up the conditions himself so that nature answers certain questions he asks of it. Through a series of conditions he has put together, a phenomenon appears that would otherwise not appear in nature in this way. But it always remains a single phenomenon.

The mind must now rise above this individual phenomenon, no longer seeing it as an individual but as a link in a chain. It must separate the essential from the accidental, the permanent from the temporary; it must see in the individual phenomenon only an example, only a symbol of a law of nature, of an idea. Then nature has spoken to him. But then he no longer has this individual phenomenon before him, but a higher, more general phenomenon. The individual is only an example through which the general expresses itself. Then he has the rational phenomenon, and with that he has succeeded in climbing the third form of knowledge.

Those who lack an understanding of this third way of knowing will never understand Goethe. And unfortunately the whole of modern natural philosophy is far removed from it. We must have the courage to admit this despite the great developments in the individual that it has made. We must have the courage to say openly and frankly: natural science does not understand Goethe. And how little has been contributed from this side to an appreciation of his essence is precisely what the Weimar edition will show.

Modern natural science unfortunately stops at the second stage of cognition. And when, as happened recently with Jordan, as it happened years ago with du Bois-Reymond and as it is parroted again and again, Goethe is denied the scientific sense altogether, this means nothing other than: Those who make this accusation simply have no sense of the third stage of knowledge; the revelations of this stage are closed to them. What is found here they do not understand. They therefore regard it as the poet's unscientific views.

This opinion is now thoroughly refuted by the Weimar Treasures. We see here how Goethe deals extensively with the entire intellectual treasure of his time, we see him engaged in chemistry, physics, astronomy, geology, botany, and mineralogy. No problem that has occupied the minds in these sciences remains outside his circle. With thorough prudence, he works his way through everything. He even studies mathematics, a subject in which Goethe is all too often said to have had no understanding at all.

In the face of these treasures, one cannot but be convinced that Goethe was at the pinnacle of the scientific knowledge of his time. In view of this fact, which is established beyond doubt by Goethe's intellectual legacy, those claims that Goethe lacked a scientific mind appear completely void. At the Goethe Archive in Weimar, we have proof of the serious, solid scientific greatness of Goethe's world view, and I say expressly of the scientific greatness of Goethe's world view.

For what we have in his scientific works is a complete confession of that third stage of knowledge of which I have spoken; here he has already overcome the second stage. He gives us only the highest fruit of his studies. To the deeper thinker, of course, the greatness of these writings was clear from the outset. But those who could not rise to this point of view did not understand Goethe's writings.

And herein I see a major part of the task of the Goetheanum. It must see its task as showing us the points of passage through which Goethe struggled, and in this way it must lift us up to those heights that Goethe scaled.

We know that Goethe once said to Eckermann: His works cannot become popular. They are understandable only to a few educated people who have the same feelings and the same views. But these few will become more and more if, by recognizing the path by which Goethe reached his spiritual height, if his spiritual legacy provides us with guidance on this path.

I see the main prize as lying precisely in what is newly emerging from Weimar in terms of an understanding of his scientific outlook. But do not think that new light will not also fall on his poetic achievements. But a large part of the convictions, feelings and thoughts that permeate the organic structure of his poetic work can be found in his scientific achievements.

Thus, with good cheer and full of confidence in the certain direction of a scientific purpose, I made Goethe's scientific writings the subject of my detailed considerations as early as a number of years ago; for I expected from it a furtherance of the whole conception of Goethe's nature. I also put all my studies at the service of this work and experienced the joy of many a confirmation, although there was no lack of decided contradiction.

This contradiction is a matter of course, especially with regard to the subject matter. Of Goethe's scientific works, only the Theory of Colors is available as a fully systematic work in all its parts. We also have the attempt at the metamorphosis of plants, which can be considered a completed monograph. Everything else is fragmentary.

In anatomy, botany, geology and mineralogy, for example, great ideas alternate with mere suggestions or even schematizations. Many a supplementary idea was necessary, and transitions had to be created. Often the prerequisites for the consequences expressed by Goethe had to be determined independently. The aim was to work towards a holistic Goethean conception of the world, into which the fragmentary components could be integrated without contradiction.

But precisely because of the fragmentary nature of Goethe's writings, we have a series of completely opposing views of his outlook. From those who see in him the pure Platonist, who seeks in abstract, idealized schemata the “be-all and end-all” of science, to those who declare him to be a materialist and realist in the sense of the modern physical school on the one hand, and a Darwinian on the other, we have all the intermediate stages. Each then picks out those passages in Goethe's writings that serve to confirm his preconceived opinion.

Those who approach Goethe directly find that Goethe is above all these points of view. Those who have looked a little deeper into the workings of the human mind will eventually find that no one says anything so wrong and illogical that it does not have some truth to it, however limited. But the defect of many minds is that they cannot rise above this limitation.

'For example, who could say that the mechanical conception of nature is wrong? It is fully justified for certain lower levels of natural existence and offers a sufficient explanation for this area. But as soon as we enter the realm of sensory perception, where man, this most perfect physical apparatus according to Goethe's saying, confronts the world, the merely mechanical ceases, the mechanical conception appears as a completely insufficient one.

This is why Goethe confronted Newton's own color theory with his own. The appreciation of Goethe's color theory must start from there. It will then appear to us in a completely new light as a supplement to what is missing from Newton's purely physical color theory. It is certain that Goethe would have done better to refrain from the somewhat passionate polemic against Newton and his school. By emphasizing the contradiction, the opponents were only embittered. Goethe later realized this too. That is why we find a testamentary disposition according to which the polemical part of the theory of colors should actually be omitted from his works. The systematic part should speak for itself. Of course, we are not in a position to carry out this disposition. For no one has the right to withdraw a work of Goethe from the eyes of the world. But we can at least shape our view in the sense that the intention hinted at by Goethe in his will is taken into account.

There are many stages to understanding higher truths. From the dark foreboding of the mysterious paths that the soul of man and the spiritual forces of nature have to travel, to the direct (spiritual) comprehension of the entities that are hidden from the lower forms of knowledge, there are all possible intermediate forms. The fact that the higher levels are imparted to students by great teachers through the impartation of secret teachings is something that mysticism of all ages speaks of. Many people look with disbelief and doubt on the present-day references to secret teachings, initiations and mysteries. Once again, people are encountering individuals who, open-minded and without prejudice, speak of “higher” human entities that carry within them a living a living source of higher wisdom, a wisdom that can only be conceived by those whose powers of knowledge are limited to the senses and the mind, and that is a pale reflection of higher realities. This pale reflection will either inspire him to ascend the steps to truth or it will create in him the spirit of rejection, which declares everything that goes beyond so-called “common sense” to be vain delusion and deception. None of those who have even set foot on the ground on which the “Garden of Delight”, that is, the mystical life, develops, is ever for a moment surprised that this “Garden of Delight” is called a mirage by countless people. For how could he be surprised that someone can doubt the existence of that into which he has never gained insight.

Comedy in one act by Max Dreyer
Performance at the Lessing Theater, Berlin

These four one-act plays are performed at the Lessing Theatre in the following order: Zeche, Unter blonden Bestien, Ehrenhandel, Liebesträume. This gives the audience the opportunity to watch a certain play twice in a row. Fulda gives the impression of a self-contained picture. Everything you want to know is there. The poet has a feeling that people become impatient when you bring up a matter and do not tell them everything they need to know if they want to understand it. When the curtain comes down after each of Fulda's two one-act plays, we have the feeling that we know everything we can ask for if the thing we are seeing is to make sense to us in a satisfactory way. With Dreyer it is quite different. The curtain is lifted: we have a feeling of amazement. And we have not come out of it when the play is over. We have roughly the same feeling as if someone had shown us a small piece cut out of a larger picture. Even if we are now of the opinion that everything we see in the cut-out piece is excellent, we become impatient because we know that something belongs to it which we do not know. A one-act play by Dreyer looks like a scene from a larger drama, but not like a small work of art in its own right.

In "Zeche", Fulda depicts a process that can take place in less than an hour. We have before us a nobleman who seeks healing for his organism, which has been run down by a somewhat lazy lifestyle, in a seaside resort. In this seaside resort he meets the woman to whom he swore love more than thirty years ago for that eternity which ends when the lover's relatives throw the seduced woman out of the house. The woman did not perish by chance. The fruit of the love she believed in, but which the nobleman was only playing with, has become a faithful son who replaces the mother with everything that life has robbed her of. And this son is the town's spa doctor, where the hero of our play wants to make himself fit to continue his easy life. So the man meets his own son and his son's mother. The moment takes control of him. He wants to marry the once seduced woman and acknowledge his son. He receives the right answer. The lives of three characters, played out in the events of half an hour as a repetition in miniature, appear before us. This is how a one-act play should be.

Dreyer has a North German landowner appear before us, accompanying a violin virtuoso on the piano. The landowner's husband is out hunting. The virtuoso does not want this man to come home. He storms the woman with proposals of love. The woman demands that he repeat to her husband everything he has said to her in private. Otherwise she will tell him everything herself. The man comes - the virtuoso leaves. In order to be interested in such things, we would have to learn all sorts of things about the characters, which Dreyer withholds from us. We have before us a scene, but not a one-act play. When the curtain falls, we are basically as clever as before. It was not a particularly happy idea to have Fulda alternate with Dreyer. Because when you saw Dreyer, you always had to think back to Fulda, because you got proof, so to speak, through the counterpart of Fulda's artistic rounding off.

In "Ehrenhandel", a councillor kisses the wife of a major at a ball and is surprised by the latter. A duel would be inevitable if it came down to reality. But that is not what matters. What matters is that the playwright replaces reality with a good idea in an extremely graceful manner. The councillor's wife simply allows herself to be kissed again by the major, with charming accompaniments that we prefer to preparations for a duel and the carrying in of a more or less slightly wounded man.

Dreyer's "Love Dreams" are no less taxing on the senses of the reality fanatic. But they make up for it all the less with artistic wit. A somewhat clumsy daredevil asks for the hand of a landowner related to him, a robust woman who has gradually developed from an "elephant chick" into a rough agrarian with quite solid ideals. One of these ideals is a "fat sow", which she has brought to I don't know how many hundred hundredweight. She wants to "sleep on" her relative's marriage proposal a little longer. But the cousin fills the waiting time by kissing a little girl in the moonlight and a maid wherever he can find her. When the chosen landowner becomes aware of her bridegroom's polygamous tendencies even before she makes love, she whips him. He is like many a poodle. He doesn't even know why he's being beaten. Because the fat pig-breeding lady hits him without saying a word. And the beating is the end of the play.

There is an exact relationship: the "trade of honor" relates to the "love dreams" like the lips of the beautiful majoress to the riding whip of the landowner's wife.

The performance was quite good. Adolf Klein as the departed baron in the "Zeche" and Rosa Bertens as the former mistress brought out the charms of this play just as Schönfeld as the government councillor brought out those of the "Ehrenhandel".

Ferdinand Bonn as the violin virtuoso and Elise Sauer as the landowner (both in "Unter blonden Bestien" and in the "Liebesträume") could not turn stones, which are not flints, into fires of wit.