The Romantic Absolute: Being and Knowing in Early German Romantic Philosophy, 1795-1804 9780226084237

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the romantic absolute

the romantic absolute

Being and Knowing in Early German Romantic Philosophy, 1795–1804

dalia nassar

the university of chicago press chicago and london

Publication of this book has been aided by a grant from the Bevington Fund. dalia nassar is assistant professor of philosophy at Villanova University and an Australian Research Council Fellow at the University of Sydney. The University of Chicago Press, Chicago 60637 The University of Chicago Press, Ltd., London © 2014 by The University of Chicago All rights reserved. Published 2014. Printed in the United States of America 23  22  21  20  19  18  17  16  15  14   1  2  3  4  5 isbn-13: 978-0-226-08406-0 (cloth) isbn-13: 978-0-226-08423-7 (e-book) doi: 10.7208/chicago/9780226084237.001.0001 Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Nassar, Dalia, author.   The romantic absolute : being and knowing in early German romantic philosophy, 1795–1804 / Dalia Nassar.     pages cm   Includes bibliographical references and index.   isbn 978-0-226-08406-0 (cloth : alk. paper) — isbn 978-0-226-08423-7 (e-book)  1. Absolute, The.  2. Philosophy, German—History—19th century.  3. Novalis, 1772–1801.  4. Schlegel, Friedrich von, 1772–1829.  5. Schelling, Friedrich Wilhelm Joseph von, 1775–1854.  I. Title.   b2743.n37  2014   111'.6—dc23 2013019863 a This paper meets the requirements of ansi/niso z39.48-1992 (Permanence of Paper).

for luke

contents

Acknowledgments Abbreviations

ix xi

Introduction

1.

1

Part One: Novalis

15

Interpreting the Fichte-Studien

19

2. Beyond the Subjective Self: Hemsterhuis, Kant, and the Question of the Whole

39

3.

Romanticizing Nature and the Self

48

4.

A Living Organon of the Sciences

71



Conclusion to Part 1: Romanticism and Idealism

77

Part Two: Friedrich Schlegel

81

5. New Philosophical Ideals: Schlegel’s Critique of First Principles

89

6. From Epistemology to Ontology: The Lectures on Transcendental Idealism

98

7.

Becoming, Nature, and Freedom

115

8. Presenting Nature: From the System of Fragments to the Romantic Novel

126



155

Conclusion to Part 2: Schlegel as Philosopher

vii

viii

contents

Part Three: Schelling

157

9.

The Early Schelling: Between Fichte and Spinoza

161

10.

The Philosophy of Nature

187

11. From the System of Transcendental Idealism to the Identity Philosophy

212

Identity Philosophy and the Philosophy of Art

225



Conclusion to Part 3

257



Conclusion: The Romantic Absolute Notes Works Cited Index

258

12.

263 319 327

acknowledgments

T

his book has been long in the making. Throughout both the research and writing process, I have received invaluable support and encouragement from a number of individuals and organizations. I first wish to thank Frederick Beiser, who has been one of the most supportive and generous mentors that one could wish for. It is thanks to his encouragement and insistence that I undertook this project. I also want to thank Manfred Frank for generously welcoming me to Tübingen and patiently listening and responding to my unending questions. Without the two of them, this work surely would not be what it is today. I would like to thank Vanessa Rumble and Christoph Jamme for their continued support and generosity. Additionally, I wish to thank Eckart Förster for his incisive reading and innovative approach to German idealism; Brady Bowman for insightful discussions on Schelling and Hegel; David W. Wood for illuminating the mathematical background of the romantics; and Laure Cahen-Maurel, Richard Eldridge, Mildred Galland-Szymkowiak, Kristin Gjesdal, Paul Livingstone, Yitzhak Melamed, Jennifer Mensch, Elizabeth Millán, Paul Redding, Robert Richards, John H. Smith, and Jakob Ziguras for invaluable conversations on romanticism and idealism. I would also like to thank the anonymous reviewers at the University of Chicago Press for insightful remarks and helpful suggestions. My parents, Rosette and Talal Nassar, and my friends Enite Giovanelli, Kristin Funcke, Lutz Näfelt, Michael Lindner, Sean Ferrier, and Nathan and Joanna Smith have been supportive and loving companions throughout this journey. And my husband, Luke Fischer, to whom I dedicate this book, continues to be my greatest inspiration. There have been several organizations whose support made it possible for me to dedicate a large part of my time to researching and writing this



acknowledgments

book. I want to thank the Thyssen-Stiftung for a six-month grant to undertake research in Germany from August 2009 to January 2010. I also wish to acknowledge the Office of Sponsored Research at Villanova University for a summer research fellowship, the Faculty of Arts and Sciences at Villanova University for a one-semester sabbatical, and the generous support of the Australian Research Council (DE120102402). I also would like to thank my colleagues in the Philosophy Department at Villanova University and at the University of Sydney. Finally, I wish to thank the University of Sydney for providing me with access to its library facilities during my stay in Australia from July 2010 to July 2011. Preliminary versions of sections of several chapters previously appeared in the journals Archiv für Geschichte der Philosophie, Deutsche Vierteljahrsschrift für Literaturwissenschaft und Geistesgeschichte, and Goethe Yearbook, and in the collection Spinoza and German Idealism, edited by Eckart Förster and Yitzhak Y. Melamed (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2012). These essays were composed with this book in mind. While the majority of the translations are mine, I have consulted published En­ glish translations when available.

abbreviations

Frequently cited works have been identified by the following abbreviations. Fichte, Johann Gottlieb GA Gesamtausgabe der Bayerischen Akademie der Wissenschaften. Edited by Reinhard Lauth et al. Stuttgart-Bad Cannstatt: FrommannHolzboog, 1962–2012. Goethe, Johann Wolfgang von FA Sämtliche Werke: Briefe, Tagebücher und Gespräche (Frankfurter Ausgabe). Edited by H. Birus et al. Frankfurt: Deutscher Klassik Verlag, 1985–. HA Werke (Hamburger Ausgabe). Edited by E. Trunz et al. Hamburg: Christian Wegner Verlag, 1949–1971. LA Die Schriften zur Naturwissenschaft. Edited by D. Kuhn et al. Weimar: Hermann Bölhaus Nachfolger, 1947. MA Sämtliche Werke nach Epochen seines Schaffens (Münchner Ausgabe). Edited by K. Richter et al. Munich: Carl Hanser, 1985–1998. TAG Tagebücher. Edited by W. Albrecht and E. Zehm. Stuttgart and Weimar: Metzler, 2000. WA Goethes Werke (Weimarer Ausgabe). Edited by P. Raabe et al. Weimar: Hermann Böhlau, 1887–1919. Hardenberg, Friedrich von [Novalis] NS Novalis Schriften: Die Werke von Friedrich von Hardenberg. Edited by Richard Samuel, H.-J. Mähl, P. Kluckhorn, and G. Schulz. Stuttgart: W. Kohlhammer, 1960–1988.

xii

abbreviations

Kant, Immanuel AA Gesammelte Schriften. Edited by Preußischen Akademie der Wissenschaft. Berlin: de Gruyter, 1900–. Schelling, Friedrich Wilhelm Joseph von HKA Werke: Historisch-kritische Ausgabe. Edited by H. M. Baumgart­ ner, W. G. Jacobs, and H. Krings. Stuttgart-Bad Cannstatt: FrommannHolzboog, 1976–. SW Schellings Sämmliche Werke. Edited by K. F. A. Schelling. Stuttgart: Cotta, 1856–1861. Traub Schelling-Fichte Briefwechsel. By Friedrich Wilhelm Joseph von Schel­ ling and Johann Gottlieb Fichte. Edited by H. Traub. Neuried: Ars Una, 2001. Schlegel, Friedrich von KFSA Kritische Friedrich-Schlegel-Ausgabe. Edited by E. Behler, J. J. Anstett, and H. Eichner. Paderborn: Schöningh, 1958–.

All citations contain volume and page numbers. Division (Abteilung) number is given only when appropriate, followed by a “/” and then the volume number. In cases where there are separate parts to a volume, the volume number is followed by a period and then the part number.

introduction

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his project was born out of a desire to understand the questions and concerns that motivated and inspired post-Kantian philosophy. Like most students of German philosophy, I found myself at a loss trying to grasp the transition from Kant’s critical idealism to Hegel’s absolute idealism. The questions which arose in the wake of Kantian philosophy and the concerns which inspired philosophers to embrace the idea of the absolute, were, in Hegel’s Phenomenology of Spirit, no longer evident. I thus began to research the pre-Hegelian philosophers, in particular the Jena romantics (1795–1804), who were not only enthusiastic admirers of the critical philosophy, but also its first idealist critics. It would not be an exaggeration to say that in the works of the romantics we witness the first comprehensive attempt to elaborate a philosophical system that was, on the one hand, inspired by the insights of Kant and Fichte and, on the other hand, dissatisfied with the premises and conclusions of transcendental philosophy. In the writings and lectures of the romantics, we find some of the most vivid accounts of the questions that motivated post-Kantian thought and the concerns that directed its development. Although in the last two decades, there has been an increase of interest in the philosophy and philosophers “between Kant and Hegel,” and in the romantics in particular, there continue to be fundamental disagreements about the nature of philosophical romanticism.1 These disagreements ultimately rest on diverging views regarding the goals of the romantic project. A number of recent interpretations have argued that the romantics were primarily epistemologists, concerned with elaborating a theory of knowledge and explicating self-consciousness.2 By contrast, others have argued that romanticism is a metaphysical project, concerned with understanding the nature of being or reality.3 The fundamental difference between these 



introduction

two interpretations rests on their diverging understanding of the romantic conception of the “absolute.” While in the first instance, the absolute is explicated as an epistemological notion—such as a Kantian regulative ideal or a Fichtean transcendental self—in the second it is a metaphysical idea, not unlike Spinoza’s substance. For the romantics, however, the absolute was both an epistemological and a metaphysical idea: a cognitive ideal and an existential reality. They argued that the absolute must be conceived in both senses, and that the two senses of the absolute are necessarily interrelated. As I shall show, it is precisely this conception of the absolute—and the identification of epistemological and ontological concerns—that is at once the most exciting and the most challenging aspect of the romantic project.

The Romantic Questions While it is difficult to delineate (and thus limit) the romantics’ key questions and concerns, there are three interrelated questions that encompass the most important issues in romanticism. Each of these questions, moreover, concerns both the theory of knowledge and the theory of being or reality and directly relates to the question of the absolute. The questions can be identified as follows: . What is the relation between mind and nature? . What is the relation between the one and the many? . What is the relation between the infinite and the finite?

In the first instance, the romantics sought to understand the relation between mind and nature, or the self-conscious mind and the unconscious natural world. That this is both an epistemological and a metaphysical question might be self-evident—after all, the question concerns not only the relation between the human being and the natural world (or the place of the human in nature), but also the way in which the mind grasps reality. The romantics came to the view that nature, like the subjective mind, is one aspect or presentation of the absolute. Thus, unlike Kant and Fichte, who saw nature as a product of our understanding or self-intuition, the romantics argued that nature must be self-producing. Nonetheless, they refused to overlook the creative role of the mind in the process of understanding nature, and thus argued that nature, although self-subsisting (and hence independent), cannot be ultimately distinct from the mind. If nature and mind were fundamentally distinct, then, in thinking about nature, the mind would be positing something outside of itself—an object opposed to



introduction



the subject—and would thus be committing two grave mistakes. On the one hand, it would be naively overlooking its role in the act of positing. On the other hand, it would be undermining the idea that nature (as productivity, as natura naturans) is not an object, but a self-subsisting, self-creating reality. While an object is determined or caused by conditions that are external to itself, a self-producing reality is not—that is precisely the distinction between a product or an object, and a self-producing being. By positing nature as something outside of myself, however, I necessarily oppose it to myself and, as such, determine it by an external condition. In other words, I necessarily make it into an object, or objectify it. Thus, for the romantics, the goal was to explicate the apparently paradoxical view that mind and nature are at once independent of yet identical to one another. In other words, the question which they sought to answer was: How can we think both mind and nature as self-producing and irreducible to one another, without overlooking our own creative role in the knowledge of nature or undermining the independence of nature? The question of the relation between mind and nature leads directly to the second key question that motivates the romantic project. As selfsubsisting and self-creating, nature, the romantics maintained, is an integral whole, a “nexus,” which underlies and determines the relations between its parts. This means that nature is not an overarching and amorphous substance in which difference is annulled. It is also not an abstract concept, which subsumes the particular under the universal. Rather, the romantics insisted that nature as an integrated nexus is a unity that emerges only in and through difference. It is an ordering principle or archetype, which is manifest in the parts and their relations and in which each of the parts actively participates. However, the question remains as to how such a unity can, on the one hand, underlie the relations between the parts and thus determine the parts and, on the other hand, be determined by the activity of the parts. In other words, how can the whole and the parts both be active and independent? While this question may appear to be solely metaphysical, concerned with the nature of being or reality, or with the relation of the “one” and “many,” for the romantics, it was also—and necessarily—an epistemological question. As they saw it, it is not simply a matter of positing a unity and assuming that it emerges in and through the parts. Rather, they came to the view that it was essential both to perceive and understand nature’s integrated nexus. This leads directly to the third question, which similarly concerns the nature of the relation between the one and the many, but from a different



introduction

angle. One of the key problems in any attempt to think the relation between the one and the many has to do with the way in which the one is commonly considered to be unconditioned and transcendent. By contrast, the many are conceived as conditioned and immanent. That is to say, while the one (as the complete or absolute being) is beyond or outside of determination, the many are determined and conditioned. The question then is: How can the one (or unconditioned) ground or determine the conditioned? In other words, how can something that is outside of determination be the ground of determination? While this question also may at first appear to be solely metaphysical—once again concerned with the ground of being—for the romantics it was also a question of knowledge, concerned with understanding the nature of systematic unity and thought. It has to do with the relation between an unconditioned first principle and the derived or conditioned principles. The romantics became critical of both the notion of an unconditioned principle and of the deductive method employed in constructing a system based on a first principle. In its place, they sought to develop a system of knowledge that refers to or is inspired by the unity of the natural world. While Novalis came to the view that only an organic whole can adequately articulate relations among ideas, and Schlegel aimed to develop a “system of fragments” modeled on the symbol of the plant, Schelling argued that systematic knowledge must, like nature, develop and transform. Importantly, for all three thinkers, the metaphor of the organism and organic unity was by no means merely heuristic—that is to say, it was not adopted simply to bring order onto an otherwise unordered world. Rather, they surmised that the kind of organization that is most evident in organic beings underlies all of reality, including nonliving (anorganic) substances, and for this reason should be the model for knowledge. Thus, the organic metaphor came to represent both unity in the world and unity in thought—a unity, however, that is not abstract or general, but concrete and internally differentiated. These three epistemological-metaphysical questions were for the romantics deeply connected to both ethical and aesthetic concerns. The romantics repeatedly argued that the possibility of an ethical life depended on an original unity between mind and nature. This did not simply mean that human beings should be able to transform the world with a spontaneous and free will, but also—and in some cases more significantly—that the human being should be affected and thus transformed by the world. Similarly, the work of art, the romantics contended, is neither a presentation of pure artistic freedom nor a simple mimesis or imitation of nature. Rather, it involves both a mimetic moment achieved through developing insights into



introduction



the natural world and a moment of artistic creativity or freedom, such that the result is a transformation of nature, or what the romantics called “second nature.” In both cases, the human subject (either as an ethical being or an artist) does not stand outside the world but is actively participating in it. As an intentional consciousness, which can reflectively act and create, the human being is also necessarily transforming that in which she is partaking. Thus, their views on both ethics and aesthetics reflect their metaphysical and epistemological concerns.

The Absolute and Intellectual Intuition As I have indicated, for the romantics, one of the basic and continuing problems in the history of philosophy is the objectification of the absolute. By thinking the absolute as distinct from and opposed to the individual mind or self, philosophers inadvertently objectify the absolute and distort the relation between the knowing mind and the absolute. After all, the absolute (as absolute) cannot be distinguished from or opposed to the knowing subject. Rather, the absolute inheres in all beings, including the knowing subject. This means that in positing the absolute, the knowing subject does not posit something outside of itself, but something in which it participates. With this insight into the relation between the knower and the absolute, a significant metaphysical or ontological insight concerning the nature of the absolute emerges. If the knowing subject is active in the absolute—that is, if the act of knowledge participates in the absolute—then it necessarily follows that the absolute must itself be active and productive. The absolute therefore is not a static and unchanging substance, but a dynamic, living reality. In turn, as that which inheres in all things but is not reducible to any one thing, the absolute is not a simple substance, nor can it be reduced to any one substance. Rather, the absolute is a living nexus composed of different but related parts, or better, an internally differentiated unity. The romantics agreed that only a certain mode of thought or way of thinking is capable of adequately grasping the absolute as absolute, and thus of effectively responding to the three questions. In other words, only a certain cognitive capacity can adequately grasp the relation between nature and mind, understand the relation between the one and the many, and finally, explicate the way in which the infinite and finite can reciprocally determine one another. While they did not always use the same terminology to speak of this special mode of thought, the romantics agreed that it must be nondiscursive or nonconceptual. As such, they often termed it “intellectual intuition”



introduction

(intellektuale Anschauung) in order to distinguish it from, on the one hand, sensible intuition and, on the other, discursive or conceptual understanding. This mode of thought must be intellectual, they argued, because it must be capable of seeing ideas and not merely sensible data. In turn, it must be intuitive, as opposed to discursive, because it does not grasp empirical objects, in other words, things determined by and known in terms of external conditions, but a self-subsisting, self-producing unity. Thus, as Schelling put it, intellectual intuition is a mode of thought “which grasps no object at all and is in no way a sensation” (HKA 1/2, 106). Because it is nondiscursive, intellectual intuition proceeds not from the part to the whole, but, as Kant put it in the Kritik der Urteilskraft (Critique of Judgment), “from the synthetically universal (the intuition of the whole as a whole) to the particular, i.e., from the whole to the parts.” For this reason, Kant continues, “such an understanding as well as its presentation of the whole has no contingency in the combination of the parts in order to make a determinate form of the whole possible” (AA 5, 407). In other words, for the intuitive intellect, the whole is not an aggregate or composite constructed out of the parts. Rather, intellectual intuition grasps the whole as a whole, which is to say, as an integrated and independent unity or idea. Intuition thus discerns the ideal unity that underlies and determines the parts and their relations. Furthermore, intellectual intuition, unlike discursive thought, does not grasp something in terms of an external condition or ground, in other words, as an effect of an external cause. Instead, intellectual intuition grasps it as it is in and for itself, and thus as its own condition or ground (as selfcausing). Friedrich Heinrich Jacobi had poignantly noted that the discursive intellect results in infinite regress precisely because it seeks to understand something by means of something else.4 This implies that the discursive intellect has two options: either it locates an ultimate or final condition, from which all conditions are then derived or derivable or, lacking such an ultimate condition, it fails to grant knowledge of anything. In other words, discursive reason must assume an unconditioned in order to achieve coherence. This, however, results in several problems, the most striking of which is that discursive thought—precisely because it is discursive—has no access to and thus cannot positively assume an unconditioned. After all, for the discursive mind, knowledge is based on conditions; an unconditioned, therefore, is beyond its grasp. This means that another, nondiscursive capacity, which would be able to grasp or at least posit an unconditioned, must be assumed.5



introduction



That the discursive intellect fails to grasp the unconditioned is closely connected to the fact that it is unable to grasp a self-organizing and independent unity, in other words, the absolute not as a product of our cognition, but as a self-producing reality. In that case, the unity is not caused by something outside of itself and thus cannot be determined by means of external conditions or determinations. Yet the discursive intellect gains knowledge of something only in terms of its conditions, that is, only in terms of what is outside of or other than that which it seeks to grasp. Therefore, once again, in order to gain insight into the absolute—into nature and mind as selfproducing rather than as mere products—another capacity must be posited, which, in contrast, is able to grasp a unified and integral whole. From this it is clear that for the romantics, intellectual intuition is not only epistemologically significant but bears metaphysical significance as well. By offering insight into the way in which mind and nature inhere and participate in the absolute, intellectual intuition is an important step in the romantics’ quest to move beyond transcendental idealism.6 In turn, precisely because intellectual intuition articulates the relation between the particular mind and the absolute, it also enables insight into the relation between the one and the many. For the romantics, intellectual intuition does not imply an undifferentiated insight into an amorphous substance, an abstract concept or simple identity. Rather, intellectual intuition discerns the one in and through the many—the ideal unity in and through the parts. As such, it is able to recognize difference—difference, that is, which is inherent to the unity or identity. For this reason, the romantics argue that intellectual intuition does not posit an undifferentiated, simple identity in the form of an unconditioned first principle. Rather, they dispute the very notion of an unconditioned and contend, as Schlegel put it, that both systematic knowledge and reality are based on two reciprocally conditioning principles—the one and the many, the infinite and the finite. Although the romantic notion of intellectual intuition has often been identified with Fichte’s understanding of intellectual intuition as intuition of the absolute I, a close examination reveals a more complicated lineage that links intellectual intuition to Spinoza’s third kind of knowledge and Goethe’s intuitive judgment.7 While Fichte offered the romantics insight into the active nature of intuition—self-intuition as an act—Spinoza elaborated a way by which to perceive unity in difference, the one in the many, and Goethe offered a living example of how such an intuitive capacity can be fostered and maintained. By bringing together the views and practices of these three thinkers, the romantics sought to develop an account of a



introduction

cognitive capacity that could grasp the absolute as absolute, that is to say, without objectifying it and without overlooking its inherent relation to the subjective mind, or undermining the diversity of its presentations.

Philosophical Romanticism Today Although the publication of the critical editions of key romantic thinkers in the 1950s and 1960s played a significant role in the increase of interest in romantic thought, it is the work of Manfred Frank and Frederick Beiser that has brought philosophical romanticism into the limelight and emphasized both its legacy and contemporary relevance. It is therefore not surprising to see that much of the more recent literature on romantic philosophy is heavily indebted to their work and in part seeks to carry on their projects.8 Frank and Beiser agree on certain aspects of romantic thought. They see romanticism as distinct from Fichtean and Hegelian idealism and seek to save the romantics from the “Hegelian legacy,” as Beiser puts it.9 Both illustrate the inaccuracy of Hegel’s view of romanticism (i.e., as a poetic ex­ aggeration of Fichtean idealism) and disagree with Hegel’s self-understanding in relation to romanticism. Furthermore, they agree on the continuing rele­ vance of romantic thought.10 Although they illustrate its relevance in signifi­ cantly different ways, they concur on the claim that romanticism can offer answers to contemporary questions. Finally, Frank and Beiser do not simply explicate the philosophical aspects of romantic thought; rather, they contend that romanticism was a philosophical movement. That is to say, the romantic school does not offer, among other things, insights of philosophical interest; rather, the romantics were, first and foremost, philosophers, whose other works and interests are directly related to and influenced by their philosophical ideas. However, and in spite of these points of agreement, Frank and Beiser approach romanticism in significantly dissimilar ways and emphasize different aspects of romantic thought. First, it is important to note that their aims and methods are quite distinctive. Frank proposes that his goal is to seek out and elaborate those romantic ideas that are relevant for contemporary philosophical problems.11 His investigations are thus often determined by presuppositions of relevance, and his interest in the romantics is limited to those texts and ideas which seem to offer insights into contemporary problems. This is most explicitly the case in his interpretation of Novalis. While Frank describes Novalis’s early notes on Fichte, the so-called FichteStudien (1795–1796), as the “most important contribution of philosophical



introduction



romanticism,” he all but ignores Novalis’s other philosophical writings and his poetic works.12 By contrast, Beiser’s concern is, as he puts it, to “interpret the romantics from within, according to their own goals and historical context.”13 Thus, rather than commencing with questions of relevance, Beiser undertakes a historical reconstruction of the romantic project. This means taking into account the larger corpus of romanticism and, as Beiser sees it, allowing our contemporary assumptions to be challenged by romantic ideas.14 One of the key differences between Frank’s and Beiser’s interpretations concerns the relation between romanticism and idealism.15 Frank’s thesis is that early German romanticism was a fundamentally skeptical movement whose roots can be traced back to the Niethammer circle’s critique of first principles and to Jacobi’s critique of transcendental philosophy.16 On at least this account, Frank argues, romanticism must be distinguished from idealism. While the romantics were realists, positing being outside of consciousness and claiming that it can never be grasped by consciousness, the idealists maintained that being can indeed be grasped by consciousness. There are several problems with Frank’s view of the romantics, the most striking of which concerns the ambiguity surrounding his understanding of the romantic notion of the absolute and its relation to “being.” Frank appears to waver with regard to the ontological or existential status of the absolute. Thus, in Einführung in die frühromantische Ästhetik (1989), he seems to imply that the absolute is an ontological reality, writing that “the romantic absolute and Heidegger’s being have strong parallel effects: both are the ground of the revelation of a world.”17 He indicates a similar view in “Unendliche Annäherung.” Die Anfänge der philosophischen Frühromantik (1997), where he claims that the romantics begin with “original being [Ur-Seyn]” and emphasizes that this being has an “existential meaning” or “reality.”18 Yet he also states in “Unendliche Annäherung” that for the romantics, “pure being” is an “unreachable idea in the Kantian sense.”19 A second, more obvious difficulty with Frank’s interpretation concerns his distinction between romanticism and idealism. To begin with, the romantics often called themselves idealists and termed their philosophical methodology “transcendental idealism.” Furthermore, Frank’s division between romanticism and idealism is in large part based on the question of first principles and systematicity. While it is true that Schelling sought to ground the system of knowledge in first principles, this does not mean that the romantics (Novalis and Schlegel) were anti-idealists. Idealism, in other words, is not equivalent to foundationalism. Finally, the distinction which

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Frank draws between the romantics and idealists (especially Schelling) undermines and overlooks the proximity of their thought and their shared questions and concerns. In contrast to Frank, Besier situates the romantics within the idealist tradition, calling them “absolute Idealists,” opposed to Kant’s and Fichte’s “subjective Idealism.”20 He emphasizes that for the romantics, the absolute is an organic rational whole, which is to say that it develops in accordance with a final purpose, “conforms to some form, archetype or idea.”21 The absolute, in other words, is an ideal reality, and the romantics are therefore idealists. In this way, Beiser draws clear connections between Schlegel, Novalis, and Hölderlin, on the one hand, and Schelling and Hegel, on the other hand. However, Beiser’s reading of Hegel’s relation to romanticism remains vague and in some ways problematic. As he professes at the beginning of German Idealism: The Struggle against Subjectivism, 1781–1805 (2002), his goal is to free the study of romanticism from the “Hegelian legacy.” Thus, Beiser challenges Hegel’s interpretation of the history of philosophy, arguing that Hegel was not doing something radically different from or opposed to what the romantics, including Schelling, had already done. “There is not a single Hegelian theme,” Beiser writes, “that cannot be traced back to his predecessors in Jena, to many earlier thinkers whom Hegel and the Hegelian school either belittled or ignored. The fathers of absolute idealism were Hölderlin, Schlegel and Schelling.”22 From this it would seem that Beiser is undercutting Hegel’s self-professed significance. However, Beiser then goes on to propose a view of the history of German idealism that delineates a development from Novalis and Schlegel to Schelling (and thus implicitly to Hegel). Thus, he controversially states that “what was merely fragmentary, inchoate, and suggestive in Hölderlin, Novalis and Schlegel became systematic, organized, and explicit in Schelling.”23 In other words, although Beiser seeks to extinguish the Hegelian reading of the history of philosophy, he inadvertently offers an interpretation that confirms Hegel’s linear view of the development of philosophy and its culmination in his (or Schelling’s) thought. While Beiser’s delineation may be helpful in articulating the shared questions and concerns of the romantics and idealists, and identifying their common ideas and goals, it tends to undermine the distinctive contributions of each of the thinkers. Moreover, the claim that Schelling’s philosophy is the culmination of romantic thought overlooks the complex relationship between romanticism and philosophy and assumes that the goals of romanticism were best achieved in the form of a philosophical system. It also overlooks Schelling’s own dissatisfaction with his various attempts and the



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11

fact that he often altered his views, not only with regard to content, but also with regard to the form in which they were best expressed. Thus, after publishing his best-known systematic work, System des transcendentalen Idealismus (System of Transcendental Idealism) (1800), Schelling composed the dialogue Bruno (1801), because he thought it might offer a more appropriate form for expressing his ideas.24 Unlike Frank, Beiser is concerned with romantic metaphysics, specifically with the romantic conception of the absolute as the ground of both objective being and subjective mind, which he identifies with Spinoza’s substance.25 In doing so, however, Beiser overemphasizes the significance of Spinoza and, thus, ultimately underemphasizes the continuing relevance of critical philosophy for the romantics. Although Beiser’s explicit view is that the romantics sought to “wed” Fichte and Spinoza, his interpretation veers much too often to a Spinozistic reading of the romantics, which ultimately ignores the romantic concern with the self, freedom, the nature of knowledge, and the active or creative role of the mind in its relation to nature.26 Thus, in contrast to Beiser, I propose that the romantics remained sympathetic to Kant’s and Fichte’s key insights concerning the active and constructive nature of the self and argue that it is precisely for this reason that they never became committed Spinozists. The difference between Frank’s and Beiser’s interpretations can be summed up as a difference in their understanding of the notion of “postKantian idealism.” Frank takes it to mean abiding by the limits set out in the critical philosophy, accepting the antinomial nature of reason, and regarding reason as incapable of offering transparency and complete knowledge. Beiser understands “post-Kantian” to imply a critical encounter with Kantian philosophy born out of a deep dissatisfaction with both its premises and results. For this reason, while Beiser acknowledges the romantic debt to transcendental philosophy, he maintains that the romantics ultimately sought to move beyond Kantian subjective idealism. This difference can be most clearly seen in the way in which Frank and Beiser interpret the notion of the absolute. Both agree that the absolute was the central idea and motivating principle of the romantic project. Yet, in spite of its significance (or because of it), the two vigorously disagree on its meaning. While Frank progressively came to the view that the absolute is equivalent to a Kantian regulative ideal, and is therefore an epistemological category, Beiser argues that for the romantics, the absolute is the ontological ground of being and knowing.27 Although Frank’s and Beiser’s contributions have been invaluable to the study of romanticism, and this work is heavily indebted to their rigorous

12

introduction

investigation, I take issue with what I perceive as an overemphasis on specific aspects of the romantic project and with the various consequences resulting from this one-sidedness. The goal of this book is to show how every one of the questions which the romantics posed and sought to answer was always an epistemological and a metaphysical question. In every instance, the romantics were concerned with the nature of reality—with the “absolute” ground of being and knowing—and with our cognitive relation to it—with the relation of mind to nature, and with the way in which the mind perceives, presents, and articulates the absolute. My interpretation of philosophical romanticism seeks to explicate both aspects of each question and uncover the ways in which the romantics saw being and knowing, nature and mind, the infinite and the finite, as two sides of the absolute.

Romanticism and Philosophy As I have already indicated, the different pictures of romanticism which Frank and Beiser offer are not solely due to their diverging approaches and interests. They are also due to the fact that the romantics were at once deeply influenced by critical philosophy and extremely dissatisfied with its premises and conclusions. In one sense, they did not abandon the critical project, but, as Novalis and Schlegel put it, sought to be “more critical” than Kant and Fichte had been (NS 3, 445, nos. 921 and 924; KFSA 18, 32, no. 143). Thus, they agreed with Kant’s fundamental claim that the mind actively participates in creating knowledge and sought to determine the meaning and implications of this activity. Furthermore, the romantics were not simply Fichte’s first critics, but also his greatest allies. They considered his contributions to philosophy invaluable, and even when they leveled their caustic criticisms of first principles, they continued to agree with Fichte’s most important insight—the freedom and nonobjective nature of the self.28 Moreover, they did not entirely reject systematicity and systematic knowledge. Although they recognized the potential errors and limitations of systematic thinking, they were aware of its necessity. Thus, Schlegel famously states that “it is equally deadly for the spirit to have a system and not to have one. It must therefore decide to unite them both” (KFSA 2, 173, no. 53). In turn, while they considered Spinoza to be an important source of inspiration for overcoming subjective idealism, they were never entirely sympathetic toward (and were at times outright critical of) his apparent dogmatism. The romantics certainly were absolute idealists, in the way that Beiser describes them: they agreed that the ideal and real are originally one, that



introduction

13

the subjective mind is dependent on (and is a manifestation of) an archetypal idea (the absolute), and that differences in nature and mind arise on account of differences in the degrees of organization and development of the same living force.29 Nonetheless, each of the romantics understood and articulated these complex relations—the identity and difference between mind and nature, infinite and finite, ideal and real—in a distinctive way and from a particular vantage point. Furthermore, each of the key figures in the romantic circle brought with him a specific background, which played a significant role in his approach to philosophy and his self-understanding as a philosopher. Novalis was, among the three romantics to be considered, the only trained and practicing scientist, whose geological studies and work in the mines informed his philosophical concern with natural phenomena. Novalis in fact speaks of his work as a kind of “empirical idealism,” precisely because he strove to bring observation, reflection, and imagination together and thus grasp the relation between the ideal and the real through a dedicated practice of empirical observation.30 In turn, Schlegel’s background in literature and classics played a significant role in the development of his understanding of a philosophical system and his critique of first principles. Schlegel can be best described as a “hermeneutic idealist,” for whom the beginning is always “in the middle” and reality and understanding are equally dialogical. Finally, Schelling’s proximity to both Fichte and Spinoza was a determining factor in his thought—not only in his early writings, but also throughout his tenure in Jena. Schelling’s systematic aspirations are clearly grounded in both Fichte’s and Spinoza’s methods and their approach to knowledge. This does not radically distinguish Schelling from Novalis and Schlegel, as Frank has argued, but rather points to differences among all three of them—differences that were also evident in their varying modes of expression. Thus, the goals of romanticism, and the distinctive contributions of each of the romantics, must not be seen through the lens of Schelling’s aims and achievements. Furthermore, the romantics did not forgo the basic insight of critical philosophy: the creative or active role of the self in the attainment of knowledge. While they certainly sought to overcome transcendental idealism as practiced by Kant and Fichte, they continued to insist on the significance of the self, or I, and on its role in both knowing and being. My goal is to consider the complexity and variety of the romantics’ questions and concerns and to allow for differences in their views without overlooking their fundamental affinities. The following chapters explore the ideas of three key figures in Jena romanticism: Friedrich von Hardenberg (Novalis), Friedrich Schlegel, and

14

introduction

Friedrich Schelling. The book explicates their understanding of the ab­so­ lute, both from an epistemological and a metaphysical perspective, and con­ siders the way in which each of them sought to grasp and express the absolute. The book is divided into three parts. Each of the parts is dedicated to elaborating the individual philosopher’s version of idealism and investigating how he sought to resolve the problem of knowing and articulating the absolute. The work as a whole offers a historical and systematic account of the development of romanticism and examines the philosophical reasons why the romantics sought to develop new ways of thinking and new modes of expression. Finally, the book seeks to consider the significance of the notion of the “absolute” as it was understood by the romantics, both by elaborating the challenges facing the attempt to think and articulate the absolute and by suggesting its philosophical relevance.

part 1

Novalis

I

n 1954, Theodore Haering wrote that to speak of Novalis as a philosopher is to speak of the “unknown Novalis.”1 Since then the situation has significantly changed. The publication of the critical edition of Novalis’s work (1960–1975) has shown that much of Novalis’s time and effort were spent on philosophical writings and that he was deeply engaged in the questions that concerned the major philosophers of the period.2 There has thus been an increased interest in Novalis’s philosophical writings and in his relations to and understanding of his philosophical contemporaries. However, in spite of the growing consensus that Novalis should be considered a philosopher, there is little to no agreement on his philosophical views. What were Novalis’s philosophical goals and methods? Who were his philosophical allies and influences? What (if any) is Novalis’s own philosophy? These questions remain highly contested. This has to do—in great part I think—with the fact that several of Novalis’s philosophical writings are notes taken while studying various philosophers.3 These notes do not suggest a clear philosophical program or strong leanings in the direction of any one philosopher. Thus, while at times Novalis appears to be very much in agreement with the philosopher he is studying, at others he seems rather critical. This has led to widely diverging interpretations of Novalis.4 At this time, there appear to be two dominant schools of interpretation. The first regards Novalis as a Fichtean idealist—an old interpretation represented most recently by Géza von Molnár and Bernward Loheide.5 The second regards Novalis as an anti-Fichtean, Kantian skeptic. This more recent reading was first put forth by Manfred Frank6 and has become widespread in the Anglo-American reception of

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Novalis (such as Andrew Bowie and Jane Kneller).7 While there continue to be interpretations which attempt to locate Novalis’s philosophical interests outside the confines of transcendental idealism (most significantly, Hans-Joachim Mähl and Frederick Beiser),8 the contemporary reception of Novalis has focused on his relation to (Fichtean and Kantian) transcendental philosophy.9 The emphasis on Kant and Fichte is to some degree warranted. Novalis spent a great deal of his time and effort working out questions of selfconsciousness and knowledge and was clearly influenced by both thinkers. However, these interpretations have underestimated the significance of other philosophical questions for Novalis’s thought and have overlooked the fact that Novalis was interested in the work of other philosophers, including Spinoza, Plato, and Hemsterhuis. Ultimately, Novalis’s philosophical concerns cannot be reduced to questions about self-consciousness or knowledge. While Novalis was certainly a post-Kantian critical philosopher, he was not only an epistemologist. By reading Novalis from the perspective of transcendental philosophy, these interpretations have failed to account for Novalis’s interest in nature and the natural sciences, and, more generally, the ontological dimension of his thought. Although questions concerning self-consciousness occupied Novalis during his early engagement with Fichte in the so-called Fichte-Studien (1795–1796), they became less significant as he turned his attention toward understanding the relation between the human being and nature and the ethical or moral dimension of human life. This is not to say that Novalis was not concerned with either ontology or ethics in the Fichte-Studien. Indeed, a careful examination of the text reveals that already in these early notes, Novalis was articulating a conception of being and developing a theory of moral activity. Thus, as I will show, the significance of the question of self-consciousness in Novalis’s thought (even in the Fichte-Studien) has been overstated.10 In contrast to these interpretations, I will illustrate that in Novalis’s philosophy, the absolute does not amount to either a Kantian regulative ideal or a Fichtean act of self-consciousness; rather, as the ground of all that is, the absolute is the mediation of being and knowing and cannot be reduced to either. Throughout, I will demonstrate that Novalis’s notion of the absolute as mediation (Vermittlung; Mittlertum) or presentation (Darstellung) is intimately connected to his understanding of nature and of the human relation to nature, and informs both his conception of artistic creativity and moral activity.



novalis

17

Already in the Fichte-Studien, Novalis develops a conception of being as mediation—of being as relation, development, presentation—and takes the first steps toward explicating the human relation to being, and the relation between knowing and being. Novalis’s concern with being in the Fichte-Studien is continuous with his later interest in nature and in the human relation to and knowledge of the natural world, as revealed in his encyclopedia project, his two novels, and his published and unpublished fragments (1789–1799). What distinguishes the Fichte-Studien from Novalis’s later works is simply a matter of degree: in his later writings, Novalis develops more nuanced and explicit conceptions of being or reality, of the relation between humanity and the natural world, and of the meaning of moral action. One can see the seeds of this mature conception in his 1797 Hemsterhuis-Studien and Kant-Studien, in which Novalis begins to think of morality in terms of relationality and affectivity (rather than his earlier one-sided Fichtean conception of morality as self-activity), considers the “place” of the human being in the world, and develops an understanding of the difference between an organic “whole” and an “aggregate.” In these writings, one also witnesses Novalis’s initial encounter with the idea of a system of knowledge and the first notion of a unity of the sciences. The following chapters will be dedicated to explicating Novalis’s understanding of the absolute and of the relation between the human being and the natural world, in light of Novalis’s development and his interactions with and criticisms of various philosophers. Given the significance of Manfred Frank’s interpretation in the contemporary reception of Novalis, the first part of chapter 1 outlines Frank’s reading and considers the opposing reading (i.e., of Novalis as a Fichtean) put forth by Molnár and Loheide. The chapter then discusses the Fichte-Studien and shows that this early writing contains not one but two distinctive conceptions of being—only one of which accords with Novalis’s later understanding. In chapter 2 I consider Novalis’s study of the Dutch philosopher Franz Hemsterhuis and his return to Kant in 1797. The goal of these first two chapters is more introductory than systematic—in them I seek to introduce the reader to Novalis’s questions and concerns rather than present his views in a philosophically coherent and justifiable manner. This is because until 1798 Novalis did not seek to develop a methodology or present his ideas in a systematic manner. 1798 thus serves as a turning point, not only in relation to Novalis’s interests—specifically his interest in the natural world—but also with regard to his own self-understanding and his goals as a philosopher. It is in 1798 that Novalis commences his “encyclopedia” project, develops his most

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astute critiques of transcendental philosophy, and begins to develop his own theory of knowledge. Chapter 3 is thus concerned with Novalis’s thought from 1798 onward. The goal is to explicate Novalis’s understanding of the human being and the human relation to nature. One of the most significant contributions of this chapter is the explication of Goethe’s influence on Novalis’s development, in particular his increased interest in the study of nature. In chapter 4, I discuss Novalis’s goal of providing a systematic presentation of knowledge and his criticism of previous philosophical systems as “unpoetic.” The conclusion briefly enumerates the key moments in Novalis’s development in relation to his notion of the absolute.

chapter one

Interpreting the Fichte-Studien

1.1 Novalis in the Literature

I

n his 1989 Einführung in die frühromantische Äshtetik, Manfred Frank makes the remarkable statement that Novalis’s Fichte-Studien offer “the most significant philosophical contribution of early romanticism.”1 In this way, Frank places Novalis and the Fichte-Studien at the center of philosophical discussions of early German romanticism. In his earlier writings on the romantics, Frank’s concern had been to distinguish Novalis from Hegel and the neo-Platonist tradition.2 In Einführung, by contrast, his thesis is that in the Fichte-Studien, we witness a “break” with idealism as elaborated by both Hegel and Fichte.3 Frank’s reading of Novalis, and his emphasis on the Fichte-Studien, are in large part due to the fact that Frank’s primary interlocutor is Dieter Henrich. In a more recent work on the romantics, “Unendliche Annäherung.” Anfänge der philosophischen Frühromantik (1997), Frank acknowledges that he was in part inspired by Henrich’s recent “discoveries.”4 Frank’s concern, however, is not to follow Henrich, but to challenge his claim that Hölderlin was the first realist critic of Fichte and German idealism in general. Novalis, he argues, offered a critique of idealism as early as (but independently of) Hölderlin. Frank’s goal, therefore, is to illustrate that in the Fichte-Studien, composed in 1795–1796,5 Novalis arrives at the conclusion that being or “pure being (Nur Seyn)” is “given” rather than “constructed” by the I, and that being eludes conceptualization. Frank’s reading focuses on two main ideas. The first is that for Novalis, intellectual intuition does not (as it does for Fichte) realize or produce the self—rather, the self has to have already been there in order for intuition to take place. In other words, the ground of the self is not the self’s own activity,

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but a “being” that precedes and eludes the self in its attempt to know itself. This leads to the second point, namely, that intellectual intuition does not grant insight into the ground of the self. Rather, in intellectual intuition an inversion (“ordo inversus”) of the ground with the grounded takes place, such that what appears to us as primary (self-consciousness) is in fact only secondary to the true primary (being).6 The ground of reality is therefore “given” and not “constructed” by intuition. As such, it is ultimately intractable and unknowable.7 In the place of self-knowledge, Novalis offers “feeling” or “self-feeling (Selbstgefühl).”8 In this way, Frank argues, Novalis provides a biting critique of the Fichtean notion of intellectual intuition and of idealism in general. Precisely because Novalis recognizes that the self’s activity depends upon an already “given” ground—a ground that is infinitely unknowable— Frank argues that Novalis is putting forth a realist, nonidealist understanding of being, in other words, being as “outside of consciousness,” or “mere being (Nur Seyn).”9 Novalis is, in other words, a skeptical realist and not an idealist. Frank’s fundamental argument is that Novalis, and the romantics in general, remain true to Kantian restrictions.10 They acknowledge the impossibility of a philosophical presentation of the “infinite absolute” and thus turn away from philosophy to art. Frank locates this turn in the FichteStudien because they begin with a general skepticism toward philosophical method and conclude in art. In deep contrast to Frank’s interpretation, Gezá von Molnár and Bern­ ward Loheide have rehabilitated the old interpretation of Novalis as a Fichtean whose philosophical and artistic goals can be understood as a continuation of and expansion upon Fichte’s thought.11 In his reading of the Fichte-Studien, Molnár interprets Novalis’s search for the absolute (which Frank locates outside the I) as the search for the I.12 Molnár acknowledges one significant difference between Fichte and Novalis: Novalis emphasizes the manifestation of the absolute unity within the empirical opposition of subject and object.13 Ultimately, however, for Molnár, Novalis remains within the realm of the self and intellectual intuition. Loheide argues that Fichte played a significant role not only in Novalis’s early works but also in his later writings.14 The interesting aspect of Loheide’s interpretation, in contrast to that of Molnár, is that it agrees with Frank’s reading of Novalis, but disagrees with his claim that there is a substantial difference between Novalis and Fichte.15 Rather, in Loheide’s reading, not only Novalis, but also Fichte, developed skepticism toward intellectual intuition and elaborated a philosophy of finitude and realism.16 In this way, Loheide sees both Novalis and Fichte as continuing in the Kantian tradition



interpreting the fichte-studien

21

of transcendental philosophy, differentiating themselves only in emphasis. What unites Fichte and Novalis is their prioritization of the moral over the theoretical and their conception of the self as primarily active and ethical.17 Like many of Novalis’s contemporary interpreters, Loheide’s goal is to show that Novalis (and Fichte) is an enlightenment philosopher, and his turn to art was a rational, philosophically justified turn that had nothing to do with Schwärmerei or religiosity.18 According to Loheide, for both Novalis and Fichte, the self is a finite being who becomes aware of its finitude, and its inability to know the absolute, through transcendental philosophy.19 Although Molnár’s and Loheide’s interpretations clearly differ from Frank’s, they agree with his emphasis on Fichte and the claim that Novalis was in some sense working in relation to Fichtean (transcendental) philosophy. For this reason, they emphasize the centrality of the problem of selfconsciousness and self-knowledge for Novalis. Insofar as the Fichte-Studien are Novalis’s attempt to work through Fichtean philosophy, the problem of self-consciousness was a key concern in that context. However, it plays a less important role in Novalis’s later writings, and Novalis’s philosophical interests cannot be reduced to the problem of self-consciousness.20 Therefore, by emphasizing Fichte’s concern with the self and self-consciousness and interpreting Novalis in light of it, they overlook the fact that Novalis was also interested in questions that cannot be limited to or interpreted in terms of the question of self-consciousness and self-presentation.21 Furthermore, by focusing on Fichte’s influence, all three fail to notice the ways in which other thinkers influenced Novalis. An examination of the Allgemeine Brouillon, the encyclopedia project which Novalis undertook in 1798–1799,22 reveals Novalis’s interest in Kant and Fichte as well as in the neo-Platonist Plotinus, in Goethe, and in Spinoza (to name a few).23 In addition, there are important logistical problems with the FichteStudien that prevent them from being the groundbreaking work that Frank considers them to be.24 First, Novalis is taking notes while reading Fichte, and thus at times it is unclear whether Novalis is writing his own thoughts or trying to work out or work through Fichte’s. As Loheide has illustrated, many of Novalis’s notes closely correspond to, even mirror, Fichte’s own words and thus can be understood as either a working out of Fichtean ideas or as an attempt to draw out the consequences of some of Fichte’s claims— consequences that, according to Loheide, Fichte also draws out.25 Second, Novalis broaches many topics of concern to Fichte and at times provides solid counterarguments to Fichte’s claims; however, some of what are considered to be Novalis’s key positions at the beginning of the notes fall by the wayside toward the end of the work, or change somewhere in the middle.26

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Third, in the Fichte-Studien, there are at least two key ideas that are ambiguous and even confused—leading in part to some confusion in Frank’s interpretation. The first of these ideas is being.27 On the one hand, Novalis speaks of being as “mere being [Nur Seyn].” Frank takes this to be the key idea of the Fichte-Studien and argues that it implies that being is outside of and beyond consciousness and presentation. On the other hand, Novalis develops a conception of being as relation or mediation. In fact, at times Novalis seems to be saying that being is presentation or mediation. Thus, he writes that being only exists if it is “recognizable (erkennbar)” and that being is always already “recognition (erkennen)” (NS 2, 248, no. 462; NS 2, 249, no. 463). Frank does not consider the two different uses of the term being, nor does he attempt to reconcile or explain the differences.28 The second confusion in the Fichte-Studien concerns the status of being. On the one hand, it appears that being is an ontological reality—whether in the first or the second sense described above, being has an ontological (i.e., existential) status. On the other hand, Novalis assigns it the status of a regulative idea, such that it is merely a limiting concept that has nothing to do with reality or existence.29 Frank adopts both conceptions of being—being is an ontological reality and an epistemological limiting idea.30 However, as Frederick Beiser has pointed out, one cannot hold both conceptions: it is either the case that being is an ontological reality that has some positive value (even if we cannot know it) or it is merely a limiting or negative concept, and has no ontological status.31 The contradiction in Novalis’s thought is most clear when he claims that being is merely regulative while simultaneously stating that being is an object of feeling and faith. This does not mean, however, that the Fichte-Studien cannot function as a starting-point in the attempt to understand Novalis’s thought. Indeed, it is my contention that the Fichte-Studien are a fruitful basis from which the reader can first glimpse Novalis’s questions and concerns. Although the Fichte-Studien do not provide any clear answers, they illuminate the direction of Novalis’s thinking and thus help us to interpret his later writings. Furthermore, although the Fichte-Studien contain two mutually exclusive conceptions of being and of the status of being, these contradictions disappear through an alternative interpretation of Novalis’s understanding of the term “mere being.” Rather than taking “mere being” to imply an ontological reality that exists beyond or outside of consciousness, I will argue that “mere being” can be interpreted to mean a formal principle of simple identity which makes no ontological claims. This, in turn, is contrasted to ontological being—reality—which implies difference, relation, and deter-



interpreting the fichte-studien

23

mination. Although this conception of being is closer to Fichte’s in that it implies determination and does not exclude consciousness, it is dissimilar in that being is not determined by (or constructed through) the act of consciousness, but is self-determining. It is, therefore, the first articulation of Novalis’s notion of the absolute as an internally differentiated, active, and dynamic unity. However, although Novalis makes suggestions that support this reading, he does not elaborate on them. Therefore, any interpretation of the Fichte-Studien should be solely preparatory for reading Novalis’s later writings. My goal, then, is to consider the ways in which the Fichte-Studien can be read and argue that an interpretation of being as activity and determination—an interpretation which is commensurate with Novalis’s later works—can be found in these notes, but ultimately to show that what the Fichte-Studien leave us with are questions and not answers. I thus begin with an elaboration of the two possible readings of being to be found in the Fichte-Studien and illustrate the tenability of an alternative reading to Frank’s.32

1.2 Being in the Fichte-Studien Novalis begins the Fichte-Studien with a general, albeit poignant, critique of Fichte’s methodology. Within the first few lines of his notes, Novalis challenges Fichte’s purportedly self-evident statement of identity by pausing to think about the nature of presentation. He writes, In the proposition “a is a” lies nothing other than a positing, differentiating and connecting. It is a philosophical parallelism. In order to make “a” more clear, “A” is divided. “Is” is posited as universal content, “a” as the determined form. The essence of identity can only be presented in an illusory proposition [Scheinsatz]. We abandon the identical in order to present it [um es darzustellen]—Either this takes place only illusorily—and we are brought to believe it by the imagination—what occurs, already is—naturally through imaginary separation and unification—Or we represent [vorstellen] it through its nonbeing [Nichtseyn], through a nonidentical [Nichtidentisches]—Sign. (NS 2, 104, no. 1)

Instead of accepting the self-evidence of the proposition of identity, Novalis pauses to take a look at what it assumes. It is not merely identity that Novalis considers to be problematic, but also its presentation (Darstellung). In order to present identity, we must abandon it; in order to present the

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originally undivided identity, we divide it. The problem is that identity can be presented only through nonidentity, through a loss of the original unity that is identity. Two things are going on here. First, for Fichte, the proposition of identity is the starting point, the foundation, of philosophy. By grounding philosophy in the proposition of identity, which is determined as the undeniable and unconditioned first principle of philosophy, philosophy can proceed without making any illegitimate assumptions. In positing a first, unconditioned ground and from there deriving a philosophical system, philosophy legitimizes itself. By questioning the adequacy of this claim and then undermining it, Novalis is doing nothing less than questioning the foundations of philosophy. This leads directly to the second matter at hand, namely, presentation, for it is in presenting identity that we must abandon it. Thus, the question emerges as to whether there is an adequate way by which to present identity. And if so, what is its relation to (and effect on) philosophy. Presentation was not a new topic in German thought at the time; it played a significant role in both Kant’s first Kritik and his third (though Kant only rarely made it the subject of explicit discussion). Indeed, one of the goals of the first Kritik is to delineate the imagination’s capacity to schematize and in turn to represent (vorstellen) the object of cognition. For Kant, all knowledge is a matter of representation. Presentation plays an even more significant role for Fichte, who, through intellectual intuition, attempts to make present the self to itself. Thus, in “Ueber den Begriff der Wissenschaftslehre” (1794), Fichte explains that “the reflection, which dominates the whole of the Wissenschaftslehre, insofar as it is a science of knowledge, is a presentation [ein Vorstellen]. In the Wissenschaftslehre the I is presented [vorgestellt]” (GA 1/2, 149). Knowledge and presentation are therefore intimately tied, for it is only in presenting the self to itself that the self comes to have knowledge of itself and, more significantly, actually becomes a self. Insofar as the Fichte-Studien were composed in light of these developments in philosophy, it is self-evident why presentation plays a central role throughout the notes. As Novalis sees it, philosophy can no longer be separated from presentation. He is thus taking the cue from his predecessors in recognizing the importance of presentation in philosophy. However, he goes further by questioning what they had assumed. Indeed, what Novalis does in the first few lines of the Fichte-Studien is not so much follow a trend as challenge its assumptions. In questioning the presentation of iden-



interpreting the fichte-studien

25

tity, Novalis is doing nothing less than asking the question: Is philosophy possible? This concern is not located only in the first few lines of the FichteStudien; it resounds throughout. Much later in the notes, Novalis makes more explicit what he assumes at the beginning, namely, that “presentability [Darstellbarkeit], or thinkability [Denkbarkeit], is the criterion for the possibility of all philosophy.” He identifies thinkability and presentability with determination, and explains that “we can only think and order the determined particular,” and “presentation is definitely determining [Die Darstellung ist bestimmt bestimmend]” (NS 2, 217). In other words, thinkability and presentability are the criteria for knowledge, and, as such, their possibility determines the possibility of philosophy. However, in spite of the centrality of presentation in the Fichte-Studien— or maybe because of it—there is a great deal of ambiguity surrounding this concept. Novalis appears to speak of presentation in two distinct ways. The first is presentation in the epistemological sense, wherein presentation is involved in the process of knowledge. The second sense of presentation is ontological, implying a kind of self-mediation or determination of being, in contrast to the act of knowing being. It would be wrong to wholly distinguish or separate the two senses of presentation, although I think it is useful to recognize their difference. Nevertheless, both senses of presentation are concerned with being (Seyn)—the presentation of being to the knowing subject, and being as presentation. Let us begin with a consideration of the presentation of being to knowledge. The object of philosophy, Novalis writes, is a “something (Was).” Philosophy is always a relation to being, or philosophy’s concern is always being (“Nur aufs Seyn kann alle Filosofie gehn”) (NS 2, 106, no. 3). This being, in turn, is “given” (“Es muß ihr etwas gegeben werden”) (NS 2, 113, no. 15). What does it mean, however, for being to be “given”? It is here that the first ambiguity arises. It appears that Novalis wants to distinguish between what is “given” and what is “constructed” or “made” by the self. As given, being precedes the constructive activity of the self, that is, self-intuition and, in fact, makes it possible. The object of philosophy, then, is not something made but something given. Yet when he elaborates on what he means, it is not so straightforward. He begins by claiming that knowledge “relates itself always to something [es bezieht sich allemal auf ein Was]. . . . It is a relation [Beziehung] to being [Seyn].” Novalis then adds that this relation to being is “in the determined being generally [im bestimmten Seyn], namely, in the I

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[nemlich im Ich]” (NS 2, 105, no. 2). Or, as he puts it later on in the notes, for being to be given, it must be determined by the I: “Something can only be given through the I. . . . Everything is being, which enters into its [the I’s] sphere—for it is only in this appropriation that the essence of its being arises” (NS 2, 273–74, no. 568).33 In other words, what is given to philosophy is not a “given” in the sense of something that precedes the determination and construction of the I, but is instead something that is always already determined by the I. One can nevertheless attempt to distinguish between what is given to the I and pure or mere being, which precedes all determination and construction. This reading is plausible, insofar as Novalis does use the term “mere being (Nur Seyn)” and appears to distinguish it from being. Novalis defines consciousness as “being outside of being that is nevertheless in being.” To this he adds that “being outside of being” cannot be proper being (rechtes Seyn), but is an image (Bild) of being. As such, consciousness is an image of being in being (“Das Bewußtseyn ist folglich ein Bild des Seyns im Seyn”), a “sign” or “presentation” of being. He continues, “Closer explanation of an image. / Sign / Theory of signs. / Theory of presentation or of nonbeing in being, in order to let being be there in a certain way” [um das Seyn für sich auf gewisse Weise daseyn zu lassen] (NS 2, 106, no. 2). Novalis appears to be emphasizing what he elaborates in the first passage of the Fichte-Studien, namely, that presentation involves negation (of identity). In order for being to present itself, there must be nonbeing. Furthermore, consciousness can present being (“let being be there in a certain way”) only by negating it. Thus, insofar as consciousness involves nonbeing, it cannot present “mere being (Nur Seyn).” Novalis goes on to write that “no modification, no concept adheres to mere being [Nur Seyn], one cannot set it against anything—except to say nonbeing [als verbaliter das Nichtseyn]” (NS 2, 206, no. 3). Attempting to give “mere being” determination results in a “handful of darkness,” in “chaos.” The attempt to determine being positively involves nonbeing, darkness. Determination or presentation requires differentiation, relation— and mere being can be neither differentiated nor related. Mere being can be imaged in consciousness, but as such, it remains an image and not being itself—for as imaged it always already contains negation (difference, nonbeing) within itself, and as such, is not “mere being.” From the preceding quoted passages, it would appear that Novalis has provided us with something like the Kantian “thing-in-itself” and has called it “mere being,” separating it from our consciousness, such that it will always remain outside of, and prior to, consciousness. More significantly, our



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knowledge of it will always remain re-presentational, knowledge that necessarily fails to grasp being in itself. This, at least, is Frank’s reading, a reading that is not entirely false—but one that is also not entirely true. This has to do with the fact that in addition to speaking of “mere being” in the first part of the Fichte-Studien, Novalis develops a second conception of being as reality, as world, as activity and life.34 Throughout the text, formulations such as these can be found: “activity is the actual reality . . . God is the infinite activity. . . . What Is—is through activity” (NS 2, 148, no. 91), “activity grounds being” (NS 2, 214, no. 303), “activity and being are thoroughly identical [idem]” (NS 2, 281, no. 305), and “activity is the expression /the demonstration/ of being, of reality, of the I” (NS 2, 146, no. 83). By speaking of being in terms of activity, Novalis is putting forth a conception of being that involves determination, development, and opposition. This determination, however, is not imposed upon being by the construction of the self in its self-intuition; rather, being is conceived as self-determining. Novalis’s understanding of being is therefore not limited to its relation to the self (epistemological), but also concerns being as such (ontology). Being, it appears, is more than “mere being.” Novalis writes that “being is . . . an absolute relation [Seyn ist . . . eine absolute Relation],” adding that “nothing in the world is merely [Nichts in der Welt ist bloß].” He then goes on to state that “being does not express identity” (NS 2, 247, no. 454). In other words, being is not something that is “mere,” not something that is beyond all differentiation and determination. Rather, being implies relation and opposition.35 In addition, Novalis writes that a thing “can be more or less.” In other words, being is in the world and things participate in being to various degrees. In fact, it is their varying degrees of participation that distinguish things from the “all,” or the absolute, from that which is most completely (NS 2, 247, no. 454). Furthermore, Novalis continues, human beings are not outside of or other than being. “We ourselves,” he writes, “are only insofar as we recognize ourselves [Wir selbst sind nur, insoweit wir uns erkennen]” (NS 2, 247, no. 454). Our being is directly connected to our self-knowledge—we are insofar as we are self-conscious beings. Thus, not only do things partake of being—such that being is not outside of or beyond the world of determination, but is that which is in all things—but we also participate in being—knowledge and selfconsicousness are aspects of being: we are insofar as we know ourselves. Consciousness and being are thus not opposed. Being, it appears, involves both determination and consciousness. Although in some passages in the Fichte-Studien Novalis seems to have separated consciousness from being and elaborated a notion of being as

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beyond consciousness, in other passages he speaks of being as connected to and determined by consciousness. Thus, he writes, “where there is recognition—there is also being [Seyn],” and again, “where there is a being [Seyn], so there must also be a recognition [Erkennen]” (NS 2, 248, no. 462; 249, no. 463). Being, then, seems to be distinct from mere being and involves consciousness and determination.36 Let us take a closer look at the terms Novalis is employing. On the one hand, he posits “mere essence” or “mere being,” and, on the other, he speaks of “being” and “reality.” Being and reality include difference, negation, nonbeing, and consciousness, while “mere essence” and “mere being” (or “chaos,” as Novalis puts it at the beginning of his notes) do not. If this difference is considered in light of Novalis’s claim that “nothing in the world is merely,” it would seem that the difference he is drawing is not between an existential or ontological “mere being” that precedes presentation and grounds all that is, and a “being” or an “active essence” that is presentable and grounded on the original “mere” ground. Rather, he appears to be saying that “mere being” is purely apparent, but in fact it is not real—it has no ontological reality. Mere being is not being—it is not what is in the world, it is not that which constitutes and underlies reality.37 There is no mere being, or, “nothing in the world is merely.” With this in mind, we can return to Novalis’s statement that the presentation of simple identity is an illusion (Scheinsatz). It could be interpreted to mean not that simple identity (pure being) is beyond presentation, but that there is no such thing as simple identity—for “being does not express identity” (NS 2, 247, no. 454). The problem then is not with the presentation of identity, but with the very claim that what is, the foundation of all reality, is simple identity. Thus, Novalis seems to be saying not only that the presentation of such a simple identity is impossible, but also that being itself is not (and thus cannot express) simple identity. To speak of simple identity is not to speak of being or of reality, but to speak in formal, logical terms. That being is not simple identity, but involves difference and opposition—mediation—is expressed throughout the Fichte-Studien.38 “All being,” Novalis writes, “is nothing other than free-being [Freyseyn]—oscillation between extremes, which it is necessary to unify and to separate. Out of this light-point of oscillation, pours all of reality—in it everything is contained—object and subject are through it, not it through them [Aus diesem Lichtpunct des Schwebens strömt alle Realität aus—in ihm ist alles enthalten—Obj[ect] und Subject sind durch ihn, nicht er d[urch] sie]” (NS 2, 286, no. 555; emphasis added ). Or, “all reality is mediated. No thing can af-



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fect another thing immediately, rather only mediately through appearance, activity or passivity, in a common sphere [Alle Wircksamkeit ist mittelbar. Kein Ding kann auf das Andre unmittelbar, Ding zu Ding wirken, sondern nur mittelbar durch Erscheinung, Thätigkeit oder Leiden, in einer gemeinschaftlichen Sfäre]” (NS 2, 279, no. 604). Reality, being, is therefore the sphere of mediation, the “common sphere” of activity and passivity, a point of oscillation in which extremes are mediated. What this means is that reality, as the common sphere of mediation, is nothing outside of the mediations. In turn, this sphere of mediation is the sphere of being. Thus, being is this reality, not something outside of it. Finally, all things—subject and object—are within this sphere. Being is not an outcome of the subject’s self-determination; rather, the subject is within being. Novalis describes the relation between being (as the ground of reality) and beings (as things in the world) in one telling passage: “The whole rests more or less like persons playing, who without a chair, merely sit one on the knee of another and form a circle [Das Ganze ruht ohngefähr—wie die spielenden Personen, die sich ohne Stuhl, bloß Eine auf der andern Knie kreis­ förmig hinsetzen]” (NS 2, 242, no. 445). The whole is a groundless ground, a circle composed of individuals seated not on a ground (a chair) but on each other’s knees. Thus, the whole is neither something that precedes the individuals, nor is it something independent of them. Rather, insofar as it is the circle formed through the individuals sitting on one another’s knees, it is realized in the activity of the individual parts. Thus, he writes, “in order to be realized [realisirt zu werden],” the whole, “must apply itself to the particular—i.e., appear in the particular” (NS 2, 291, no. 651). This could be interpreted to explain what Novalis means when he claims that being involves nonbeing: what is (reality) is not something pure or immediate, but the mediation between the whole and the part, the appearing or realization of the whole within or through the activity of the parts. Being—as that which appears in the parts—always involves relation, determination, and difference. Being should therefore be understood not in isolation from the parts (beyond or outside of reality) nor as an outcome or result of the parts; rather, being is only in its appearance in the parts. From this it is clear how Novalis’s conception of being in the FichteStudien implies a notion of the absolute as the immanent ground of all that is—of both being and consciousness—and of their inherent relation. It is not a static object or an unknown entity beyond determination, but is the ground that enables determination and the determined object. There is no separation between the two—there is no undetermined being that is

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opposed to a determined object, for the object participates in being and, thus, being is in every object. However, being is also not limited to any one object, but underlies all objects and enables their very objectivity. It is itself not an object, but appears (or is) in every object. In this way, being is the absolute mediation—or, in Novalis’s words, the “absolute relation.” It is not a thing, but that which mediates, relates, and determines things.

1.3 The Possibility of Philosophy With this in mind, we can return to the question of knowledge and the possibility of philosophy. “Philosophy,” Novalis writes, “should contain the general of all particulars [das Allgemeine alles Besondern enthalten]—it goes from particular to general” (NS 2, 192, no. 272). In other words, the object of philosophy is to understand the relation between the general and the particular and to see not only how the particular is part of the general but also how the general is manifest in the particular. It is on account of this that Novalis emphasizes that philosophy—which has been traditionally concerned with the general—should incorporate poetry, which is concerned with the particular. By incorporating both perspectives, he explains, philosophy would be better able to determine the relation between general and particular, whole and part.39 The aim is to grasp the general in the particular, and the particular in the general, such that one can better understand the relation between the part and the whole and perceive the various parts in relation to one another and as manifestations of the whole. The general, after all, is never merely—being is not simple identity. Rather, it is always determined, presented, manifest in the world, in the particular. Novalis identifies philosophy as striving after a ground and elaborates that this ground should not be thought of as a first principle, or an uncaused cause. Rather, the ground is characterized by a “relation with the whole [Zusammenhang mit dem Ganzen].” One can achieve knowledge of this ground because the whole is effective and active in every part: “in every moment, in every appearance the whole is effective [in jendem Augenblicke, in jeder Erscheinung wirckt das Ganze]” (NS 2, 249, no. 566).40 Thus, in contrast to both Kant and Fichte, Novalis’s concept of a ground cannot be interpreted as an unconditioned first principle, an absolute beginning. Rather, throughout the Fichte-Studien, as well as in the later writings, Novalis criticizes the notion of an absolute, unconditioned beginning.41 Thus, in the Fichte-Studien, he unequivocally states that “the highest first principle [der oberste Grundsatz]” is a “hypothetical claim [hypothestischer



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Satz]” (NS 2, 177, no. 234).42 This is in turn coupled with his critique of the I or self as the absolute ground. In both cases, the critique is of an original, unconditioned ground that lies outside of but nonetheless conditions reality. As he puts it in the Allgemeine Brouillon, the beginning is already a “later concept.”43 Thus, the goal of philosophy is, Novalis contends, not to determine an unconditioned ground or first principle, but to grasp being as reality—or, as he states toward the beginning of the Fichte-Studien, the goal of philosophy is life.44 What this means is that striving after the ground does not imply striving after an undetermined being that is beyond consciousness and outside of presentation, a being that does not appear. It implies the opposite: the whole appears in every moment, and it is this appearing of the whole that concerns philosophy. “Every science arises,” Novalis writes, “out of the appearance [Erscheinung] of the I in a determined sphere,” and again, he notes, “in order to know something, I must observe it, as appearance [Erscheinung]” (NS 2, 296, no. 666, emphasis added; 279, no. 605, emphasis added). That the whole appears in a “determined sphere,” that is, in the particular, means that philosophy as a science must find the whole in the part, and must thus procced from observing the particular (the appearance) to recognizing the whole within it (the appearing).45 Although Novalis does not elaborate these views in the Fichte-Studien, they anticipate his later claim that knowledge must emerge from and be in concert with careful empirical observation. Already at this stage, however, it is clear that for Novalis, philosophy can no longer be limited to the sphere of logic or transcendental philosophy (i.e., with the conditions of thought or reality as constructed by thought) but must also concern itself with the particular that is given to the senses. This view becomes a cornerstone of Novalis’s methodology and a defining feature of his critique of transcendental philosophy.

1.4 Moral Action in the Fichte-Studien According to Novalis, knowledge, truth, and illusion are concerns of both epistemological inquiry and moral theory. Thus, he maintains that illusion is connected to “self-contradiction” and elaborates two kinds of selfcontradiction.46 The first kind concerns epistemology, wherein something appears to contradict itself because we are unable to perceive it correctly. Self-contradiction in a thing arises “insofar as one breaks it up into its parts, which is what one is forced to do through reflection” (NS 2, 267, no. 556). When we rely on reflection, what Novalis also terms the “common understanding,”

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what we grasp is not the reality of the thing but an illusion (NS 2, 266, no. 555). The second instance in which self-contradiction is relevant is within the moral sphere. In this case, a person contradicts herself when she is not acting in accordance with her nature (NS 2, 271, no. 567). Novalis writes, “The I appears to stand in contradiction, when one does not know the nature of its effectivity, the activity of its productive imagination” (NS 2, 266, no. 566) and again states that “the human being contradicts himself. He does not contradict himself [however] when he acts in accordance with his nature” (NS 2, 271, no. 567).47 Evil, Novalis continues, is nothing other than the “eternal contradiction with oneself” (NS 2, 271, no. 567). Although much of the scholarship on the Fichte-Studien focuses on the epistemological sense of illusion, it is the second (moral) sense that occupies more of Novalis’s attention in both these early notes and his later writings. Furthermore, for Novalis, the epistemological and the moral can never be fully separated. Rather, moral activity involves the transformation of the relation between the inner and the outer worlds. Therefore, moral activity in some sense participates in epistemological activity. The self, Novalis maintains, is essentially moral. “Morality must be the core of our being” (NS 2, 266–67, no. 556). As such, he goes on, “the highest philosophy is ethics. For this reason, all philosophy begins with the I am” (NS 2, 267, no. 556). The Fichtean background of Novalis’s conception of the self as essentially active and moral cannot be missed. Novalis himself acknowledges this: “Fichtean philosophy,” he writes, “is a demand to selfactivity—I cannot explain anything to anyone from the ground up, I can only lead him to himself” (NS 2, 271, no. 567). However, in spite of his proximity to Fichte, Novalis is also aware of their differences. Thus, he remarks that “Spinoza arrived at nature—Fichte to the I, or the Person. I to God” (NS 2, 157, no. 151). In turn, moral activity for Novalis always implies activity in the empirical world—the world in which the self “live[s], weave[s], and become[s].” The goal of the self, he writes, is the “realization of being. Its striving is to always be more” (NS 2, 249, no. 462). The “realization of being,” it is important to emphasize, implies not only self-actualization but also the development of a stronger relationship between the self and the world or nature. Thus, Novalis maintains that “our inner world must thoroughly correspond [correspondiren] to the outer world” (NS 2, 293, no. 653). He emphasizes that “we must try to create an inner world for ourselves, which is actually an equivalent [Pendant] to the outer world” (NS 2, 287, no. 647). This is only possible, he claims, because nature and the self “are one essence—only conversely [umgekehrt].



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They correspond in the most exact way [aufs genaueste].” Novalis attempts to demonstrate what this means through images: “Pictorially, they [the self and nature] are like two pyramids, which have the same apex. They are like one line. Here is the image of nature—there the image of the I” (NS 2, 157, no. 153). While Novalis recognizes that the inner and outer worlds are distinct, he sees it as the goal of moral activity to overcome this opposition and to create harmony—correspondence—between the two.48 However, the exact sense in which the self must “realize being” and thus achieve a harmony or correspondence between self and nature remains unexplored in the FichteStudien. Nevertheless, already in the Fichte-Studien it is clear that Novalis transforms the aims of knowledge and the question of illusion into a matter of activity and moral transformation. Moral activity is a central theme because it is through realizing the moral ideal that the duality between self and world can be overcome and a relation of harmony achieved.49 The freer we are, Novalis writes, the closer we are to the “thoroughly pure, simple essence of our I.” Because this essence is infinite, we cannot achieve it “within time.” Nevertheless, he continues, “since we are also in a sphere outside of time, it follows that we achieve it in every moment” (NS 2, 288, no. 647). The free activity of the I, therefore, should not be confused with what is usually understood by activity. Thus, Novalis writes, “One usually thinks of fact or activity as something in time already passed. The fact of which we are speaking here however must be understood as purely spiritual [rein geistig]—not individual, not temporal—quasi as a moment, which grasps the eternal universe in itself—in which we live, weave, and are—an infinite fact [Factum], which takes place completely in every moment—identical eternal effecting genius—I-being [Ichseyn]” (NS 2, 267, no. 556). The activity of which he is speaking instantiates the eternal self (the moral, free self) in the world. In this activity, the self attains to its “pure, simple essence,” as opposed to its everyday self. It becomes “I-being.” Or, as Novalis puts it elsewhere, “in every moment, where we act freely, there is a triumph of the infinite I over the finite” (NS 2, 269, no. 564). It would be wrong to assume, however, that Novalis completely forgoes the temporal world. Rather, for Novalis, the goal is precisely to bring the eternal into the temporal through moral activity. In this vein he explains that “golden times could appear—but they do not bring the end of things—the goal of humanity is not the golden time—it should exist eternally and be and remain a beautiful, ordered individual—that is the tendency of its nature” (NS 2, 269, no. 556).50 The goal of humanity, then, is to strive to achieve greater freedom and realize this freedom in oneself and in the world—a task which

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is inherently infinite. “The world will become to the living evermore infinite,” Novalis writes (NS 2, 269, no. 565). Nevertheless, every moment in which the human being acts freely—morally—he or she is doing nothing less than realizing the eternal in the temporal. Thus, the golden time will never be fully attained, though it can be achieved in every free act.

1.5 The Work of Art in the Fichte-Studien In the same way that Novalis inherits Fichte’s understanding of the self as essentially moral so, in the Fichte-Studien at least, he adopts Fichte’s conception of the work of art as well.51 Like Fichte, Novalis begins his consideration of the artwork within the context of free activity. Also like Fichte, he identifies the work of art as the freest activity. “Presentation, for the sake of presentation is a free presentation,” he writes quoting Fichte almost verbatim.52 What this means, he continues, is that “not the object as such, but the I, as the ground of activity, determines the activity. In this way, the work of art achieves a free, self-standing, idealistic character . . . for it is the visible product of the I” (NS 2, 282, no. 633). Novalis is making two important points here. First, art, as presentation for the sake of presentation, has no ulterior motive, is not motivated or determined by anything other than presentation, and is thus free. This means that presentation is not about the object presented (in this sense it is nonrepresentational). Rather, as “presentation for the sake of presentation,” the presentation concerns the very activity of presentation. This implies that the artwork must be understood as a presentation of the activity of presentation, created for the sake of presentation alone. In other words, what is being presented is the activity of presentation, the activity of the I. The artwork, then, is nothing but a manifestation of free activity.53 If we think of this in terms of Novalis’s understanding of moral activity, then it follows that, first, artistic activity is moral activity, because it enables the I to realize itself. Second, this implies that the work of art as a presentation of the free activity of the I—as a presentation of the I’s capacity to grasp the eternal—is a presentation of the eternal within the temporal (within an object). Thus, Novalis emphasizes that the artwork must be understood as a “product of the I” and not as a mere object (NS 2, 282, no. 633). Furthermore, Novalis maintains that art is essential for the development of the self. Through the practice of art, the self “becomes more determined and stronger.” This is because, as he puts it, “art is: the development of our activity [Wircksamkeit]—will in a particular way—adequate to an idea—activity [Wircken] and will are here one. Only art develops the



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regular exercise of our activity, through which it becomes more determined and stronger” (NS 2, 284, no. 639). Thus, it is from within the context of moral activity, and the realization of this activity, that Novalis turns to art. What distinguishes art is that it is “presentation for the sake of presentation.” This means that art is the truly free activity, and its product—the work of art—is a presentation of the free self. It is important to emphasize this because in the recent literature (from Frank onward) Novalis’s conception of the work of art has been interpreted as incapable of providing any disclosure of the self or the absolute (the self as free or moral). Thus, Loheide paradoxically claims that art is both the “sensualization of the moral” and, following Frank, the presentation of the “ordo inversus,” which is to say, the presentation of the unpresentability of the absolute.54 What art presents, according to Loheide, is not only the free self, but also the inversion that results from self-intuition. This closely follows Herbert Uerlings’s interpretation of Novalis’s conception of art, which he calls a “narrative construction of immanent transcendence.” According to Uerlings, what is presented in the artwork is merely “fictional” (Schein as opposed to Seyn) and does not lay claim to “verifiability or realizability.”55 For both of these authors, Novalis’s notion of art involves a presentation not of that which is otherwise unpresentable (the eternal, absolute), but of unpresentability itself, of (as Loheide puts it) the “fictionality of presentation.”56 There are two serious difficulties with this interpretation. The first is that the ordo inversus plays no role in Novalis’s conception of art. Novalis simply does not bring up ordo inversus (which, it should be noted, is only mentioned in a few sections toward the beginning of the Fichte-Studien) in relation to the work of art. The second difficulty has to do with the fact that these interpreters want, on the one hand, to grant the work of art a special status, yet, on the other hand, to claim that it can do nothing more than what is achieved in (what they consider to be the result of) self-intuition: the presentation of unpresentability or the ordo inversus. Frank’s reading—as the source of this interpretation—suffers from the same paradox. In the first instance, he grants the work of art a special status, claiming that “only the inexpressible sensible [unausdeutbare Sinnfülle] of the work of art can positively illustrate that which does not permit a solution in knowledge. Thus the work of art becomes the only possible ‘presentation of the unpresentable.’ ”57 Yet he concludes his chapter on Novalis in Einführung with the claim that “the ‘limitations of feeling,’ which Novalis identified with the limitations of philosophy, are nowhere transgressed.”58 If it is truly the case that the limitations of philosophy are never

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transgressed—not even in the work of art—then Frank cannot maintain that the work of art is able to “present the unpresentable.” Another significant difficulty with this interpretation concerns the meaning and role of the work of art in the Fichte-Studien. The proximity of Novalis’s understanding of the artwork to Fichte’s has two major implications. It implies, first, that at this early stage, Novalis is still working within a Fichtean paradigm. Thus, to speak of a unique understanding of the artwork at this point in Novalis’s development is misleading. Not only is Novalis clearly working with the basic Fichtean ideas of self as activity and as primarily moral, but he is also locating the work of art within the context of free activity and appropriating Fichte’s conception of the work of art. Second, the very fact that he is identifying the work of art in the same way that Fichte does indicates nothing like a rejection of philosophical speculation, as has been often argued.59 There is, therefore, no reason to assume that Novalis “turns” to the work of art in order to provide a nonphilosophical solution to philosophical problems. Rather, as is clear from his continuing interest in philosophical and systematic knowledge—from the fact that he attempted to undertake an “encyclopedia” of all the arts and sciences— Novalis did not forgo philosophy for art, nor did he wish to replace philosophical speculation with artistic creativity. Ultimately, his claims in the Fichte-Studien do not amount to a rejection of philosophy. Instead, Novalis provides an assessment of philosophical methodology and a consideration of a different way of doing philosophy—wherein philosophy is concerned not merely with the general but also with the poetic particular. Although he does not explicate the meaning and implication of this poetically inspired philosophy, it is clear that for Novalis, philosophy and poetry are not mutually exclusive. In addition, as Novalis goes on to elaborate, what is needed in philosophy is a poetic or creative impulse that mirrors nature’s creativity. It is only through this impulse, he argues, that one can capture the living, dynamic, and transforming character of the natural world.60

1.6 Questions Rather than Answers Although the Fichte-Studien provide a starting point from which one can begin to see the direction Novalis wishes to take, the notes are by no means a fully elaborated philosophical worldview. Thus, while Novalis provides some explanations of what he means by being, most explicitly in his description of being as an “absolute relation” and as a groundless circle, his understanding of being and its relation to consciousness remains, in the end, an unanswered question. One can surmise, however, that for Novalis “mere



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being” is an illusory statement (Scheinsatz), because it refers not to reality, but to an unjustified (and impossible) philosophical goal: an unconditioned principle or ground of knowledge. In the Fichte-Studien, however, Novalis does not make this explicit. Thus, although the notion of being as relation proximates Novalis’s later view of being and emphasis on relationality, on the basis of the Fichte-Studien alone, one cannot arrive at a conclusive understanding of Novalis’s conception of being. Similarly, while Novalis makes interesting comments regarding the relation between self and world, describing it, for instance, as a relation of “correspondence,” the meaning of this correspondence is not elaborated. On the one hand, he appears to be claiming that the correspondence refers to an original unity between self and world; on the other hand, he speaks of the need to realize this correspondence through moral activity. However, even if Novalis’s conception of correspondence were more clearly drawn out, several questions would remain: How does it relate to his claim that consciousness is an “image” of being and thus an inversion of it (“ordo inversus”)? What role, if any, does the work of art play in this correspondence? In the Fichte-Studien, Novalis provides no answers. Finally, Novalis’s conceptions of the work of art and artistic activity remain in the Fichte-Studien too closely connected to Fichte’s and thus grant no definitive understanding of Novalis’s interest in, or turn toward, art. In his later writings, Novalis attempts to answer these questions by working through his notion of being as mediation and elaborating the meaning of the relation between the human being and the world. In these later works, the idea of “mere being” and the notion of an “ordo inversus” are nowhere to be found. Similarly, the question of self-consciousness or self-presentation is no longer at the forefront of Novalis’s thought, but is replaced by a concern for the relation between the self and the world, the self and others. Beginning with his 1797 Hemsterhuis-Studien, relationality becomes Novalis’s central concern—relationality between the human being and the world and relationality within the social and political spheres. In his 1798 encyclopedia project, he expands his interest in relationality to encompass the unity of the arts and sciences.61 Furthermore, through his conception of education (Bildung) and his idea of romanticization, Novalis attempts to respond to the question concerning the human relation to (and responsibility toward) the world. For Novalis, the human being and the world are not in a relation of original harmony; rather, he comes to claim that we are in a relation of potential harmony with the world—a potentiality, however, which we must strive to actualize.

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Finally, although Novalis retains some of the insights of the FichteStudien, he goes on to revise his understanding of them. Thus, while he continues to emphasize morality, he no longer understands it solely in terms of self-activity. Morality also concerns relations with others and the ways in which one is affected by and affects others.62 Similarly, while he continues to emphasize the significance of art and artistic sensibility, he develops a different understanding of the work of art. The work of art is no longer presentation for the sake of presentation, but an expansion upon and continuation of the work of nature—what he calls the “elevating” or “raising” activity of romanticizing. The Fichte-Studien provide indications of the direction of Novalis’s thought and of the questions he poses to Fichte and transcendental philosophy in general. His understanding of being as mediation and his emphasis on relationality (relations between human beings, relations between human beings and nature, and relations in knowledge), which are already suggested in this early writing, become central aspects of his understanding of the absolute. In fact, Novalis’s understanding of the absolute as inherently relational can be gleaned in his notion of being as elaborated in the FichteStudien. However, although the Fichte-Studien contain the seeds for many of these later ideas, the notes do not provide adequate responses to the questions they raise, nor do they offer a comprehensive account of Novalis’s philosophical goals. What I have tried to illustrate is that in reading the Fichte-Studien, we can begin to see Novalis’s questions and concerns, without, however, arriving at any conclusive answers.

chapter two

Beyond the Subjective Self: Hemsterhuis, Kant, and the Question of the Whole

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hatever Novalis’s critique of Fichte in the Fichte-Studien may be, he clearly agreed with one of Fichte’s central ideas, namely, that the the free self is the moral self. Thus, Novalis states that “to act freely and to act morally are one,” adding that “morality must be the kernel of our being. . . . The highest philosophy is ethics. For this reason all philosophy begins with I am” (NS 2, 147, no. 87; NS 2, 267, no. 556). Like Fichte, Novalis distinguishes the everyday self and the higher (practical) self, which he calls the “actual ground-I” or “the being of the I [Ichseyn]” and identifies with genius (NS 2, 294, no. 659; and NS 2, 267, no. 556). In the year following the writing of the Fichte-Studien, Novalis studied the philosopher Franz Hemsterhuis and returned to Kant. In his notes on Hemsterhuis and Kant, Novalis’s emphasis on self-activity and morality is evident. In fact, this interest may be what attracted Novalis to Hemsterhuis and led him to reread Kant.1 In the following, I examine Novalis’s reception of both Hemsterhuis and Kant and consider the ways in which his reading of these thinkers influenced the development of his understanding of the self as essentially moral.

2.1 The Hemsterhuis-Studien Franz Hemsterhuis (1721–1790) was a neo-Platonist Dutch philosopher whose principal work, Lettre sur l’homme et ses rapports (Letter on Man and His Relations; 1772), was widely read in Germany in the late eighteenth century.2 In it, he articulates his notion of a “moral organ” through which human beings are able to relate both to the divine and to other human beings. The notion of a moral organ, particularly one through which human

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beings can relate to one another, became particularly significant for Novalis and ultimately led him away from his earlier Fichtean conception of morality. However, as has been thoroughly documented by Hans-Joachim Mähl, Novalis did not simply adopt Hemsterhuis’s ideas, but engaged with them critically. Thus, in his various citations of the Dutch philosopher, Novalis often altered the passages to suit his own interests.3 For instance, Novalis reinterprets Hemsterhuis’s distinction between the “spirit and letter” of philosophy along Fichtean lines.4 That Fichte plays a significant role in Novalis’s reception of Hemsterhuis is also evident in Novalis’s understanding of the relation between the self and the world. In contrast to Hemsterhuis’s passive, receptive conception of the self and its relation to the divine—a conception Herder had already criticized as self-destructive—Novalis claims that the self is active, and maintains an emphasis on this active element throughout the notes.5 Thus, in the Fichte-Studien he had described Fichtean philosophy as a “demand to self-activity” and elaborated that, in philosophy, “I cannot explain anything to anyone from the ground up, I can only lead him to himself” (NS 2, 271, no. 567). Similarly, here Novalis writes that “to arrive at truth, all we can do is bring someone to the right path, or better, give him a particular path to truth. He must then from himself, if he is ambitious, arrive at the truth” (NS 2, 373–74, no. 35). However, in spite of this difference, there is a clear affinity between Novalis and Hemsterhuis, an affinity that leads Novalis to write some years later that “Hemsterhuis’s expectations of a moral organ are truly prophetic” (NS 2, 562, no. 179). Furthermore, Novalis’s reception of Hemsterhuis coincides with a distancing from Fichte. In June 1797, Novalis writes to Friedrich Schlegel that “Fichte cannot come out of the Wissenschaftslehre, at least without an internal shift [Selbstversetzung], which appears impossible to me” (NS 4, 230). What Novalis finds in Hemsterhuis, and what he could not find in Fichte, was a way to think of the relational character of the self—in a political and moral context, and in a scientific context (the self in relation to the natural world). Furthermore, it is in his notes on Hemsterhuis that Novalis introduces the idea of an organized body of knowledge that seeks to overcome the divisions of the disciplines. This idea is the seed for what will become Novalis’s encylopedia project, the Allgemeine Brouillon. In addition, it is in the Hemsterhuis-Studien that Novalis begins to develop a conception of the organic, which reappears throughout his work, most strikingly in the Kant-Studien, where he distinguishes between the “mere aggregate” and the “true whole.”



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The most significant difference between the Novalis of the FichteStudien and the Novalis of the Hemsterhuis-Studien, however, has to do with an emphasis on the relational dimension of moral experience. Although already in the Fichte-Studien Novalis had begun to think about the relational character of moral activity, he did not thematize or elaborate this conception, but instead focused on the free character of moral acts. In his reading of Hemsterhuis, Novalis found and began to develop a more complete account of the meaning and variety of moral experience.6 Morality does not only involve self-activity and freedom, but also encompasses the self’s relation to others and the ways in which the self can be affected by and affect others.7 As far as I can tell, it is in his notes on Hemsterhuis that Novalis first mentions the idea of a “world-all [Weltall],” writing that “the moral side of the world-all is more unknown and immeasurable than the heavens” (NS 2, 369, no. 29) and speaking of the “discovery of the laws of the worldall” (NS 2, 367, no. 27; see also NS 2, 369, no. 30; NS 2, 372, no. 32). Many of Novalis’s notations on Hemsterhuis reveal an expanded sense of the moral, emphasizing the self’s relation to others and its place in the world (whether in the state, in the community, or in nature). He either quotes Hemsterhuis on these matters or makes note of ideas, such as the state (Staat), community and communal existence (gemeinschaftliche Existenz) (NS 2, 361–62, no. 20), the relation between individual and state (NS 2, 365, no. 27), slavery, political virtue, the spirit of the political and the moral (NS 2, 368, no. 28), revolutionary and progressive ideas (NS 2, 369, no. 28), the beautiful society (NS 2, 372, no. 32), and the duties that human beings have toward one another (NS 2, 371, no. 31). Through Hemsterhuis, it seems, Novalis begins to develop a communal consciousness. His concern is not only free activity, but also the way in which an individual affects and is affected by others and lives in the world. Therefore, in addition to the active element, morality involves what Novalis calls a “coactive” element. He writes, “The moral principle—that is passive [leidend] and active. /pathetic and sympathetic—active and coactive./ It is active when it identifies with its I, judges itself in itself—self-responsibility etc.—It is coactive, when it identifies with the I of another, arranges the activity of its own I to be in accord with this—and to be judged in accordance with this principle—Responsibility toward others” (NS 2, 371, no. 31). Coactivity does not involve the sense of passivity usually associated with self-feeling in the Fichte-Studien. Rather, it is a socially minded conception of feeling and being with others. Novalis’s interest in human relations and the way in which humans

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affect one another—the affective element of social interaction and being with one another—is coupled with the desire to unify knowledge and overcome disciplinary divides. Throughout the notes, he quotes Hemsterhuis on the “coexistence of ideas” and identifies it with a special capacity or intelligence. “The most complete intelligence would be able to bring forth a complete coexistence of several or all the ideas” (NS 2, 364, no. 23). What is necessary for accomplishing this task, Novalis explains, is an underlying idea that unifies and thus organizes the various parts. He writes, “Ordering in general is the distribution of things according to an idea of a determined whole. . . . Neither order nor disorder is there, where there is no such idea” (NS 2, 370, no. 30). The idea of organized knowledge leads Novalis to consider the meaning of organization and of the organic whole, a theme which he also discusses in the Kant-Studien. In the Hemsterhuis-Studien, he explains that only something with a “goal,” and therefore an “ideal,” can be understood as organic. “Organization,” he continues, “is a driving force of the parts.” In other words, it is the “thought which precedes the real” and thus connects and underlies all the parts (NS 2, 370, no. 30).8 To a certain extent, it seems odd that Novalis’s reception of Hemsterhuis comes down to, on the one hand, a moral interest in the meaning of community and human relations and, on the other hand, a scientific interest in the way in which knowledge should be organized and the meaning of the organic. What binds these themes together, though, is precisely the fact that they have to do with harmony and community. However, unlike Hemsterhuis, who puts forth a passive conception of harmony (for Hemsterhuis, as Novalis writes toward the end of the notes, we must simply be “satisfied” with what we are given in the world), Novalis’s understanding of harmony involves activity. We must work toward creating harmony—on the social-political level, as well as in the sciences and in our relation to and understanding of nature. What does this involve? Morality, Novalis writes, is an art (“Moralische Künste”) (NS 2, 369, no. 29). However, it should not be separated from “higher physics,” or metaphysics. The two, art and philosophy, must work together for the creation of the beautiful society. He writes, “When philosophy, through the formation of the outer whole, or through establishing laws, makes the complete [vollkommene] poetry possible, poetry achieves its goal, through which it first acquires meaning and a charming life—for poetry forms the beautiful society, or the inner whole—the world-family—the beautiful household of the universe” (NS 2, 372, no. 32). In other words, while philosophy provides



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the laws and the basis of society, it is poetry that can bring harmony and order to society—make it into an “inner whole.” It is only in poetry that the relations among the parts achieve their highest, most complete and harmonious, actualization. “Through poetry the highest sympathy and co-activity, the most intimate, greatest community is actual” (NS 2, 373, no. 32).9 Similarly, Novalis writes that the separation of the sciences is due to a “deficiency in genius” (NS 2, 368, no. 27). Only genius can grasp the idea that underlies and unifies the divided parts, because genius has imagination.10 Only through the imagination, he continues, can one bring “a distant object next to a present one . . . and thus [establish] a coexistence” (NS 2, 363, no. 23). Novalis thus grants to the arts and to the active or productive imagination the role of bringing about or establishing harmony. In this new conception of the meaning and place of art and its relation to morality and the sciences, we see the beginning of Novalis’s own, unique understanding of artistic activity and the work of art. It is not that art or the poetic imagination should override philosophical thinking or science—rather, art should be integrated into both, as a way by which to achieve harmony in the world as well as in thought. Although his notes on Hemsterhuis are brief, in them one can locate the origins of many of Novalis’s central ideas in the years that follow. However, as discussed above, Novalis’s appropriation of Hemsterhuis’s ideas is coupled with his emphasis on individual, free activity. Thus, while for Hemsterhuis harmony is given, for Novalis, it must be realized. Transformative activity, self-development, and Bildung become central concerns in Novalis’s later works. How can individuals transform themselves and the world? What does transformation involve, and how can it be done authentically? And how does it relate to Hemsterhuis’s idea of a preestablished harmony? These ideas, which resound throughout his writings from 1798 onward, become central for his understanding of the absolute as inherently relational and developmental. The idea of development or transformation—through moral and political education, through knowledge and artistic creativity— is essential both in Novalis’s understanding of the self and in his understanding of the self’s relation to others and to the natural world. In turn, the absolute—as the ground and realization of this relation—is itself in a state of continuous transformation or development. The significance of Bildung is affirmed in a letter Novalis composes to A. W. Schlegel shortly after completing his studies of Hemsterhuis. In it, he insists that it is only through

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Bildung that one can achieve love—the highest moral virtue—for “Bildung is the steady point, through which this spiritual power of attraction [i.e., love] reveals itself—[Bildung is] the necessary organ for it” (NS 4, 224).

2.2 The Kant-Studien Novalis seems to have read Kant alongside or directly following his reading of Hemsterhuis.11 There are several indicators for this, not only on the philological level, but also in terms of content. Many of the key ideas in the Kant-Studien are directly related to ideas which can be found in the Hemsterhuis-Studien. At times Novalis even writes the same thought in both studies, with only slight modifcation. In the same way that in the Hemsterhuis-Studien Novalis identifies knowing with making, so in the Kant-Studien, he writes that “we know it only insofar as we realize it” (NS 2, 386, no. 44). Similarly, just as he writes in the Hemsterhuis-Studien that “object and idea or intuition are in mathematics one” (NS 2, 368, no. 27), so in the Kant-Studien, Novalis invokes mathematical intuition and construction (NS 2, 390, no. 46). The importance of the relation between poetry and morality is also brought up in the KantStudien, wherein Novalis asks whether the “practical and poetic are one” (NS 2, 390, no. 45). In both texts, Novalis’s primary concern seems to be the practical or moral nature of the human being, and the place of the human being in the world and in relation to others. The Kant-Studien consist in notes on the preface and introduction to the first Critique, the Metaphysics of Morals, and the Metaphysical Foundations of Natural Science, as well as notes on Kant’s reply to Samuel Thomas Sömmering on the “seat of the soul.”12 In this obscure text, Kant responds to the question as to whether the soul can have a “place” in the world. His response is that to be in a place, the soul would have to be perceived through outer sense. However, “the soul can only perceive via inner sense . . . ; hence it can determine absolutely no place for itself.”13 The question of the soul’s “place” in the world, and of the various ways by which the soul can know and sense others is the central question of the Kant-Studien. In light of his study of Hemsterhuis, this seems natural. In his consideration of Kantian philosophy, Novalis returns time and again to considering the means by which human beings can affect and be affected by others. He writes, Concept of sense. According to Kant, pure mathematics and pure natural science refer to the forms of outer sensibility—which science refers to the forms of inner sensibility?

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Is there supersensible knowledge? Is there yet another way open, to go out of oneself and to reach to other beings or be affected by them? (NS 2, 390, no. 46)

While the passage contains many relevant points and questions, the one which most directly concerns us at this time is the moral question: Is the soul “in the world” in such a way that it can enter into an affective relation with others? For Kant, Novalis realized, there is no such way. However, this seems deeply problematic. If there is no way by which the soul can go out of itself and be affected by and affect others, then can we speak of a genuine morality? Novalis begins to engage critically with Kant when he elaborates the difference between Kantian and earlier philosophies. While Kant located the “stable, stationary [ruhend], moral-giving power a priori in us—the older philosophies posited it outside us.” Thus, Novalis continues, the result of Kant’s Copernican revolution for morality consists in positing the earth (as the I) as the center, around which the heavens (the world) rotated. Yet Novalis asks, “should there not also be in philosophy a heaven, i.e., an infinite concept of system potencies? [U]nder steadfast presuppositions of an infinite central body—which is nothing other than the heaven itself—in which we live, weave and are [leben, weben und sind]” (NS 2, 391, no. 48; emphasis added). In other words, having established the centrality of the earth (the I), shouldn’t philosophy now concern itself with the heavens, the world in which the I lives and is, the world in which one weaves relations with others? The problem with Kantian (and by extension Fichtean) philosophy is precisely that it does not understand the I within the world. Thus, Kant’s response to Sömmering that metaphysics cannot concern itself with idea of a “seat of the soul” was, for Novalis, unsatisfactory. If the soul is as unworldly as Kant made it out to be, then how can the soul be thought of as a moral agent? This is the criticism that Novalis levels against Kant in a set of notes written around the same time as the Kant-Studien. Novalis emphatically writes that “everything absolute must be ostracized from out of the world. In the world one must live with the world. One only lives, when one lives in the sense of those humans with whom one lives” (NS 2, 395, no. 55). This statement, which is favored by contemporary interpreters of Novalis, is often taken to be Novalis’s critique of the idea of an absolute or first principle and used to justify reading Novalis as a good Kantian.14 While the first aspect of this interpretation is right, the second is highly suspect. Novalis’s conception of the absolute in this sense is of a moral absolute,

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in other words, a categorical imperative that is, as he writes in the KantStudien, “mere theory” lacking experience (NS 2, 391, no. 48).15 In order to be moral, Novalis is saying, one must move beyond the theoretical and abstract formalism of Kantian ethics and elaborate an ethics that is concerned with the world. Thus, Novalis’s critique is based on what he considers to be an inadequate conception of the moral—if the soul is “outside the world” and has no way by which to relate to others in the world, then how can we think of it as moral at all? It is precisely in this context that Novalis criticizes Kantian philosophy as mere scholasticism: “The whole Kantian way of philosophizing is one-sided—one could without injustice call it scholasticism” (NS 2, 392, no. 50).16 “The true scholastic,” Novalis writes a few months later in the “Logologische Fragmente,” “is a mystical subtilist. He builds a whole world out of logical atoms” (NS 2, 524, no. 13).17 Kantian philosophy, therefore, is one-sided because it is formal, unworldly, and atomistic—it does not consider the soul in the world but only as an isolated individual, outside of the world.

2.3 Concluding Remarks In his studies of Hemsterhuis and Kant, Novalis provides first responses to some of the questions left unanswered in the Fichte-Studien and begins to develop what will become some of his most central ideas. Both the world (reality) and the self are identified as inherently relational. Novalis distinguishes his view of a relational whole from a mere aggregate and introduces the ideal of a scientific organon, in which all the arts and sciences are united by an underlying idea.18 Thus, some of Novalis’s intimations in the FichteStudien regarding the nature of being and the relation between self and nature or world are now conceived in terms of an organized unity. However, even with these further elaborations, several key questions remain unanswered. First, on what basis does Novalis establish harmony and community among human beings, the various disciplines, and natural objects? What is the ontology upon which he is making his claims? That the sciences should be related to one another, and thus should represent different parts of one whole, implies that there is such a whole, or the potential for it. Though Novalis broaches this topic when he claims that an idea is what unifies the parts and makes a whole, he does not discuss it in any detail. Furthermore, if one were to grant that an original harmony exists among all beings, then the question arises as to the role of the self in relation to this harmony. Throughout his studies, Novalis does not forgo the



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Fichtean conception of self as activity, and even uses it to critique Hemsterhuis. Thus, the question is: How can Novalis maintain, on the one hand, an original harmony between all beings and, on the other hand, the need for moral activity, transformation, and striving? These questions become central for Novalis starting in 1798, when he dedicates himself to studying nature, to writing novels, and to undertaking an encyclopedia project.

chapter three

Romanticizing Nature and the Self

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eginning in 1798 Novalis’s goal was twofold. First, he wanted to develop a manner by which to find and perceive unity in the world. Second, he wanted to present this unity through artistic and scientific projects. In a letter from the end of July 1798, Friedrich Schlegel writes to Novalis that “you appear to believe that your main idea can only be communicated in a novel” (NS 4, 498), and in a fragment composed around that time, Novalis writes, “One should, in order to get to know life and himself, always write a novel on the side” (NS 2, 544, no. 97). The novel, Novalis writes in the Allgemeine Brouillon, should “include all sorts of styles, bound together, and animated by a common spirit” (NS 3, 271, no. 169). The idea of a book in which all knowledge is brought together under the umbrella of a “common spirit,” or a unifying theme, is precisely what Novalis calls his “book of all books” and often identifies as the “scientific bible” (NS 3, 363, no. 557).1 Thus, in a letter from November 7, 1798, Novalis writes to F. Schlegel, “A striking example of our inner sym-organization and sym-evolution is contained in your letter. You write about your bible project, while I am engaged in my study of science as a whole—and its body—the book—and have likewise hit upon the idea of a bible—the idea of the bible—as the ideal of each and every book” (NS 4, 263). In his 1798 publication in the Schlegel brothers’ journal, the Athenäum, Novalis begins to expound the basic premises of his project. In this collection of fragments, aptly called “Blüthenstaub” (Pollen), he elaborates a program based on the idea of education and explains that education implies not only self-education, but also the “education of the earth [Bildung der Erde].”2 This rather controversial sounding and easily misunderstood claim is at the heart of Novalis’s understanding of nature (the earth, the

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world) and the human relation to it. Through the idea of education, Novalis locates the key to unifying his Fichtean conception of moral striving and his Hemsterhuis-inspired understanding of the world as a harmonious whole. In addition, education informs his goal of writing a novel and composing an encylopedia. What Novalis sees as the significant characteristic of these works is their ability to present nature and, in this way, to bring nature to its own highest potential—to “educate” it. In the same way that Novalis thought of the education of the earth as necessary, so too he considered the education of humanity to be essential. Self-education, he declared repeatedly, was the key to achieving a higher, moral self. This, in turn, involves developing harmonious relations. “The moral law,” he writes, “now appears as the only truly great law of raising the universe to a higher degree—as the fundamental law of harmonious development” (NS 2, 381, no. 633). Novalis takes up the question of education most directly in his two novels, Heinrich von Ofterdingen (1799–1801) and Lehrlinge zu Saïs (1798– 1799), where he addresses the various paths of development and considers the meaning of knowledge. The Lehrlinge zu Saïs, which remained unfinished and was published posthumously by Novalis’s friends Friedrich Schlegel and Ludwig Tieck, invokes the ancient myth of the goddess Isis and concerns the idea of an apprenticeship in nature. The first part of the work describes events at the temple of Sais through the eyes of one novice. The second narrates the history of humanity’s relation to nature. As the title of the Lehrlinge zu Saïs (Novices at Sais) suggests, this work is concerned with development and transformation in relation to one’s understanding of nature. The first line begins with a presentiment of the meaning of education: “various are the paths of man” (NS 1, 79). Education involves development, which in turn implies choosing and taking a path. Novalis repeats this view in the concluding paragraph of the first section. Speaking of the teacher, he writes, “He wants us rather to go our own way, because every new road goes through new countries and each in the end leads anew to these dwellings, to this sacred home” (NS 1, 82). The variety of paths is emphasized in the second part of the novel, where a polyphony of voices speaking of our relation to nature is heard. However, in spite of this variety, Novalis emphasizes that all the novices are ultimately moving “to this sacred home,” “toward one place” (NS 1, 82). Furthermore, he elaborates two paths in particular, two paths, in fact, that are echoed throughout his corpus: the inward and the outward paths. The teacher in Lehrlinge takes the outward path and concerns himself

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with the natural world. Novalis describes him as able to perceive the connections in the infinite chain of nature: “Everywhere he found the familiar, only strangely mixed and coupled, and thus strange things often ordered themselves within him. Soon he became attentive to the connections that are everywhere, to meetings and encounters. It was not long before he ceased to see anything by itself” (NS 1, 80; emphasis added). The novice, by contrast, chooses the inward path. He describes his inability to go “outside of himself,” because, he writes, “everything leads me back to myself” (NS 1, 81). This difference in the two paths, however, is not final, for, as Novalis puts it in Heinrich, “Who knows the world? He who knows himself” (NS 1, 308). Thus, the inward path should be understood not as opposed to the outward path, but as its complement. Novalis’s claim is that the inner world of the self is not absolutely separated or divided from the outer world of nature. Rather, the two are “integral halves [integrante Hälften],” meaning that the self and nature are two members of the same universe. Therefore, Novalis emphatically repeats, “we will understand the world, when we understand ourselves” (NS 2, 548, no. 115). This is because “what is outside me, is precisely within me, is mine—and vice versa” (NS 3, 376, no. 617).3 Thus, the two paths, the inward and the outward, are equally valid and their final aim is the same. What distinguishes the paths is their starting-point. While the path outward begins with nature and from there seeks to find the spirit (i.e., meaning or the ideal activity that underlies nature), the inward path begins with the spirit (the activity of the I) and from there attempts to realize the self in nature. Or, as Novalis puts it in slightly different terminology, while the outward path attempts “to universalize the specific, the particular” by seeking to find the universal or ideal in every part of nature, the inward path endeavors “to individualize the universal,” in other words, to realize the moral idea in the world through individual acts. The first path moves “from nature to spirit,” while the second proceeds “from spirit to nature” (NS 3, 39–40). The two paths are integral to our humanity, and pursuing both is necessary for our development. It is only if we pursue both, Novalis maintains, that we become moral. He writes, As earthly beings, we strive for spiritual development—for the spirit as such. As heavenly, spiritual beings, we strive for earthly development—for the body as such. Only through morality do we achieve both our goals. (NS 3, 62)



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It is important to keep in mind what Novalis means by morality. On the one hand, it implies activity of the self; on the other hand, it involves harmonious relation with others. These two capacities together enable us to proceed along the outward path (the elevation of nature to spirit) and the inward path (the realization of the moral self in nature). The question is: How are these paths to be pursued and their goals realized? How can nature be spiritualized and the world be made moral? And finally, how is it possible at once to raise the world and to be in the world? In order to answer these questions, we must consider the two paths in detail. However, before doing so, it is important to note that the activity of “raising” and “lowering” is none other than what Novalis calls “romanticizing,” and which he identifies as the activity of genius. “Genius,” he writes, “is the synthesizing principle; the genius makes the impossible, possible—the possible, impossible—the unknown, known—the known, unknown, etc. In short, it is the moral—the transsubstantive principle” (NS 3, 168). On the one hand, genius seeks to transform the natural world into a spiritual reality. This involves, Novalis maintains, presenting nature in writing or art: “The world of writing is nature that has been raised to a higher power” (NS 3, 283, no. 243). Thus, to present nature in writing—whether in a novel or through an encyclopedia—is to elevate or raise nature. Goethe is exemplary of this kind of genius. On the other hand, the work of genius involves the lowering of the spiritual into the natural or empirical world. Though Novalis provides no specific examples of this process, it seems that he means nothing other than the realization of the moral in the world. For Novalis, genius is not an ability that one is simply born with, nor is it a capacity only possessed by a few. Rather, he emphasizes—to some degree against the grain of his age—that everyone has the capacity to become a genius. “Every person is the seed of an infinite genius,” he writes, and elaborates that “every human being would then have a geniuslike seed—but in varying degrees of development and energy” (NS 3, 250, no. 63; and NS 3, 332, no. 454).4 Genius, then, is something that one must strive to achieve or realize. In the following, I will consider what it takes, according to Novalis, to achieve genius in both directions—to gain knowledge of nature and develop a moral self.

3.1 Novalis’s Turn to Nature Novalis’s interest in the natural sciences can be traced back to 1797, the time in which he began to study Schelling’s Naturphilosophie and to

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consider the meaning of a “system” of nature and the organization of knowledge.5 Novalis’s goal, however, is not to impose an order upon nature, but to organize knowledge in such a way that it can disclose the inherent organization of nature. As he explains in the Hemsterhuis-Studien, his goal is to grasp how nature’s internal organization is itself the “driving force of the parts” (NS 2, 370, no. 30). In other words, he aims to see how the organization of nature is the outcome of a constitutive principle that underlies and connects the parts of nature. It is with these ideas and questions in mind that, in December 1797, Novalis enters the Freiberg Mining Academy, where classes such as “Encyclopedia of the Study of Mining” were offered.6 Novalis’s teacher and mentor at the Mining Academy (and the person who offered the encyclopedia course) was Abraham Gottlob Werner (1750–1817), the founder of systematic mineralogy and geology. During his tenure in Freiberg, Novalis became well acquainted with Werner’s methodologies and goals, and, although he was drawn to Werner’s classifications (NS 3, 394, no. 670), he ultimately objected to his apparently haphazard methodology and assumptions. Werner’s method of classification was for the most part based on external characteristics.7 His classification did not, for instance, account for the chemical makeup of things. Furthermore, Werner’s classification did not consider the relations between the inorganic and the living or organic parts of nature. Thus, Novalis remarks that fossils offer an important insight into the continuity between organic and inorganic nature, writing that “so many fossils are not really fossils, but rather fossil masses, which have come about only mechanically and chemically, just like plant masses” (NS 3, 137).8 Novalis levels three critiques of Werner’s method. First, he argues that one must account for both the external form and the internal structures and consider how the internal is expressed in the external and vice versa. Thus Novalis writes that “if only one observes assiduously . . . the outer changes through inner changes and vice versa, [then] I am certain, one will arrive at true, steady relations and laws” (NS 3, 141). Second, he contends that Werner’s methods lacked an organizing principle and for this reason his system was not coherent. “Werner’s introduction to the oryctognostic system must be criticized,” he writes, because “something is lacking in his classification—Where is his principle of necessity and where is his principle of completeness?” (NS 3, 358, no. 532; see also NS 3, 359, no. 534). The problem, Novalis elaborates, lies in the fact that “Werner’s descriptions are too individual—too much directed to the individual stage before him” (NS 3, 375, no. 609; see also NS 3, 393, no. 662). Finally, Novalis argues that Werner’s classifications overlooked the fact that all things in nature are



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in a state of transformation—transformation that takes place both through external (i.e., mechanical) and internal (chemical, biological) relations—and are thus affected by time. After all, he notes, “time has a very significant influence on crystallization” (NS 3, 164).9 Thus, Werner’s taxonomy was not only too fixated on external characteristics and lacking a unifying principle, but it also fundamentally misunderstood the character of reality. For these reasons, Novalis concluded that Werner’s goal was both untenable and undesirable. It was just a few months following his enrollment at the Mining Academy—at the end of March 1798—that Novalis met Goethe for the first time. Although this meeting and the one following, which took place in July 1799, did not measure up to Novalis’s expectations, the notes which Novalis composed after the meeting evidence genuine interest and, most importantly, an exchange of scientific ideas. In these notes, Novalis mentions Goethe’s investigation of the Harz Mountains, which had not yet been published, and speaks of Goethe’s work on magnetism, which, at that time, was also unpublished.10 Although the content of these conversations cannot be determined, one can postulate that Werner and his system of classification was a topic of discussion. Goethe, for one, was an admirer of Werner. Novalis, at the time of their first meeting, was Werner’s student. Whatever may have been said about Werner at that time, it is striking that Novalis and Goethe came to hold a similar critique of Werner’s system.11 It is no less striking that Novalis composed his essay on Goethe at the same time that he wrote his critique of Werner and began work on his encyclopedia project (Autumn 1798).12 In the encyclopedia project, the Allgemeine Brouillon (1789–1799), Novalis not only further elaborated his assessment of Werner, but also developed his most succinct critique of both transcendental idealism and empiricism and put forth a theory of knowledge based on the view that reflection and observation must transform one another—a method or practice which he identifies with Goethe (NS 3, 331, no. 451; NS 2, 641, respectively).

3.2 Novalis and Goethe: Biography and Background Unlike Friedrich Schlegel and Schelling, Novalis did not live in Jena and thus did not have the opportunity to meet regularly or work closely with Goethe.13 While the Schlegel brothers often sought out Goethe’s friendship and advice14 and Schelling worked closely with Goethe during his tenure in

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Jena15, Novalis was living in Weißenfels (and Freiberg) and administrating the salt mines. In spite of the distance and lack of interaction, Novalis, like many of his young contemporaries, revered Goethe. Unlike his contemporaries, however, Novalis considered Goethe’s genius and most important contribution to lie not in his literary work, but in his scientific experiments and writings.16 In his 1798 essay on Goethe, Novalis refers to Goethe as “the first physicist of his time,” and in the Allgemeine Brouillon, Novalis goes so far as to identify his own project with Goethe’s: “Goethean treatment of the sciences—my project” (NS 2, 640; NS 3, 452, no. 967). These claims are at first sight puzzling. Novalis has often been depicted as a poet whose otherworldly attitude evinces little interest in empirical study as practiced by Goethe. Furthermore, Goethe himself criticized Novalis and the romantics for their highly subjective poetry—poetry that did not attempt to express the world but only the self—and, especially toward the end of his life, Goethe sought to distance himself from what he saw as a negative tendency in romanticism.17 Finally, even those who have come to recognize an affinity between Goethe and Novalis continue to emphasize significant differences between the two (noting, for example, that while Goethe was undertaking scientific experiments, Novalis was only theorizing about science), concluding that the questions and goals of their projects were fundamentally distinct.18 Although these differences are significant and should not be overlooked, they do not explain Novalis’s unparalleled admiration for Goethe’s scientific work. In addition, the widespread interpretation of Novalis as a poet whose concerns lie beyond the world of the senses is simply false. Novalis’s interest in science and nature, which is evidenced in most of his work from 1797 onward, is determined by a clear empiricist turn to the world of the senses and to the faculty of observation. In fact, Novalis’s major criticism of other idealist philosophers is based on what he perceives as a lack of empiricism in their work. Furthermore, Goethe’s own judgment of Novalis as a “subjective” poet was, as Hans-Joachim Mähl has shown, significantly skewed by the Schlegel-Tieck edition of the Novalis Schriften (1802) and thus cannot be taken as a final word on their relationship.19 The questions remain, however, concerning the degree of similarity between their scientific goals and practices and the way in which we should understand Novalis’s unequivocal praise of Goethe’s science.20 Goethe and Novalis were unique among their friends and acquaintances in that they not only had a theoretical knowledge of science but were also practicing scientists. Additionally, they both displayed brilliance in science and poetry and sought to find a common ground between the two. Furthermore, during



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the time that Novalis was immersed in the study of nature and intensively pursuing the idea of a systematic presentation of all the arts and sciences (his encyclopedia project), he was also engaging with Goethe’s scientific contributions and learning from Goethe’s methods and practices.21 Thus, a comprehensive understanding of Novalis’s encyclopedia project appears to require an elaboration of his interest in Goethe’s work.22 However, Goethe’s influence on Novalis’s thinking cannot be limited to the encyclopedia project, but encompasses Novalis’s understanding of the meaning and practice of science in general. In Goethe, Novalis found a particular approach to the world that became essential for his self-understanding as a philosopher and for his understanding of the goal and meaning of the pursuit of knowledge.23 An examination of Novalis’s essay on Goethe, and of his statements on Goethe’s methodology strewn throughout the Allgmeine Brouillon, reveals the deep influence of Goethe’s practice of intuitive perception and imagination on Novalis’s understanding of knowledge and of the meaning and goal of science. However, before turning to investigate Novalis’s interest in Goethe’s scientific work, it is important to examine—if only briefly— Novalis’s metaphysics and his understanding of the relationship between the human being and nature as developed in 1798. On the one hand, it is significant to highlight that Novalis did not simply appropriate Goethe’s understanding of nature, but in many ways found in Goethe a “symphilosopher”—a scientist-poet who shared many of his own ideas. On the other hand, a consideration of Novalis’s metaphysics will clarify why Novalis was drawn to Goethe’s practices and how he incorporated them into his own work.

3.3 Educating the Earth Novalis commences “Blüthenstaub” with an epigraph: “Friends, the earth is barren, we must strew ample seeds that only a modest harvest prospers for us” (NS 2, 413). This harvest, he continues, requires education. “We are on a mission: we have been called to educate the earth” (NS 2, 427, no. 32). The idea that the earth must be educated implies that the earth has not yet attained its highest development and that it is our task to assist its further development. The “inward, harmonious relation” of nature, he writes in the Allgemeine Brouillon, “does not exist, however, it shall be” (NS 3, 438, no. 885). This harmonious relation can only be achieved, Novalis elaborates, through moral education: “Nature will become moral. We are her educators—her moral tangents—her moral stimuli” (NS 3, 252, no. 73).

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Importantly, for Novalis morality is not an ethical code or a specific system of guidelines. Rather, as discussed above, morality implies, on the one hand, self-activity and freedom and, on the other, harmonious relations mediated by an affective understanding of others. From this, one can surmise that when Novalis speaks of the education of nature and interprets it in moral terms, he means the “enlivening (Belebung)” of nature, as he puts it in the “Logologische Fragmente” (NS 2, 551, no. 118). That is, we are on a mission to bring nature to self-activity and harmony. This mission, however, can only be accomplished if we are not estranged from or outside of nature. Rather, there must be some way by which we can know, experience, and thus enliven nature. As discussed earlier, in the Fichte-Studien Novalis speaks of the relation between the self and the world as one of correspondence, claiming that the inner and the outer “are one essence—only conversely [umgekehrt]. They correspond in the most exact way [aufs genaueste]” (NS 2, 157, no. 153). In the Hemsterhuis-Studien, he elaborates the relation between self and world in terms of harmony between members of a whole. The self, Novalis insists in the “Logologische Fragmente,” cannot be external to nature. Rather, every individual is a “member of the world [Weltglied],” and is thus able to “experience the world” (NS 2, 551, no. 118). In other words, it is only because we are already in the world, participants in it, that we can access it, know it, and transform it. Novalis differentiates, however, the relation between one’s body and the whole from the relation between the mind or knowledge and the whole. “My body,” he writes, should not be thought of as “differentiating me from the whole—rather only as a variation [Variation] of it,” adding that “I find my body determined both through itself and through the world-soul” (NS 2, 551, no. 118).24 In contrast, one’s knowledge of the whole should be understood as a “symbol” of it. This is because, Novalis writes, “my knowledge of the whole” has “the character of analogy” (NS 3, 551, no. 118). While the body is one of the infinite varieties of the whole, and is thus a simple manifestation of nature, the mind, Novalis claims, does not merely present nature but also transforms it.25 Knowledge is the transformation of nature into an ideal (symbolic) reality. This important difference has to do with the fact that for Novalis, the human individual is both “inside and outside of nature” (NS 3, 353, no. 75). Unlike Kant, who thought of the soul as outside the world of experience, outside the empirical world, Novalis understood the soul as partaking of both worlds—as having the ability to move between the intelligible and the empirical worlds. It is precisely in this context and with this problematic in mind that Novalis returns to the idea of the “seat of the soul.”



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In “Blüthenstaub,” Novalis remarks that “the seat of the soul is there, where the inner world and the outer world touch. Where they penetrate one another, it is the penetration at every point” (NS 2, 419, no. 19). The soul, according to Novalis, must be able to participate in and move between the two worlds—between the intelligible world of free, moral activity and the sensible or empirical world—because only thus can the self act morally, gain self-consciousness, and achieve knowledge and experience. Only thus, in other words, can the self realize the eternal in the temporal—whether as moral action or artistic presentation—and thereby bring about the beautiful society. Novalis’s first claim is that self-consciousness requires that the self move out of itself and enter the world; that is to say, self-consciousness depends on the interaction between self and world. Thus, he describes the development of spirit as an “unfolding,” wherein it “goes ouside itself, cancels this reflection, and in this moment it says for the first time I” (NS 2, 431, no. 45).26 In other words, the development of self-consciousness depends on an originally reflective or self-reflective activity, which is in turn dependent on interaction with the not-self, or the world. In the Allgemeine Brouillon, Novalis explicates the significance of the inward-outward movement for the achievement of knowledge: Everything should be drawn out of us and rendered visible—our soul ought to become representable.—The system of the sciences should become the symbolic body (organ system) of our inner life—our spirit ought to become a sense perceptible machine—not within us, but outside us. / Inverse task with the external world./ (NS 3, 252, no. 69)

Knowledge of the self requires that the self be made visible or be presented in the external world. In contrast, knowledge of the external world requires the inverse—making the visible world invisible, or transforming it into thought.27 In a letter to F. Schlegel from July 1798, Novalis similarly speaks of a “symbolic treatment of physics” and draws a connection between the knowledge of nature and Hemsterhuis’s notion of a harmonious whole (NS 4, 255). Yet the question remains as to what takes place in our knowing of nature. That is, what does it mean for knowledge to be a “symbol” of the natural world, and what is required of us to be able to undertake the task of knowing? As a symbol of nature, knowledge does not simply mirror nature; it is not just a variation on nature’s infinite manifestations. Rather, knowledge is peculiar in that it raises nature to an ideal reality, brings nature to consciousness. The question then is: What is involved in the act of knowledge,

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and what does knowledge imply? In other words, how is knowledge both a reflection on and an expansion of that which is known? Novalis arrives at answers to these questions through his study of Goethe.

3.4 Goethe as Vorbild for the Study of Nature As noted above, Novalis went so far as to identify his own project with Goethe’s, writing, “Goethean treatment of sciences—my project” (NS 3, 452, no. 967). And, in one of the longer fragments in the Allgemeine Brouillon, Novalis considers the contributions of various philosophers to the study of nature, concluding with unequivocal appreciation for Goethe above all the others. He notes, However, these gentlemen [Tieck, Schelling, Ritter28] still plainly fail to see the best within nature. Fichte will henceforth put his friends to shame, while Hemsterhuis clearly anticipated this sacred path to physics. Even Spinoza harbored that divine spark of natural understanding. Plotinus, perhaps inspired by Plato, was the first to grace the Holy Sanctuary with a genuineness of spirit—and yet no one after him has again ventured so far. In numerous ancient writings there beats a mysterious pulse, denoting the place of contact with the invisible world—a coming into life. Goethe shall be the liturgist of this physics—for he perfectly understands the service in the Temple. (NS 3, 469, no. 1096)29

What is it that Novalis found in Goethe that he did not find in the others? A first answer to this question can be ascertained in Novalis’s essay on Goethe. In this short writing, Novalis deftly characterizes the basic elements of Goethe’s scientific practice, pointing to the fact that Goethe undertook science with an artist’s eye. It is this essentially artistic comportment toward nature that Novalis came to consider absolutely necessary in any encounter with nature and which he aimed to incorporate into his own scientific work. In turn, Novalis realized that this artistic comportment was lacking not only in the practices of contemporary scientists, but also in the work of philosophers. Novalis begins the three-page essay with the statement that Goethe’s poetry is “practical,” adding that it is “highly simple, nice, comfortable and enduring.” This less than enthusiastic estimation of the poetic works is followed by a laudatory account of Goethe as a scientist: “His observations of light, the metamorphosis of plants and of insects are the confirmation and



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at the same time the most convincing proof, that also the perfect lecture [Lehrvortrag] belongs in the field of the artists. So one is able to claim in a certain sense that Goethe is the first physicist of his time” (NS 2, 640). What distinguishes Goethe from scientists and philosophers of the time, Novalis continues, is the fact that he perceives nature with an artist’s eye. Thus, the matter comes down to “whether one observes nature, in the way that an artist [observes] antiquity—for is nature anything other than a living antiquity” (NS 2, 640).30 What does Novalis mean by this? Antiquity has several important characteristics. For one, most of the ancient works have been bequeathed to us as fragments. However, in observing a work from antiquity, one does not see an isolated piece, but a whole world, the reality in which the work once existed. Furthermore, like many of his contemporaries, Novalis regarded ancient cultures, especially ancient Greek culture, as having achieved harmony with the natural world. A work from antiquity can therefore be seen as a symbol of a harmonious relation between nature and culture. Finally, an ancient work is a record of the creative spirit of an earlier culture—whether it be a carving on a wall or a clay vessel, it is the material remnant of a spiritual or intellectual activity. Thus, Novalis remarks, “It is not antiquities alone that we behold. It is at once heaven, the telescope—and the fixed stars—and therefore a genuine revelation of a higher world” (NS 3, 410–11, no. 737). What Goethe does in observing nature as “living antiquity,” then, is perceive in each of nature’s parts the whole of nature, the context out of which the part emerges and in which it lives. This requires that Goethe be able to perceive not only nature’s products, but also nature as productivity, that is, the activity that underlies and constitutes each natural product— what Goethe calls “metamorphosis.” In his Versuch über die Metamorphose der Pflanzen (Essay on the Metamorphosis of Plants) (1790), Goethe presents the process of plant growth and reproduction as one of lawful transformation or metamorphosis. The observation of the plant, he begins, reveals that the “external parts sometimes undergo a change and assume, either entirely or in greater or lesser degree, the form of the parts adjacent to them” (MA 12, 29, no. 1). Goethe refers the reader to what he calls intermediate parts—that is, parts of the plant which adopt characteristics of preceding or succeeding parts. A leaf, for instance, can begin to approximate the calyx, or the calyx can take on the color of the blossom. Thus, Goethe elaborates, if one observes the plant’s parts in relation to one another, one begins to see that there is continuity between the parts and that each part is a modification of the other parts. Novalis expresses a similar idea in his scientific notes from 1799, where he writes

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that “everything is a member of a chain. Every new member occasions representations in the other members—thus activity” (NS 3, 612, no. 350). From this Goethe concludes that what grants the plant unity is not a static substance or idea, but the very process of metamorphosis, wherein each part is a physical manifestation of the different stages of metamorphosis. Metamorphosis is not an abstract, subjectively determined principle—in other words, it is not a postulate of thought. Rather, it is the living, formative principle that underlies and organizes every plant. To perceive this principle—and thereby grasp the unity of the natural organism—is, Goethe contends, the goal of natural science. Such perception, however, can only be gained through nondiscursive intuition. Although both Goethe and Novalis were drawn to Kant’s philosophy, they were critical of his apparently arbitrary elimination of the faculty of nonsensible intuition. Goethe levels this critique in his essay “Anschauende Urteilskraft” (Intuitive Judgment) (1817; published 1820), noting that although in his theoretical philosophy Kant restricts the human capacity to know the supersensible, in his moral philosophy, he requires that the human being enter into precisely that realm (MA 12, 98).31 Novalis similarly criticizes Kant’s restrictions as haphazard, writing that “the most arbitrary prejudice of them all is that man is denied the capacity to get outside himself and to have consciousness beyond the realm of the senses. At any moment man can become a supersensible being. Without this capacity he would not be a cosmopolitan but an animal” (NS 2, 421, no. 22). This is not to say that they were in complete disagreement with Kant. Novalis, for one, agrees with Kant’s claim that knowledge of nature cannot be based on empirical observation alone. Rather, he maintains that reflection is essential for understanding nature, insofar as “in the study of nature, [it] refers us to inner observation and trial, and in our study of ourselves [refers] us to the outer world.” In other words, while empirical observation is essential in the study of nature, it is not sufficient for understanding nature’s inner structure—only thought enables understanding. Novalis thus continues, “We can examine the inner soul of nature only through thought, just as [we can] only examine the body of nature and the external world through sensation” (NS 3, 429, no. 820). In essence, the laws of nature—the structural principles that underlie and constitute the natural world—are, as laws, ideal and can therefore be grasped only through thought. To discern these laws, then, we must transform what is given to us through the senses into thought. In order to gain knowledge of nature, we must transform the visible into the invisible, the sensible into the ideal or symbolic.



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This transformation, however, does not imply—as it does in Kant—a subjectification of knowledge. Rather, it aims to disclose the principles that underlie and inhere in nature itself—in other words, it seeks to grasp the “unity” that constitutes, as Goethe puts it, “the multitude” (MA 15, 327). For Kant, of course, this was impossible; by contrast, for both Novalis and Goethe, grasping nature’s laws and thereby discerning the unity of nature is the essence of knowledge, and this knowledge, according to both, depends on the possibility of nonsensible intuition. Kant’s elimination of intuition rests on his understanding of the human mind as essentially discursive. Because it requires both sense perception and concepts in order to gain knowledge, Kant distinguishes the human cognitive faculty from what he calls the “intuitive intellect.”32 The discursive intellect proceeds from the isolated parts of nature and subsumes these parts under the universal concepts of the understanding. This is the process which Kant identifies in the first Kritik as knowledge and distinguishes as “determinative judgment” in the Kritik der Urteilskraft.33 In the third Kritik, however, he admits that the work of the discursive intellect is inherently deficient—because it can only proceed from the parts to the whole, it is unable to explain one of the most essential natural phenomena, namely, self-organizing beings or organisms. An organism, according to Kant, differs from a nonorganic being (a mechanically structured being) in two fundamental ways. First, each of its parts must be connected in a necessary fashion to the proper function of the whole. In other words, all the parts act in accordance with an underlying idea or organizing principle. Second, this idea or principle must not be externally imposed, as in the case of the machine, but must be internal to each of the parts. This means, Kant explains, that the parts “reciprocally produce each other” (AA 5, 373). The organism is thus “both cause and effect of itself” (AA 5, 370); it is self-sustaining. Or as Kant put it, it is “both an organized and self-organizing being” (AA 5, 374). Kant explains that because the discursive intellect must proceed from the parts to construct a whole, it cannot grasp organisms. There are several reasons for this. First, the connections that the discursive intellect can grasp are necessarily mechanical—from part to part—which implies that the only causation it can conceive is efficient—from cause to effect. Furthermore, Kant explains, because the discursive intellect proceeds from the part to the whole, there is always a gap between the particular (what is given to sensibility) and the universal (the concept), such that it can never grasp the unity in its diversity. It cannot, in other words, understand how an organic

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unity can be composed of inherently distinctive but mutually supporting parts (AA 5, 406). There is an incongruity between sensibility and concepts: concepts cannot adequately grasp the sensibly given. In their attempt to unify experience, they abstract general characteristics, such that the unity that emerges is an abstract, mechanical unity.34 Discursive thought is thus unable to grasp the distinctive unity and structure of organisms. However, Kant remarks, “We can also conceive of an understanding that, unlike ours, is not discursive but intuitive, and hence proceeds from the synthetically universal (the intuition of the whole as a whole) to the particular, i.e., from the whole to the parts.” For such an understanding, he explains, there is “no contingency in the combination of the parts in order to make a determinate form of the whole possible” (AA 5, 407). The intuitive intellect begins with the whole, which means that it does not need to abstract general characters, and thus does not arrive at an inadequate generalization. Furthermore, because the intuitive intellect grasps the whole as a whole, it is able to grasp purposive causality—that is, a causality in which each of the parts is both cause and effect within a living process. The intuitive understanding outlined by Kant in the third Kritik is precisely the kind of understanding evidenced in Goethe’s study of plant metamorphosis.35 Novalis terms Goethe’s method of observation “active empiricism” because it requires careful empirical observation and active reflection, what he also sometimes calls imagination. Novalis thus describes Goethe’s method: “He [Goethe] abstracts with rare accuracy, never, however, without simultaneously constructing [construiren] the object which corresponds to the abstraction” (NS 2, 641). The diligent work of observation must always coincide with the work of imaginative construction. There are two reasons for this. The first is that observation alone perceives the parts as separate. The organism, however, does not develop as separate parts, but as a whole. In order to grasp the organism, then, one must not perceive its parts in isolation, but see how they are connected to one another—that is, grasp the relations between the parts and the transitions from one part to the next. It is only through the imagination that one can discern these transitions and thus discern how each part is a modification of the one preceding.36 The second reason that imagination is necessary concerns the way in which observation follows the organism’s development sequentially, proceeding from one part to the next, seeking to arrive at a view of the whole. The organism, however, does not develop only sequentially. Development also occurs simultaneously. In the plant, for instance, the leaves develop



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simultaneously with the stem. For this reason, imagination is once again necessary. The imagination must re-create or reconstruct in the mind the simultaneous development that takes place in nature—a development that is not evident to empirical observation.37 More specifically, the observer must grasp the transitions between the parts simultaneously or in one instance (rather than in sequence). That is to say, one must seek to present the relations between the parts in such a way that parts appear as interrelated members of a living process—as both cause and effect.38 The observer thus grasps the development of the organism by discerning how each part emerges in its continuous formation. Goethe describes this process in the Vorarbeiten zu einer Physiologie der Pflanzen (1795): “If I look at the created object, inquire into its creation, and follow this process back as far as I can, I will find a series of steps. Since these are not actually seen together before me, I must visualize them in my memory so that they form a certain ideal whole. / At first I will tend to think in terms of steps, but nature leaves no gaps, and thus, in the end, I will have to see this progression of uninterrupted activity as a whole. I can do so only by dissolving the particularity without destroying the impression itself” (WA 2/6, 303–4).39 In this way, the gap between the idea of the organism, or the organism as a whole, and the discursive experience of the organism in its parts is overcome.40 The combination of observation and imagination grants the ability to see the whole (the simultaneous development of the plant) in relation to the parts (the sequential development of the plant). The plant is thus perceived in fluid transformation, and the parts are recognized as interrelated members of a single living process. Previous philosophers, Novalis explains, did not understand the intimate and interdependent relationship between observation and imagination or reflection. He thus criticizes both transcendental idealism and empiricism on the ground that neither truly grasps the way in which observation and imagination must be practiced in relation to one another. The idealist subsumes the work of observation under the pure concepts of the understanding, thus providing us with nothing more than formal universalism.41 The empiricists, in turn, forget “to apply a systematic effort to their accumulated experiences, and to draw out (extract) its spirit.” This leads to “an untold array of individual experiences,” which results in an “enormous mountain of facts.” Without a system, however, there is no way by which to understand the facts. The empiricist must therefore conclude “with a common principle of pernicious trivial skepticism—doubtful of the power of man and a humble appreciation of a despotic, unfathomable and infinite nature” (NS 3, 331, no. 451).42

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In contrast to both of these views, Novalis insists that knowledge arises out of the mutual determination of reflection and observation. He writes, “Observation is only improved through introspection, which is nothing else but systematization; [through systematization] our power of observation, as well as the organic power of thought, may be infinitely developed and strengthened. No observation without reflection—and vice versa” (NS 3, 331, no. 451). This statement should not be interpreted in Kantian fashion. Novalis does not mean to say that observation is meaningless without reflection, or that reflection is empty without observation. Rather, his claim is that observation is developed through reflection, and reflection through observation. Put differently, genuine reflection should be shaped by what is observed, while genuine observation should be expanded and deepened through reflection. This is a conception of knowledge in which reflection is guided by observation, and observation is enriched through reflection—a conception which approximates Goethe’s, as he describes his thinking in a late essay (1823): “My thinking is not separate from objects. . . . The elements of the object, the perceptions of the object, flow into my thinking and are fully permeated by it. . . . My perception itself is a thinking, and my thinking a perception” (MA 12, 306). The practice of combining observation with reflection—of harmonizing careful empirical work and constructive imagination—is what enables thought to grasp nature. As Novalis came to see it, the concerted practice of reflection and observation provides the key to a successful transformation of the real into the ideal, of the dynamic, living structure of nature into thought. Only by transferring nature’s dynamism into thought, Novalis argues, can thought gain insight into nature. Novalis emphasizes that the observation of nature remains incomplete so long as the observer of nature does not act with and like nature. Or, as Goethe put it, “If we want to arrive at a living intuition of nature, we must become as flexible and quick as the examples that nature gives us” (MA 12, 13). Novalis elaborates on the way in which this can be achieved: “We can learn to proceed like nature, by examining how nature herself proceeds—by experiencing the laws of her phenomena” (NS 3, 325, no. 442). This is essential for understanding nature, Novalis explains, because “activity is only comprehensible through activity and with activity” (NS 3, 363, no. 559); and again, “Life is absolutely only to be explained from life itself” (NS 3, 369, no. 593). To grasp nature as a living, dynamic whole, in other words, nature as productivity rather than as isolated products, one must be as active and productive as nature.



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Thus, Novalis once again turns to the artist, for the artist is, like nature, active and productive. He writes, “To experimenting belongs natural genius, that is, that wondrous ability to discover [treffen] the sense [Sinn] of nature—and to act in her spirit. The true observer is an artist—he divines [ahndet] the significant [Bedeutende] and knows how to sensitively ascertain [herauszufühlen] the crucial elements from out of the strange, fleeting mixture of appearances” (NS 3, 179).43 What distinguishes the artistic observer of nature, then, is not only the capacity to observe the essential in nature, to determine the relations among the parts and to perceive the whole in each of the parts. It is also the ability to act in nature’s spirit. Given these premises, Novalis’s understanding of the activity and goal of knowledge gains substance. First, knowledge of nature arises out of the coincidence of observation and imagination, through which the dynamism and activity of nature is transferred into thought itself. Furthermore, knowledge of nature must be active and productive like nature. This means that the activity of knowledge must in some way reflect nature’s activity. It also means that the products of knowledge must be analogous to nature’s products. For this reason, Novalis maintains that a scientific presentation of nature must generate “living thoughts [lebendige Gedanken]” (NS 3, 41). A living thought, unlike a dead one, instigates independent, free activity in its recipient—and thus functions as the “seed” for further thought and development. Although Novalis began to formulate his conception of knowledge more concretely, important questions remain. What does a system of knowledge that is constructed out of “living thoughts” look like? In addition, what does it mean for the knower to be productive and active like nature, and how can the products of knowledge be analogous to nature’s products? Finally, what does this say about truth and the possibility of achieving genuine knowledge of nature? Before attempting to answer these questions in the chapter 4, I first turn to a brief examination of the other direction which genius undertakes—the inward path, as Novalis terms it, the path that aims not to elevate nature, but to lower spirit.

3.5 The Inward Path of Moral Striving The outward path—that of Goethe and the teacher in the Lehrlinge—begins with the attentive observation of nature and results in elevating nature to an idea, elevating the product to productivity. Through observation, reflection and imagination, nature is brought to conscious manifestation or realized

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in thought. The inward path, in contrast, begins with thought, or the ideal, and aims to instantiate it in the world—aims to realize the moral ideal in nature. In its attempt to realize the moral (higher) self in the world, Novalis writes, the inward path encounters the inadequacy of the earthly form for expressing the “inner spirit.” This “perceptible inadequacy of the physical form for the expression and organ of the inner spirit,” however, need not be considered as negative; rather, Novalis explains, it is “what forces us to assume an intelligible world” and provides us “occasion for the evolution of the intelligence” (NS 2, 461, no. 112). In other words, in our attempt to actualize the moral self, we come to recognize our inability to realize this ideal fully; this recognition, however, should only inspire us to strive to improve ourselves so as to be able to realize the moral ideal more adequately.44 For Novalis God is “the moral being par excellence” (NS 3, 61). Thus, moral activity—the attempt to realize the moral ideal in the world—is nothing other than the attempt to bring the divine into the world. Thus, Novalis emphatically states, “God wants Gods” (NS 2, 584, no. 248).45 But what exactly does this involve? Novalis does not understand morality to be a code or a system, nor does he explicate it in terms of duties or obligations. Furthermore, he does not outline a theory of morality nor elaborate on how one “becomes” moral. Rather, he claims that one achieves moral virtue through the genuine endeavor to act morally. He likens this to the way in which one learns to swim or to do philosophy. It is only through trying to swim that I begin to swim; in turn, it is only through attempting to philosophize that I begin to do so.46 He thus writes, “I begin to realize this ideal—by attempting to carry it out. / The majority of people do not want to swim, until they are already able to. . . . By believing he can philosophize, and by acting in accordance with this belief, Fichte begins to philosophize” (NS 3, 374, no. 603). While this may sound too simple, its essential point remains significant: morality is not something that can be imposed upon someone, nor is it something that can be merely thought about. Rather, morality necessitates individual, free activity, and just as one cannot teach another how to think, so one cannot compel another to act freely and morally. Furthermore, Novalis distinguishes moral action from infinite striving, which, he maintains, necessarily fails to result in any action. While the latter can lead to a sense of moral helplessness, the former instantiates the moral in the world at every moment and thus overcomes the problem of manifesting the infinite in the finite, the eternal in the temporal. As Novalis had put it in the Fichte-Studien, “In every moment that we act freely, there is a triumph of the infinite I over the finite” (NS 2, 269, no. 564). For Novalis, moral activity is only possible if the human self is not—as



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it is in Kant’s case—outside of or beyond the world of experience. Rather, Novalis maintains that the self partakes of the natural world and the intelligible world of moral activity. It is only because the self participates in both that it can transform itself and the world. In other words, it is only because the self is not absolutely outside of nature, nor absolutely within it, that it can, on the one hand, know nature (transform it into an ideal reality) and, on the other hand, act morally (realize the ideal in nature). For this reason, whatever path the self takes, whether it be the inward or the outward path, the self will ultimately arrive at the same goal. If it elevates nature through the work of genius, or lowers spirit through moral activity, the self is doing nothing other than uniting the intelligible with the sensible, the natural with the moral, the infinite with the finite. In the first instance, the self must attempt to see the ideal in nature. Thus, it must transform what is given to sensibility through knowledge and artistic presentation. In the second instance, the self acts morally in order to bring the ideal into the world. Thus, the self is transformed through moral action. However, this characterization is still too simple, because in both instances, both the self and nature are transformed. After all, the self is part of nature and is therefore transformed when nature is transformed. In turn, nature is not outside of the self; this means that self-transformation also implies transformation in nature. Thus, in the activity of knowledge, both the known and the knower are transformed. Similarly, in moral activity, the self and its world are transformed, and we come closer to instantiating what Novalis calls the “beautiful society.” Ultimately, the distinction between the two paths lies in their differing emphasis—the former locates the ideal within the real, the latter the real within the ideal. Both paths, however, lead to the same goal of uniting the supersensible with the sensible, the moral with the natural, the divine with the world. Thus, Novalis writes, God “is the goal of nature—the very thing with which it will one day be in harmony. Nature will become moral” (NS 3, 250, no. 60).

3.6 Concluding Remarks: “Romanticizing the World” Novalis identifies romanticizing as nothing other than the raising and lowering that we have been discussing. He writes, “The world must be romanticized. Thus one finds the original sense again. Romanticizing [Romantisiren] is nothing more than a qualitative involution. In this operation the lower self is identified with a better self. . . . When I give the commonplace

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a higher meaning, the customary a mysterious appearance, the known the dignity of the unknown, the finite the appearance [Schein] of the infinite, I romanticize it. The operation is the converse for the higher, unknown, mystical and infinite—in this manner it becomes logarithmicized—it receives a common expression. Romantic philosophy. Lingua romana. Reciprocal elevation and lowering” (NS 2, 545, no. 105). In this passage, Novalis remarks that through romanticizing, we discover the “original sense again,” suggesting that the original meaning of the world has been lost but can be regained through the work of raising and lowering. There are two things to consider here. First, for Novalis, nature as it is and the human being as he or she is, are not complete but must be “romanticized,” in other words, educated or transformed. That is to say, nature achieves its highest potential and the human being achieves his or her higher self only through the work of knowledge, on the one hand, and through moral activity, on the other hand. What this means, then, is that the world is incomplete insofar as it is not romanticized, even if it has the potential for completion and thus harmony. The second point, which concerns the above quotation more directly, is that we have lost the sense for this potential altogether, such that we are no longer striving to seek the “infinite in the finite” or the “known in the unknown.” Novalis explains this in terms of a time of loss, a time of a “missing hieroglyph” (NS 2, 545, no. 104). The time in which we live, he writes, “is no longer where the spirit of God is understandable. The meaning [Sinn] of the world has been lost. We stopped at the letter. We lost that which appears [das Erscheinende] for the sake of appearance [Erscheinung]” (NS 2, 594, no. 316). The root of the problem, according to Novalis, is a deficiency in perception. We have turned away from that which appears (that which underlies the appearance) and instead have chosen to focus on the appearance. In his essay “Christenheit oder Europa” (Christianity or Europe) (1799), Novalis identifies this deficiency in perception with, among other things, the Protestant and the mechanistic worldviews. The problem with the spirit of Protestantism, he explains, has to do with the fact that “Luther treated Christianity in an arbitrary manner, misunderstood its spirit, and introduced another law and another religion, namely, the universal authority of the Bible.” Luther’s insistence on the “dead letter” of the Bible in place of the “spirit” of Christianity made “the revival, penetration and revelation of the holy spirit infinitely more difficult.” With nothing but the “meager content of the Bible, and its crude abstract scheme



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of religion,” the “sensibility of the religious sense” was destroyed (NS 3, 512). Indeed, Novalis argues, Luther replaced religion with mere philology, with a mechanics of interpretation that lacks meaning. Novalis sees a direct link between the emphasis on the letter in religion and the emphasis on the literal or physical in natural science. Rather than attempting to understand the spirit of nature—the activity that underlies nature’s products—human beings have come to be content with “the dead effect of natural laws” (NS 3, 508–9). Thus, nature “began to look more barren . . . with our own known tools and methods we would not find or construct the essential [Wesentliche], or that which we were looking for” (NS 3, 521). Our knowledge of nature has become impoverished because we perceive nature as mere product or appearance, rather than as productivity, as that which appears. In turn, we rely too heavily on tools and methods that can measure these products, but they cannot grant insight into what underlies and constitutes them. Only we—the thinking, active self—can achieve such insight. However, by establishing the methodology of the sciences in the way that we have, we have essentially robbed ourselves of the capacity to know, and thus raise, nature. The severance of the part from the whole, the visible from the invisible underlying it, is problematic on many levels. First, it does not present reality as it is. By emphasizing only the visible, sensible reality, it denies not only our own intelligible nature (moral, free activity) as an essential part of the world, but it also denies the character of nature itself—nature as both products and productivity, as parts and unifying whole.47 Second, the severance of the visible from the invisible eliminates the possibility of knowledge and distorts the meaning of true knowledge. Knowledge, as we saw above, consists in the self’s attempt to grasp the ideal in the real—to see the unity in and through each of the parts. By denying the intelligible, this view simply makes it impossible to understand what knowledge is and how an exchange between the self and the world is possible. In the Fichte-Studien Novalis speaks of the need to recognize that reality is neither simply the intellectual nor the sensible but the mediation of the two, writing that “the sensible must be presented as spiritual, and the spiritual as sensible” (NS 2, 283, no. 633). To see only the part and not the whole, the visible and not the invisible, is to fall victim to the “arbitrary prejudice” that experience and knowledge are merely of the sensible.48 This, Novalis emphatically maintains, is the result of laziness and can be overcome only through the work of romanticizing, or productive imagination.

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“It is on account of indolence that man demands mere mechanism or mere magic. He doesn’t want to be active—to employ his productive imagination” (NS 3, 408, no. 724). In other words, it is only through the work of raising and lowering—of transforming the ideal into the real and the real into the ideal or seeing the part in the whole and the whole in the part—that insight into the absolute as both sensible and intelligible can be achieved. It is, moreover, only in this way that the absolute is most fully or adequately realized, because, as Novalis has argued, the harmony between nature and the self, the real and the ideal, is only a potential harmony—one which can be actualized through knowledge and moral activity. The absolute, then, never “is” but must always be realized.

chapter four

A Living Organon of the Sciences

I

n September of 1798 Novalis began to plan an “encyclopedia” of the sciences and arts, a system of knowledge that is, as he put it, composed of living thoughts. His goal, he relates in a letter to Friedrich Schlegel from November 1798, was to develop a “living scientific organon” (NS 4, 263). Encyclopedistics, as Novalis came to call his project, was a systematic organization of the parts, wherein each of the parts relates to the others in a meaningful and necessary way. He thus describes his project: “encyclopedistics. Application of the system to the parts—and the parts to the system and the parts to the parts” (NS 3, 333, no. 460). Novalis began to “work [his] way through all the sciences—and collect material toward encylopedistics” toward the end of 1798 and continued to do so for the next several months (NS 3, 279, no. 229). He reports to Schlegel that he is “occupied with an exceedingly comprehensive work—which will absorb my activity for this winter,” adding that the goal of this project is “generating truths and ideas writ large—generating inspired thoughts—producing a living scientific organon” (NS 4, 263). Although Novalis did not complete the encylopedia project, with his last entry dating from March 1799, he did not forgo the idea of a systematic presentation of knowledge, in which the arts and sciences are related to one another through a necessary, unifying idea. He thus continued to speak of his “book of all books,” his “bible project,” up until his death in 1801.1 In addition, in turning toward writing novels, Novalis’s goal remained the same: to capture the “harmonious plurality” of nature (NS 3, 558, no. 21). Novalis judged that previous attempts at encyclopedistics were deficient and considered himself to be undertaking the first genuine encyclopedia project. Unlike Werner’s conception of classification based on external characteristics, Novalis’s goal was to show the unity of nature by disclosing 71

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inherent relations between its external and internal structures. Similarly, Novalis was aware of the difference between his own encyclopedia project and that of Diderot and D’Alembert: Novalis’s was based on a unifying or synthesizing principle, which would connect the various sciences into a systematic whole. Thus, he termed his project the “science of the sciences” and “the higher Wissenschaftslehre” (NS 3, 249, no. 56).2 What Fichte had achieved in philosophy, Novalis wished to achieve in all the sciences (NS 3, 269, no. 155). However, although Fichte served as a key inspiration for the encyclopedia project, Novalis remained critical of Fichte’s methodology and of what he perceived to be a “dogmatism” in Fichte’s system. “To my mind,” he writes, Fichte’s Wissenschaftslehre “is still greatly lacking in this ideal. It only encompasses one part of critical philosophy—and is just as incomplete as critical philosophy itself.—It was Kant’s plan to supply a universal—an encyclopedic critique—yet he was not able to carry this out, and with respect to its individual elements, he was not so fortunate in his execution. The same is true of the Fichtean revision of the Kantian plan of the critique” (NS 3, 335–36, no. 463). Fichte’s systematic ideal remained incomplete, Novalis relates in another passage, because it did not encompass all the sciences and the arts. He thus writes, “Fichte has only begun to realize a single idea in this manner—the idea of a system of thought” (NS 2, 374, no. 584; see also NS 2, 336, no. 464). Thus, although Novalis praises both Kant and Fichte for providing the seeds of critical, systematic thought, he saw their investigations as limited and not critical enough. Speaking of their approaches, he writes that “the spirit of the system—the critical spirit was lacking,” and again complains that “the method of Fichte and Kant is not yet complete or presented precisely enough. Both still do not know how to experiment with facility and diversity—absolutely unpoetic—Everything is still so awkward, so tentative” (NS 3, 445, nos. 921 and 924). Novalis ventures two key critiques of the Kantian and Fichtean approaches to knowledge and systematization. First, he maintains that their conception of knowledge did not fully comprehend the creative element in knowledge. Second, he argues that their particular understanding of a system of knowledge (as based on either a first principle—following Fichte—or an abstraction of thought, such as Kant’s thing-in-itself) fails to grasp and adequately portray the living, dynamic unity of nature. These critiques, I will argue, stem out of Novalis’s interest in Goethe’s scientific practice. As noted earlier, there are two significant consequences to Novalis’s epistemology. The first is that knowledge as a presentation of nature must be as alive as nature. The second consequence is that knowledge involves



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acting like nature—the artist-scientist must be as creative and productive as nature in order to gain insight into nature’s productivity. This means that the product of the artist-scientist is analogous to the work of nature. Let us begin with an examination of this second consequence. Novalis identifies the creative work of the artist with that of “modifying translation,” which requires “the highest poetic spirit [der höchste poëtische Geist]” (NS 2, 439, no. 68). This is because the artist, like the modifying translator, must be able to grasp “the idea of the whole [die Idee des Ganzen]” and depict it in every part and through every aspect of her presentation. For this reason, Novalis explains that the work of translation is not a mere representation of an original, but a transformation of it. What the modifying translator and artist do is grasp the idea of the whole and capture it in a particular way—a way that remains true to the idea, but transforms it in light of the different language or medium of expression. In other words, the work of a creative mind is, on the one hand, a continuation of nature’s work and, on the other hand, an expansion upon it. In the case of the artistic observer of nature, this involves transforming empirical nature into an idea or symbol. As a conscious (ideal) presentation of nature, the work of art or the living thought is the explicit manifestation of nature’s implicit laws. Thus, Novalis writes, “thinking, like the blossom, is surely nothing else but the finest evolution of the plastic forces—it is simply the general force of nature raised to the nth dignity” (NS 3 476, no. 1144). It is important to emphasize that this transformation does not imply exaggeration or falsification. Rather, the artistic observer of nature brings the idea of nature to consciousness. In other words, she is not imposing a foreign order or concept on nature, but revealing nature’s implicit ideality—nature’s laws and principles of construction—in thought and presentation. Novalis writes, “The world has the original capacity [urpsrüngliche Fähigkeit] to be enlivened through me. . . . I have the original tendency and capacity to enliven the world—However I cannot enter into a relationship with something—that does not align itself to my will, or is appropriate to it—therefore the world must have the original structure to align itself to me—to be appropriate to my will” (NS 2, 554, no. 125). In knowing nature, then, one is doing nothing less than actualizing its potential, its “original capacity” to be known, enlivened through me. In addition, interpreting nature implies elaborating the “crucial elements” of nature. Novalis agreed with Goethe’s claim that the work of art captures nature’s essence in a way that nature cannot. As Goethe put it in a conversation with Johann Peter Eckermann (October 20, 1828), “There exist two antique heads of horses more perfect in their form than those of

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any race now on earth” (MA 17, 269).3 An interpretation of nature in a living thought or a work of art is thus not a re-presentation of nature, but a presentation that reveals nature in a more perfect manner—and is, as such, a metamorphosis or evolution of nature.4 Although Kant and Fichte both recognized that knowledge involves a creative element, they did not fully grasp the meaning and implication of the creativity of knowledge. They did not, in other words, realize that the act of knowing is at once a participation in nature, as well as a realization of nature’s own potential. Their systems were not “critical” enough in that they had not adequately or comprehensively embarked upon an investigation of the sources, capacities, and implications of the activity of knowledge. Novalis’s second critique of Kant and Fichte arises from the second consequence of his epistemology—that the presentation of nature should be as alive as nature herself. Kant and Fichte failed to construct a living scientific organon. What does this mean? For one, it means that the very foundations of their systems were abstractions that did not accurately portray the complex reality which they wished to systematize. Novalis’s critique of first principles and simple entities emerges from this perspective. A first principle or any simple entity is ultimately mistaken, he maintains, because it is nothing but an abstraction of thought, or, as he says of Fichte’s ego, “a Robinson Crusoe—a scientific fiction” (NS 3, 405, no. 717). The very idea of a first principle or a beginning, he maintains, is entirely unphilosophical. “Why,” he asks, “do we need a beginning at all? This unphilosophical or semiphilosophical goal is the source of all error” (NS 3, 383, no. 634; see also nos. 76, 601, 615).5 In his notes on physics, Novalis speaks of the thing-in-itself in similar terms, writing that the thing-in-itself is “unknowable,” insofar as it is “absolutely isolated.” However, “when in community with something else,” it is “something definite and distinct.” In other words, the thing-in-itself as an isolated entity is nothing but an abstraction of thought. Reality is never in isolation, and thus, Novalis concludes, the sciences should be related (NS 3, 56). Thus, in place of a first principle or a thing-in-itself, an absolute ground that is nothing but an abstraction of thought, Novalis seeks to establish a system based on the relation between the part and the whole, such that each gains meaning and achieves greater distinction in its relation with and determination through the other. “The greater and higher the whole,” he writes, “the more remarkable the particular” (NS 3, 406, no. 717). Already in the Fichte-Studien Novalis criticizes the abstract nature of philosophy and contrasts it with poetry, arguing that philosophy must become more poetic. Too often, philosophy remains on the level of the general



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and thus can grasp only simple entities or abstract concepts. The absolute, however, is complex, dynamic, and relational. It is an internally differentiated unity that can only be grasped in and through its diverse members. For this reason, philosophy must integrate the poetic particular into itself. As we have seen, one of the key ideas which Novalis develops in the FichteStudien and elaborates in his later writings is that the part can be more completely understood only in terms of the whole and the whole in terms of the part. Neither can be reduced to the other, and the whole should not be taken as a first principle. Rather, the goal is, as he puts it, to “apply” the whole to the part and the part to the whole, such that each is illuminated through the other. He thus writes in his notes on physics, “The contemplation of the large and the contemplation of the small must simultaneously increase—the former must become more diverse, the latter simpler. The composite data for both the world structure, and also its most individual parts (macrocosm and microcosm), will gradually expand through reciprocal analogization—Hence, the whole explains the part and the part the whole” (NS 3, 59). With this in mind, we can turn to a consideration of the encyclopedia project and its goals. Novalis composed the project wholly out of fragments. Like Friedrich Schlegel, Novalis used the fragment largely because of its form.6 While an ancient fragment is bequeathed to us as such, a modern fragment is intentionally or consciously a fragment. More specifically, the form of the fragment is intentionally open-ended and resists final meaning or closure. For this reason, Novalis maintains that fragments are loci for inciting further thought. They are sites of productivity and activity. As such, fragments are the most appropriate building blocks of a living and dynamic system. Only a system that is composed of these productive elements can adequately present the productivity of nature. Novalis relates that fragments should function as the “beginnings of an interesting sequence of thoughts—texts for thinking” (NS 4, 274). Drawing on the New Testament metaphor, Novalis speaks of fragments as “seeds,” which, if well sewn and appropriately received, can bear fruit. Indeed, his very understanding of the romantic project as a project of moral education rests on this conception of the fragment as a seed, an incitement to thinking and self-development. This seed is nothing but the “the art of writing,” which “is on the verge of being discovered” (NS 2, 463, no. 114).7 In strewing seeds in the form of fragments, Novalis most of all wanted to prompt his readers to self-activity.8 The seed, however, can only flourish in the right environment, with the right conditions. Thus, not only must someone strew the seed, but the

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reader’s mind must also receive it. In other words, the fragment implants the inspiration, but it is the thinker who must take it upon herself to participate in thinking and thus bring the thought to life.9 True understanding, Novalis writes, is born out of a thought that “develops organically in me [in mir organisch entwickeln]” (NS 2, 418, no. 19).10 By participating in thinking, by becoming active and productive through thought, one is doing nothing less than cultivating a manner of thinking and presentation that is more attuned to the analogous activity and productivity of nature. Such a form of presentation, Novalis elaborates, is essentially poetic. This is because, first, every fragment exhibits “an independent character— [and is] a self-evident individual,” much like the characters of a novel or the distinctive style of a work of art (NS 2, 527, no. 17). In other words, unlike a philosophical principle, which seeks to be general or universal, the fragment seeks to retain its individuality, indeed refuses to be transformed into a general concept or principle, and thus presents a distinctive idea or style.11 Also like a character in a novel, the fragment participates or partakes in the action (growth or development) of the whole. As a locus for further thought and inspiration, the fragment is an active element within the system, one which manifests the system’s unity in a particular or distinctive way. A system composed of fragments is thus open to transformation and new meaning. The whole achieves greater unity and complexity through continuous engagement with its distinctive parts; the parts, in turn, achieve increasing individuality and meaning through greater understanding of their place within the whole. Every aspect of the system, as well as the system itself, can thus be described as alive—just like the nature which it seeks to present. Novalis criticizes philosophical systems because they lack a “poetic spirit,” that is, they stifle further thought and undermine insight into new or deeper meaning. Thus, the goal to bring poetry into philosophy does not imply overcoming philosophical thought altogether. Rather, the aim is to bring the intuitive and imaginative elements of poetry into philosophy. In this way, philosophy can construct a system of knowledge that incites further thought and is therefore as productive and active as nature. What is necessary, then, is a transformation of philosophy through poetry. The division of poetry and philosophy is, after all, “only apparent—and to the disadvantage of both—it is a sign of sickness—and of a sickly constitution” (NS 3, 406, no. 717).

Conclusion to Part 1: Romanticism and Idealism

A

s I have tried to illustrate, Novalis’s aim was to articulate a relational conception of the absolute, one which adequately presents the dynamic and complex character of reality. Novalis argued that the absolute is not a particular thing and cannot be reduced to any one principle; rather, it is the relation between self and other, between humanity and nature, between intelligible and sensible, and must therefore be understood as nothing other than a sphere of mediation. His rejection of a first principle and a thingin-itself emerged out of a critique of abstractions in thought, which fail to adequately grasp the structure of experience (moral, artistic, scientific), the organization of nature, and the meaning and goal of knowledge. While Novalis had indicated a conception of being as mediation or relation already in the Fichte-Studien, it was in his studies of Hemsterhuis that he began to think of being in terms of relations and to emphasize the relational character of the self, both on the moral and the epistemological levels. Novalis did not forgo these insights as he continued to think through the structure of the relation between self and nature in his encyclopedia project and his two novels. Knowledge of nature and of the human relation to nature became central themes in these later writings. Novalis’s epistemological concerns were never divorced from his ontological conception of the absolute. It is on the basis of his view that the absolute is both in the self and in nature, but cannot be reduced to either, that Novalis developed his understanding of morality, artistic creativity, and knowledge. For Novalis, knowledge involves the elevation of nature to an ideal reality, of the finite product to infinite productivity, through creative or living thinking. To know nature, he repeatedly emphasized, we must realize or make nature. By this he did not mean that we are the original creators of nature; rather, we are transforming nature into an ideal reality and thereby 77

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making explicit what is merely implicit in nature. This, as I have shown, is not the work of a mind that is outside of nature and imposing its own laws on nature. It must be the work of a creative mind that participates in nature’s activity and thereby realizes nature’s potential. While Novalis learned a great deal from his contemporaries and predecessors—especially Fichte, Kant, Goethe, and Hemsterhuis—he developed his own, unique understanding of the meaning and goal of philosophy. Thus, unlike Goethe, Novalis placed the self at the center of both moral activity and knowledge, and unlike Hemsterhuis, he emphasized the active nature of the self. Through moral activity, he argued, the self brings the super­ sensible into the world—in every moral act the eternal manifests itself in the finite or temporal. In turn, through knowledge, the self transforms nature into thought and, as such, raises it to its highest potential. In both directions (inward and outward), the free synthesizing activity of the self is essential. However, in contrast to what he saw as a problematic (i.e., transcendent) conception of the self in Kant, Novalis maintained that the self is always in the world, in relation, such that the striving of the self, whether moral or epistemological, is in the context of a larger reality. In fact, the aim of both moral action and knowledge is nothing other than the actualization of harmony between humanity and nature and between human beings in general. Novalis learned a great deal from Fichte and retained some of Fichte’s most significant insights throughout his writings, as is evident in his emphasis on the self and moral activity. Nonetheless, Novalis did not give up his fundamental critique of Fichte’s aim to construct a system on the basis of an unconditioned first principle. From the start, Novalis argued that the notion of a first principle is an abstraction that can only be a “later concept” (NS 3, 253, no. 76). The goal of both knowledge and morality, he agreed with Fichte, must be infinite: the system of knowledge must continue to develop through greater insight; the self must continue to strive to realize its moral ideal in the world. Although the goal is infinite, it is achieved in every moral act and in every living thought. Thus, Novalis writes that “the world will become to the living ever more infinite,” adding, however, that “golden times could appear” (NS 2, 269, no. 565). Or, as he puts it in his notes from 1799, “in virtue, the local and temporal personality disappears. The virtuous is as such not a historical individual. It is God itself” (NS 3, 670, no. 610). The goal of humanity is to bring the ideal into the world and to raise the world to the level of the ideal. Romanticization, as Novalis calls it, is mediation, presentation, and transformation, through moral action and enlivened thinking.



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To romanticize the world, to bring it to its own higher meaning, is to transform the world. This does not imply exaggeration or falsification, nor does it imply a flight of fancy. Rather it is the actualization of an original potential within nature and the self—the realization of an implicit ideal. In this way, Novalis’s romanticism is very much an idealism; an idealism, however, that is wedded to empiricism, or, as Novalis puts it, “idealism is nothing but genuine empiricism” (NS 3, 316, no. 402).1

part 2

Friedrich Schlegel

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ore so than his fellow romantics, Friedrich Schlegel has been recognized for his philosophical interests and contributions.1 Although best known for his work in the Athenäum, his definition of “romantic poetry,” and his literary criticism, Schlegel’s critique of foundationalism, his theory of knowledge, his philosophy of history, and his conception of Lebensphilosophie have also been significant in epitomizing the romantic movement.2 Schlegel’s “romantic period” is marked by his friendship with Novalis and Friedrich Schleiermacher, his co-editorship of the journal Athenäum with his brother August Wilhelm, and by what he and his friends called “symphilosophy.” Novalis, Schleiermacher, and August Wilhelm participated in the writing of some of Schlegel’s most well-known published works, such as the Athenäums-Fragmente (Athenäum Fragments) (1798). In addition to fragments, Schlegel composed essays, novels, and poems and lectured on topics ranging from transcendental philosophy to European literature to Greek and Indian languages and mythologies. He learned Sanskrit and, with his brother, was an important vehicle in the transmission of Hindu thought to Germany. In his youth, Schlegel was a political radical, who was influenced by the French Revolution and Rousseau and espoused a form of direct representation and democracy.3 He lived with his future wife, Dorothea, while she was still legally married to the banker Simon Veit, and his novel Lucinde (1799), which speaks of their relationship, caused a scandal that reverberated through the German-speaking world for years. He expressed some of the most progressive views of the time on the role of women and gender relations.4 Yet his wide-ranging interests often put him at odds with his peers. Hegel famously described Schlegel’s philosophy as nothing more than 81

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“vanity,”5 and Goethe complained about Schlegel’s proclivity to “popularize” ideas that were not his own (FA 39, 395).6 Schelling’s critique of Schlegel might very well be the most caustic and the most direct. In a letter to Fichte, Schelling expresses alarm about Schlegel’s intention to offer lectures on transcendental philosophy in Jena. It was one thing, Schelling writes, for Schlegel to spread “poetic and philosophical dilettantism” in his own circle, but to influence students with his ideas was very disconcerting (HKA 3/2, 271). After all, Schelling concludes his tirade, Schlegel’s views are inherently contradictory: how could he intend to carry out transcendental philosophy if he has repeatedly proclaimed that a philosophical system is impossible? (HKA 3/2, 272). Schelling’s protestations point to a general doubt that has hovered over Schlegel’s philosophical credentials. In recent years, however, there has been a growing interest in Schlegel’s contributions to philosophy.7 Yet even those who emphasize Schlegel’s significance in the history of philosophy do so with caution.8 For in spite of his unique role in the development of Romantic thought, Schlegel never developed a system and was highly skeptical of the methods and goals of his philosophical contemporaries. How then are we to understand Schlegel’s philosophical contributions? In the history of philosophy, this question has been—to a large degree—answered through the lens of Hegel’s interpretation of Schlegel’s notion of irony as a poetical exaggeration of the Fichtean I.9 Hegel claims that Schlegel’s key idea is irony and argues that irony nullifies morals and all that has content (it results in “the nullity of all that is objective and valid in its own right”) and leads to an empty subjectivity. “If the self insists on this standpoint,” Hegel writes, “then everything will appear to him empty and purposeless—everything except his own subjectivity, which is thus rendered wholly vacuous and itself vain.”10 Although Dilthey contested Hegel’s emphasis on both Fichte and irony, arguing instead that Schlegel’s philosophy must be understood as a philosophy of life and history, Hegel’s interpretation has been—and remains— highly influential.11 On the one hand, Hegel’s claim that Schlegel’s views are nothing but an aesthetisization of Fichtean idealism has contributed to the interpretation of Schlegel as a subjective idealist, whose primary concerns revolved around questions concerning the subject’s ability or inability to achieve knowledge of itself or the world.12 On the other hand, the emphasis that Hegel places on irony presumes that Schlegel’s most fundamental philosophical contribution lies in his literary theory and epistemology. By “epistemology,” I mean not only a theory of knowledge, but also a theory of understanding and communication (hermeneutics, deconstruction) as



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well as theories of literary production and literary communication (literary criticism). These two aspects of Hegel’s interpretation—subjectivism and epistemology—clearly go hand in hand. It is in his emphasis on the subject that Schlegel’s concerns are considered to be epistemological in the wider sense of the term (i.e., concerning the subjective nature of knowledge, the subject’s self-understanding, and its ability to communicate). Although recent scholarship has contested Hegel’s interpretation of Schlegel as a disciple of Fichte, it has for the most part agreed with his view that Schlegel’s primary concern was epistemological. This may not be suprising given that the majority of Schlegel’s interpreters have been literary scholars, who are primarily concerned with Schlegel’s literary criticism and seek to understand the literary and linguistic significance of his theories of wit and irony. The basic premise of these interpretations is that Schlegel’s other philosophical contributions (his moral and political philosophy, his philosophy of history, and his metaphysics or ontology) are outcomes of his epistemology.13 It is, however, quite surprising to see that philosophical interpretations of Schlegel are not all that different: they too agree on the primacy of epistemology in Schlegel’s philosophy. Schlegel’s literary theory and literary productions, for example, are understood as a reaction to a “crisis” in knowledge, as Philippe Lacoue-Labarthe and Jean-Luc Nancy have put it.14 Or, according to Manfred Frank, Schlegel’s philosophy consists in striving after an unknowable and unpresentable absolute. Although the absolute is unknowable, Frank maintains that Schlegel employs wit and allegory in order to point at or suggest (andeuten) the absolute.15 Frank, however, wishes to distinguish himself from postmodern interpretations such as LacoueLabarthe and Nancy’s, for whom the absolute is a fiction. Instead, he insists that the absolute plays the necessary epistemological role of regulating and organizing knowledge and self-consciousness—the absolute thus functions as a regulative ideal.16 In spite of his disagreement with Lacoue-Labarthe and Nancy, Frank agrees with their basic premise that Schlegel’s philosophy was purely epistemological. Thus, along with the more literary readings of Schlegel, their interpretations remain within the epistemological framework which Hegel initiated.17 These interpretations are not entirely wrong. Schlegel is certainly concerned with the question of knowledge and is rightly considered a postKantian critical philosopher. In notes from 1796 he remarks that the question “what can I know? Is only half of the problem; the other half is; how can I know?” (KFSA 18, 7, no. 32). Like Novalis, Schlegel is concerned not only with what can be known, but also with how knowledge can be acquired,

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presented, and organized. Thus, toward the beginning of the AthenäumsFragmente, he speaks of a “philosophy of philosophy” (KFSA 2, 165, no. 1; and KFSA 2, 173, no. 56). However, the solely epistemological interpretation of Schlegel’s philosophical contributions is also misleading. For one, it has led to confusion concerning Schlegel’s understanding of the “infinite.”18 Although Schlegel describes the task of knowledge as infinite, for him the term does not denote only an epistemological category—in other words, infinite approximation to the absolute. Rather, he also identifies the infinite with the universe and speaks of it as being—or, more accurately, as becoming and life. A solely epistemological reading of Schlegel’s conception of the infinite fails to grasp this second, ontological notion and thus does not recognize that Schlegel’s conception of knowledge as infinite is intimately connected to his understanding of being as infinite becoming. Furthermore, Schlegel’s interest in the phenomenon of life influenced his epistemological feats, which were largely concerned with explaining and presenting lived experience, nature, and history. In other words, Schlegel’s epistemology—his questions concerning knowledge, its presentation and organization, and his concerns with the knowing subject—is connected to his conception of life and the attempt to know and communicate life. Schlegel’s epistemology, in other words, cannot be divorced from his ontology. Ultimately, the term infinite does not simply imply the infinite task of knowledge, nor is it a heuristic category used for the organization of knowledge (i.e., a Kantian regulative ideal). Rather, the term also denotes an onto­ logical category, which Schlegel identifies with being and existence. The infinite is thus one aspect or element in what he describes as the absolute. The other aspect is consciousness. Therefore, it is only by recognizing both the ontological and epistemological aspects of Schlegel’s project and under­ standing the connection between his notions of the self (as consciousness) and being (as the infinite) that one can grasp Schlegel’s view of the absolute. An examination of Schlegel’s writings from 1798 onward reveals that the question to which he returned time and again was nothing less than a metaphysical or ontological question concerning the status of the infinite and its relation to knowledge and finite beings. His 1800–1801 Jena Vor­ lesungen (Jena Lectures) on transcendental philosophy are in large part ded­­icated to answering the question of “how the infinite goes out of itself and makes itself finite” (KFSA 12, 39).19 Throughout his writings, Schlegel maintains that there is “only one world,” arguing that only a monistic conception of reality (an identity of being and knowing) can adequately explain experience.



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In many ways, Schlegel’s starting point is in fundamental agreement with Novalis’s. Both friends concur on the unity of being and knowing or consciousness. Similarly, they agree that the absolute is “in the world” rather than outside of it, such that “there is only one world,” as opposed to the two Kantian worlds. Furthermore, in the same way that Novalis became critical of Fichte’s conception of an unconditioned first principle, so Schlegel came to disagree with the Fichtean view of philosophy and, in particular, with the idea of an unconditioned ground. In addition, Novalis played a formative role in Schlegel’s development. Key transformations in Schlegel’s thought often occurred while he was in close contact with Novalis, and the two friends conceived several projects together. It was in dialogue with Novalis, for instance, that Schlegel began to take a serious interest in nature. It was also following conversations and correspondence with Novalis that Schlegel sought to compose an “encyclopedia” and a “new bible.” However, in spite of these fundamental agreements, there were important differences between the two friends. Schlegel, for instance, came to the conclusion that being is essentially historical and must be understood in terms of becoming. Only in this way, he argues, can we retain morality, develop a coherent philosophy, and elaborate a monistic, but nonreductive, account of the relationship between mind and nature, consciousness and being (KFSA 12, 410–11). Furthermore, while Novalis emphasizes free action in morality and understands moral acts as mediating between the infinite and the finite, Schlegel develops a conception of morality as conscious passivity, which he likens to the vegetative state of the plant. Thus, rather than emphasizing freedom in morality and artistic creativity, Schlegel explicates moral and artistic acts as essentially contemplative and meditative and, through the symbol of the plant, seeks to establish a sense of communal harmony in both moral and artistic life. This is not to say that Novalis overlooks the relational nature of life and of the human being’s moral nature—for, as discussed earlier, Novalis begins to develop these ideas in the Hemsterhuis-Studien and Kant-Studien and elaborates them in his later writings. Rather, the point is that Novalis considered moral activity to be distinct from natural activity and saw the work of art as a transformation of the natural world. By contrast, for Schlegel, true moral and artistic comportment must strive to be like nature, rather than endeavor to transform it. In the following, I will consider the development of Schlegel’s thought from his first serious engagement with philosophical questions—in his review of Jacobi’s novel Woldemar—to his various attempts to construct a

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“system of fragments” and an “encyclopedia” in the form of a romantic novel. The goals of this part of the book are threefold. First, I want to explicate Schlegel’s relationship to and critique of transcendental philosophy. As previously noted, Hegel was the first to interpret Schlegel’s philosophical contributions as nothing more than an aestheti­ cization of Fichte’s subjective idealism. Although this interpretation is no longer favored, Schlegel’s exact relation to transcendental philosophy remains a point of disagreement. Did Schlegel develop a rigorous critique of transcendental idealism and, if so, on what grounds? As I will show, Schlegel’s critique can be distinguished into two main points. His first point concerns the idealist goal of developing a system of knowledge based on an unconditioned first principle. While Schlegel’s critique of first principles is widely acknowledged, his relationship to transcendental philosophy remains a controversial topic.20 Did Schlegel abandon systematic thinking altogether? Does the idea of the unconditioned continue to play a role in his thinking? And, finally, what does Schlegel mean by a “system of fragments” and does it offer a compelling alternative to the systematic approach of the transcendental idealists? This is closely connected to Schlegel’s second critique of transcendental philosophy, namely, its limited understanding of cognition and of philosophy in general. While Kant claims that thought is entirely discursive, Fichte, Schlegel argues, develops a conception of intellectual intuition that is implicitly based on the structure of reflection. In both cases, therefore, thought is reduced to its products, such that neither offers an adequate account of the ground of these products, that is, thinking itself. Schlegel’s claim is that in order for transcendental philosophy to be coherent, it must seek to understand not only the subjective structure of knowledge, but also that which underlies and makes it possible. As such, transcendental philosophy, he argues, necessitates moving beyond the limited purview of transcendental philosophy. My second aim is to explicate Schlegel’s statement that philosophy must become the history of philosophy, and his related claim that philosophical methodology must achieve a historical perspective. This involves unpacking Schlegel’s approach to the history of philosophy and elaborating his critique of ahistorical methods and concepts. In many ways, Schlegel’s views regarding the historicity of philosophy (and of consciousness) anticipate Hegel’s and offer insights into both Schlegel’s epistemology and his understanding of the relationship between philosophy, consciousness, and reality.



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My last goal is to consider the coherence and unity of Schlegel’s diverse projects. Schlegel’s interests were far-ranging, and his concerns extended well beyond the usual concerns of a philosopher. Nonetheless, in each of his ventures—in his attempt to develop a system of fragments, or in his romantic novel—Schlegel’s underlying motivation remained the same: to explicate the nature of reality and its relation to knowledge. Thus, my final aim involves an assessment of Schlegel as philosopher. Before beginning, however, I want to say a few words about the development of Schlegel’s thought, in relation to my methodology. The beginning of Schlegel’s romantic period is marked by a move away from his earlier attempt to ground taste in objective principles and a critique of the FichteanReinholdian system based on first principles.21 Schlegel describes this transition in the Kritische Fragmente (Critical Fragments) (1797), identifying his earlier “rage for objectivity” with the philosophical mood of the time and writing that “the revolutionary rage for objectivity of my earlier philosophical musings has something of a fundamental rage, which was powerfully spread during the time of Reinhold’s philosophical consulship” (KFSA 2, 155, no. 66).22 It is more difficult, however, to determine the end of Schlegel’s romantic period. Although Schlegel left Jena in December 180123, his work in the years immediately following his departure does not evidence a major transformation in his thought or indicate in any significant way his later conversion to Catholicism (which took place on April 16, 1808, in Cologne).24 Between 1804 and 1806 Schlegel gave what have come to be known as his Kölner Vorlesungen (Cologne Lectures; original title: Die Entwicklung der Philosophie in zwölf Büchern), in which he provides one of his most comprehensive and critical examinations of the history of philosophy and elaborates at length his own philosophical perspective.25 This has left scholars at a loss: on the one hand, the lectures offer an incredible source of material for understanding Schlegel as philosopher; on the other hand, the lectures were delivered after his departure from Jena and, some maintain, contain indications of Schlegel’s move toward Catholicism and his abandonment of earlier “romantic” views.26 For instance, it has been argued that Schlegel’s conception of aesthetics shifts in the Kölner Vorlesungen because here Schlegel speaks of art as a supplement to an original experience of divine “revelation [Offenbarung].”27 Nonetheless, in these lectures Schlegel does not yet formulate his later critique of pantheistic religion in favor of Catholicism. In contrast, the cosmology he elaborates in the Kölner Vorlesungen is very close to ideas

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already developed in 1799 and 1800.28 Similarly, many of Schlegel’s early views on the various schools of philosophy—empiricism, skepticism, mysticism—are further elaborated in these later lectures.29 Thus, I do not completely ignore the Kölner Vorlesungen, but refer to them in order to clarify points which Schlegel makes earlier, or emphasize questions and concerns to which he continually returns.

chapter five

New Philosophical Ideals: Schlegel’s Critique of First Principles

5.1 The Woldemar Rezension: The Wechselerweis and Striving after the Infinite

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lthough it was not until the late 1790s that Schlegel began to publish  philosophical writings—primarily in the form of reviews—his interest in philosophy had already begun during his student years in Göttingen and Leipzig and is evident in letters to his brother. Schlegel is thus quite honest when, in 1797, he writes to the publisher Cotta that “eight years ago, I studied Kantian philosophy, and since then have not lost sight of it” (KFSA 23, 356, no. 192). His philosophical studies, however, were by no means limited to Kant. By 1797 he had undertaken serious study of Plato, Fichte, Herder, Hemsterhuis, Spinoza, and Jacobi and had composed several philosophical pieces on literary themes. In 1796 Schlegel published a review of Jacobi’s novel Woldemar, which introduces an ambitious philosophical program based on the “love of knowledge [Wissenschaftsliebe]” and fearlessness in the face of truth (KFSA, 2, 69; KFSA 2, 72).1 Although merely suggestive, this early work presages both the spirit and aims of Schlegel’s philosophy. In it, he not only denies Woldemar the designation “philosophical artwork [ philosophisches Kunstwerk],” but also provides an incisive critique of Jacobi’s methodology—illustrating Jacobi’s ambiguous relation to philosophy—and takes the first steps toward a distinctive philosophical approach. Following a brief summary of the novel’s characters and plot, Schlegel plunges into a critique of the work and of Jacobi’s thought in general. Woldemar, Schlegel explains, is not a work of art because it lacks artistic unity—its characters and its plot are internally incoherent. Jacobi, however, had designated his novel as “philosophical,” leading Schlegel to consider the work’s philosophical unity and coherence. 89

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For a work to be considered “philosophical,” Schlegel writes, it must meet the first condition of philosophy. By this, Schlegel adds in parentheses, he means philosophy in the “ancient Socratic meaning of the word.” This condition, he continues, is none other than the “love of knowledge [Wissenschaftsliebe].” That is to say, “altruistic, pure interest in the knowledge of truth; one can also call it logical enthusiasm” (KFSA 2, 69).2 Thus, what distinguishes philosophy from sophistry is not its content, but the manner in which thinking is carried out. If the love of knowledge is not the priority, if “knowledge and truth do not have an unconditioned worth,” but are manipulated for other goals, then, Schlegel writes, it is sophistry. Although he does not go so far as to directly state that Jacobi’s work is sophistry, an implication of sophistry is evident in Schlegel’s critique of the novel. Rather than making love of knowledge and fearlessness in the face of truth his highest aims, Jacobi’s goals, Schlegel illustrates, are to prove his preconceived beliefs.3 Thus, Schlegel famously describes Jacobi’s attitude toward philosophy in terms of Romeo’s desire for Juliet: “He who demands of philosophy a Juliet,” Schlegel writes, “will sooner or later have to arrive at Romeo’s sublime sentence: ‘Hang up Philosophy! Unless philosophy can make a Juliet ’ ” (KFSA 2, 70). Jacobi, for whom Christian faith is the priority, gave up philosophy. Schlegel’s polemic against Jacobi rests on his view that philosophy involves striving after the truth. However, the very idea of striving appears to rest on an assumption. It seems to assume that there is something—a unified, self-evident principle or object of knowledge—to strive after. One of Jacobi’s most significant challenges to contemporary philosophy, Schlegel recognizes, concerns the notion of a self-evident first principle. Jacobi’s critique is that there is an inherent contradiction in philosophical methodology, which proceeds by way of proofs, because, Jacobi claims, “every proof already presupposes something proven” (KFSA 2, 72). By proceeding from a proof to its presupposition, philosophy results in an infinite regress, which cannot ultimately arrive at a self-evident truth or certain knowledge. This implies that systematic philosophy, which is based on the notion of a first, unconditioned principle, is inherently unfounded and thus impossible. Schlegel’s response to Jacobi’s challenge is the notion of Wechselerweis, or alternating proof. Jacobi’s claim that “for every proof, something proven must already be presupposed,” is only valid, Schlegel explains, against a thinker who bases his system on one proof. He continues: “What if, however, the ground of philosophy were an externally unconditioned, but reciprocally conditioned and self-conditioning Wechselerweis?” (KFSA 2, 72).4 In the place of an unconditioned ground or first principle, a Grundsatz, from



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which all knowledge is derived, Schlegel offers the idea of two reciprocally conditioned and conditioning grounds. He repeats this in notes taken during his time in Jena in 1796: “In my system the first principle is a Wechseler­ weis. In Fichte’s a postulate and an unconditioned principle” (KFSA 18, 521, no. 22). Clearly, Schlegel agrees with Jacobi’s critique of an unconditioned first principle. For Schlegel, however, this does not imply forgoing philosophy. While Jacobi maintains that the problem lies in philosophy as such—such that philosophy suffers from an internal and insoluble contradiction— Schlegel locates the problem in a particular philosophical methodology which necessitates the notion of an unconditioned principle. In fact, Schlegel argues, philosophical striving is in conflict with the notion of an unconditioned principle, which depends on stasis and immutability, because as unconditioned it must remain outside of and untouched by conditions. Striving, however, implies transformation and opposition. This means, Schlegel claims, that to speak of “striving after the unconditioned” makes no sense. In contrast, he offers striving after the infinite, which he describes as a “healthy striving.”5 The infinite does not exclude opposition and transformation, but, he suggests, goes hand in hand with the idea of reciprocal conditioning and determination—what he describes as a “happy union between the opposed” (KFAS 2, 76). Although Schlegel does not elaborate on what he means by the infinite, or explicate how striving after the infinite is the source of this “happy union,” he makes an implicit distinction between the infinite and the unconditioned. By connecting striving after the infinite to a harmony of opposites, that is, to two reciprocally conditioning factors, Schlegel appears to be saying that the notion of the infinite and that of Wechselerweis complement one another. The infinite, then, is not opposed to the idea of a conditioned and conditioning principle. In the years following the publication of the Woldemar review, Schlegel goes on to formulate a rigorous critique of the methodology of transcendental philosophy and of first principles. He argues that the source of the problem in both Fichte’s and Schelling’s systems is their continued reliance on mathematics and mathematical construction as the model for philosophical system building. Although Kant had distinguished mathematics and philosophy, Fichte and Schelling reclaimed mathematics’ role in the development of philosophical knowledge and the generation of a system of philosophy.6 The very possibility of self-consciousness, they argued, depends on an original postulation to abstraction and reflection. Thus, just as a geometer begins with a postulate, an indemonstrable intuition, so too

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must the philosopher. This intuition provides the “evidence” upon which the system is constructed. That is to say, through the original intuition, the philosopher, like the geometer, becomes aware of her or his own activity of constructing and of its necessity. The geometer had to construct in this particular way; similarly, the philosopher finds her- or himself necessitated to generate particular intuitions. On the basis of this original postulation, further intuitions are generated and a system of transcendental philosophy based on this first postulation, this Grundsatz, emerges. In contrast to Fichte and Schelling, Schlegel argues that philosophical systematicity must not be modeled on mathematical construction. Rather, he writes, “A philosophical system has more similarities with a poetic and historical system than with a mathematical one, which is always considered to be uniquely [ausschließend] systematic” (KFSA 18, 84, no. 650). Schlegel contests the very idea that mathematical knowledge yields systematicity at all—at least the kind of systematicity that he considered essential for philosophy: “As soon as philosophy becomes science, then there is history. Everything systematic is historical and vice versa. The mathematical method is exactly the antisystematic” (HKA 18, 86, no. 671). There are two reasons for Schlegel’s rejection of the use of mathematical construction for philosophical purposes. First, it necessitates the notion of an unconditioned first principle, an original postulate. Second, it leads to an inherently ahistorical and atemporal conception of knowledge and philosophy.7 The fundamental problem with the notion of an unconditioned principle, Schlegel maintains, is that although the unconditioned determines the system—it is the principle from which all further principles are derived—it remains outside of systematic determination and derivation. In other words, as unconditioned it stands opposed to the conditioned principles that make up the system of knowledge. This opposition, Schlegel argues, has several problematic implications. First, as soon as something stands in opposition to something else, it becomes determined and delimited by this opposition. Thus, the unconditioned opposed to the conditioned cannot be truly unconditioned. Second, insofar as the unconditioned cannot be derived from the system, it is, in a fundamental way, outside of the system. Therefore, although it is the ground of the system, it must somehow stand outside of that which it grounds. Third, because the unconditioned cannot be derived from or determined by the system, it is unknowable and inaccessible from within the system. This means that the system of knowledge cannot be complete or absolute—for it does not (and cannot) account for the principle upon which



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it is based. Knowledge of the unconditioned must come from a source that is outside of the system itself, and thus two systems of knowledge (two modes of thought) emerge as competing with one another. Fourth, insofar as the unconditioned is outside the system, it does not say anything about the system itself; because it is external to the system, the unconditioned cannot explain the meaning or integrity of the system. As I shall discuss, according to Schlegel the problem ultimately lies in the mode of thinking that constructs a system on the basis of an unconditioned.8 Precisely because thought posits the ground of knowledge as something other or external, in other words, as unconditioned, its relation to this ground is objectifying and ultimately dogmatic. By positing the ground of the system outside of the system, one unwittingly makes it into a thing or an object, that is to say, into something that is determined by opposition and difference. In turn, by positing an unconditioned, this mode of thought instantiates a duality between itself and the unconditioned (or between itself as unconditioned and itself as conditioned). This duality, however, once again necessitates objectification—the (self as) unconditioned is opposed to (and thus delimited by) the (self as) conditioned. Ultimately, Schlegel concludes, the very notion of the unconditioned is dogmatic, because it implies an unjustified opposition between subject and object, between the act of positing and the thing posited. In distinguishing the infinite from the unconditioned, Schlegel seeks both to overcome the problems that arise from a system based on an unconditioned principle and to develop a new mode of thinking that does not externalize and objectify. A system should neither begin with nor be derived from a first principle, and for this reason, he argues that all knowledge must begin “in the middle.”9 Furthermore, by replacing the notion of a first principle with the Wech­ selerweis, Schlegel makes strides toward a new systematic idea. In this early writing, he not only introduces the spirit of his philosophical endeavor— love of knowledge, fearlessness of truth—but also suggests an alternative to the unconditioned first principle in the idea of Wechselerweis and points to a new way of thinking about the infinite.

5.2 System and History Soon after completing the Woldemar review, Schlegel moved from Dresden to Jena. On the way to Jena, he stopped for a few days in Weißenfels to visit Novalis. As I have discussed, by 1796 Novalis had been occupied with the Wissenschaftslehre for some time and was increasingly skeptical of Fichte’s

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premises.10 A year later, Schlegel warmly recalls this short visit, writing to Novalis that he wished they could have another chance to “fichticize” (KFSA 23, 371, no. 205). Whatever the topics of their conversations may have been, Fichte and the Wissenschaftslehre were at their center. In Jena, Schlegel met Fichte and developed a strong relationship with him. However, as their personal proximity increased, their philosophical differences became more evident. Thus, in 1796 and 1797 Schlegel was preparing to write a critical essay on the Wissenschaftslehre. Although the essay never came to fruition, the notes he took at the time grant insight into Schlegel’s relationship to transcendental philosophy (and to Fichte’s version of it in particular), indicate the grounds of his critique, and provide further elaboration of his notion of Wechselerweis. As in the Woldemar review, Schlegel’s major critique of the Wissen­ schaftslehre is methodological. It is methodology, Schlegel argues, that distinguishes dogmatism from criticism and Fichte’s methodology falls on the side of dogmatism (KFSA 18, 12, no. 83; KFSA 18, 8–9, no. 52; see also KSFA 18, 5, no. 10). What makes Fichte’s method dogmatic, or uncritical, is that it is based on presuppositions. “Philosophy ‘in the true sense,’ ” Schlegel writes, “has no first principle, no object, no determined task. The Wissen­ schaftslehre has a determined object (I and Not-I and their relation) and a determined reciprocal ground and thus also a determined task” (KFSA 18, 7, no. 36). In the Woldemar review, Schlegel defined true philosophy as the love of knowledge and fearlessness in the face of truth. Philosophy in the true sense must not be beholden to any other criteria.11 This means, Schlegel now writes, that philosophy cannot begin with a particular principle as its foundation or as its goal. Rather, it must, “like an epic poem, begin in the middle” (KFSA 18, 518, no. 16). The first moment or scene of an epic poem is not—cannot be—selfgrounding or self-evident. The listener does not have an idea of what preceded the first scene and does not know the characters, but plunges right into the story. The epic poem, furthermore, does not proceed linearly or deductively, as though each scene can be deduced or derived from the one preceding. This must also be the case in a philosophical system, Schlegel argues, because it too “is a whole, and the way by which to know it is not through the straight line, but through the circle” (KFSA 18, 518, no. 16).12 Schlegel’s claim, then, is not simply that a philosophical system need not begin with an unconditioned first principle, but, more radically, that it must not. Beginning with an unconditioned principle amounts to beginning with an unjustified presupposition. Furthermore, Schlegel contends that the linear procedure, which deduces



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a principle by identifying it as the condition of possibility of the preceding principle (and in this way achieves necessity), is mechanical. Its logic is that of cause and effect, wherein the effect is understood in terms of an external cause (the principle in terms of its condition). A linear system proceeds from a proven statement to its proof (from effect to cause, from conditioned to condition) and thus grasps the proven statement (effect) in terms of the proof (cause)—a procedure that continues ad infinitum. Thus, even a system based on an uncaused cause or unconditioned principle such as Fichte’s remains, Schlegel argues, bound to the mechanical model of cause and effect. The derived principles are, as derived, effects of the unconditioned. Their ground (reason or justification) is thus outside of themselves, which means that they can only be understood in terms of that ground or cause which preceded them, in other words, in terms of the unconditioned. Schlegel maintains that, in contrast to a system based on linear derivation, “a true system is an integrated, structured unity of scientific material [wissenschaftlichem Stoff ], in thorough reciprocity [Wechselwirkung] and organic connection [Zusammenhang]. Unity that in itself [is] a complete and unified totality” (KFSA 18, 12, no. 84). The parts within this system do not relate to one another linearly or mechanically, because within an organic whole there is not one ultimate cause from which all the parts or principles are derived. Rather, all the parts are both cause and effect (if we are to continue using the language of mechanical causation), such that they are in a relation of reciprocal determination. No member is simply a cause of another, but every member is both cause and effect within an integrated and self-organizing unity. In place of the deductive method, Schlegel argues that a historical method alone can adequately explain and construct an organized and integrated system (KFSA 18, 21, no. 36). If philosophy must not presuppose any object or goal, he argues, then it follows that philosophy must not posit an unconditioned principle, a first cause or underlying ground, from which all further principles are derived. This means that philosophy must begin in the middle. It also means that philosophical questions must be reformulated, such that the goal is no longer to inquire after the efficient cause of a thing, but to grasp it in its context and through its multifaceted relations. The difference is significant. In the first case, the aim is to grasp the cause of a thing as something that precedes and conditions it, but is ultimately external to it. In the second case, the aim is to illuminate the relations and processes in which something emerges. A shift in focus thus occurs, from understanding a thing as a member of a causal chain, to understanding it as a member

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within a dynamic process that achieves its distinctive character through its transforming relations with other things. Thus, instead of understanding something in terms of an external cause or ground, the goal is to understand its place within an ongoing process. What is necessary, then, is a method that is capable of grasping processes and discerning how different elements within a process affect and are affected by one another. In other words, in order for philosophy to remain presuppositionless, it must develop a historical perspective (KFSA 18, 519–20, no. 20).

5.3 Philosophy as the History of Philosophy: Schlegel’s Philosophical Debut In the same letter to Cotta quoted above, Schlegel directs the publisher to his recent review of Friedrich Immanuel Niethammer’s Philosophisches Journal (1797).13 Schlegel hopes that by reading this review, Cotta will be convinced of the distinctiveness of his ideas and style.14 This review, he writes in the letter, is the only work that he has thus far published that “could reasonably demonstrate what I am capable of undertaking in this discipline” (KFSA 23, 356, no. 192.).15 Schlegel was quite satisfied with this review and relates to Novalis that in it, “I have completely achieved my innermost intention.” It is in this review, Schlegel goes on, that he has finally made his “debut on the philosophical stage” (KFSA 23, 363, no. 197). Although the review largely consists of synopses and analyses of essays that appeared in the first two volumes of the Journal, the question that motivates the review, together with its conclusion, offer significant insights into Schlegel’s own philosophical program.16 In the concluding remarks, Schlegel considers the goal of a philosophical review. A review of a philosophical text, he maintains, must itself be philosophical. Thus, the “reviewing and producing capacity appear to be inseparably connected here.” This means that the review must be concerned not only with describing the content of the work under review, but also with “characterizing” and determining its “worth” (KFSA 8, 30). But how is a reviewer to determine philosophical worth? The difficulty is twofold. On the one hand, a philosophical reviewer necessarily holds her own position on a particular topic and thus approaches a work from her own perspective (KFSA 8, 32). On the other hand, philosophical worth cannot be entirely determined on the basis of a principle or goal that is external to a philosophical system. The question then is: How can a philosopher attribute worth to a sys-



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tem that is not her own? At this time, Schlegel notes, there is no science that provides the necessary ground for making sound judgments on other philosophical systems. Rather, contemporary reviewers either postulate a principle according to which they judge a philosophical work (a principle that is external to the work), or they consider the work merely polemically and thus offer no insight into its worth (KFSA 8, 31). This situation can only be remedied if philosophers develop a historical understanding of philosophy. Schlegel recommends that philosophers learn a lesson from the way that natural historians observe nature.17 Natural historians, he explains, seek to classify the products of nature independently of any particular system. In so doing, they attempt to grasp the “inner ground,” or organization, of a natural object not by deducing the parts and their relations, but by observing the relations between the parts and thus understanding their development in context. They seek “to determine [the object’s] crises, grasp the tendency in its path, and designate the indications of its striving.” Such “historical suggestions,” Schlegel writes, illuminate the “spirit of the age” and are the least that one can expect in a philosophical review (KFSA 8, 32). The philosophical reviewer must therefore be more than a philosopher; she must also be a historian of philosophy. Thus, the science that is still lacking is none other than the science of the history of philosophy. Transcendental philosophers (by which he means specifically Kant, Fichte, and Schelling) have erred, Schlegel argues, because they have not incorporated a historical perspective into their understanding of philosophy, philosophical methodology, and reality.18 Furthermore, their prioritization of formal questions has resulted in confusion of means and ends. Rather than seeking truth, philosophy has become solely concerned with refining its conceptual tools. It no longer aims to grasp reality, but merely to develop formally. Reason, he argues, is in danger of becoming “purposeless know-itall [zweckloser Vielwisserei]” (KFSA 1, 622). Yet both philosophy and its object—being—are processes that advance “in infinitely many directions toward the infinite” (KFSA 8, 31). This means that the very character of philosophy can only be grasped through an understanding of the history of philosophy. It also means that reality cannot be grasped through pure thought alone but also requires historical knowledge. Only in this way, Schlegel argues, can the “gap” between transcendental and empirical, between thought and experience be overcome and an understanding of reality be achieved (KFSA 1, 627).

chapter six

From Epistemology to Ontology: The Lectures on Transcendental Idealism

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n the winter semester of 1800–1801, at the university in Jena, Schlegel offered lectures on transcendental philosophy (known as the “Jena Vorlesungen” or the “Vorlesungen über Transcendentalphilosophie”). This was an important opportunity for him, not only because it provided him with his first chance to lecture to students, but also because it allowed him to formulate his own conception of transcendental philosophy and thus distinguish himself from both Fichte’s and Schelling’s versions. In these lectures, Schlegel accomplishes a twofold feat. On the one hand, he argues for the significance of history in philosophy, particularly with regard to overcoming the gap between theory and practice, transcendental and empirical. On the other hand, he establishes the historical character of philosophy and shows how philosophical methodology must itself become historical.1 In some significant ways, however, the lectures evidence greater proximity to Fichte than Schlegel’s previous works. This is not surprising, given that the primary aim of the lectures is to offer students a general understanding of transcendental philosophy. There is, however, another more significant reason for Schlegel’s adoption of Fichte’s premises. As I have already dicussed, Schlegel was concerned with determining how to evaluate the worth of a philosophical system. This cannot be done, he emphasizes, by evaluating it in accordance with external principles or aims. Rather, to determine a system’s worth, one must judge it internally—in other words, in accordance with its own premises. This means that a critique of transcendental philosophy must proceed by way of transcendental philosophy; it must therefore begin where transcendental philosophy begins. Thus, the Jena Vorlesungen do not only offer insight into Schlegel’s critique of transcendental philosophy and his effort to move beyond it. They also demon-

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strate Schlegel’s attempt to develop a hermeneutically sensitive approach to the history of philosophy.

6.1 Transcendental Beginnings Schlegel commences the lectures by “abstracting” from everything relative or unessential. Echoing Fichte and Schelling, he explains that it it only in this way that philosophy can achieve necessary (rather than contingent) knowledge.2 The result of this original abstraction, he explains, is “the infinite”—in other words, the ground or condition of being as such. He quickly adds, however, that the infinite must be posited, which means that alongside the infinite, there is always (and necessarily) a positing consciousness. The infinite is always accompanied by consciousness, such that the two are equally original. Schlegel then moves to determine the meaning and possibility of consciousness. To be grasped as consciousness—that is, as the act of thinking, feeling, or imagining itself—consciousness must not be grasped as an object that is other than or outside of the activity of consciousness. This, however, is only possible through a nondiscursive mode of knowledge, in other words, a mode that does not derive and objectify the act of consciousness but grasps it immediately, as act. This is, Schlegel concludes, the essence of intellectual intuition.3 In intuition, there is no distinction between the act of knowledge and the object of knowledge (the I as subject and the I as object). Rather, the two (subject and object) are grasped immediately as one. The immediacy of intellectual intuition means that its insight “cannot be proven,” because “it contains its proof within itself” (KFSA 12, 24). That the knowledge gained through intellectual intuition cannot be proven means that it escapes the chain of proof—where something achieves certainty or necessity not because it is self-evidently certain, but because something outside of it (a proof) has illustrated its necessity. This also entails that there is no way by which to illustrate the insights of intellectual intuition to a person who has not experienced them. Thus, someone who has no experience of herself as a conscious being could not understand what it is to be self-conscious. Schlegel is quick to distinguish this kind of insight from faith, which contains an element of uncertainty. Although intellectual intuition is not provable, its certainty (Gewißheit) is absolute because, Schlegel claims, echoing Spinoza, “He who has seen truth once can never again mistake it” (KFSA 12, 24).4

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The difference between proof and experience is significant. While proof demonstrates the truth of something via a method that has been accepted as truth-producing (such as the regressive method of transcendental philosophy) and thereby relies on an anterior insight regarding the adequacy of the method, intellectual intuition is not based on a previously approved method and thus does not rely on an insight other than the one it provides. A person who experiences herself as self-conscious does not rely on some method of proof in order to justify her insight. The insight is immediate and unjustifiable through anything other than itself. Furthermore, Schlegel explains that this experience arises out of “the middle-point of our being” and adds that this “middle-point” is “the most expansive sphere of reason” (KFSA, 12, 9n1). In other words, the experience of intellectual intuition is not an individual, subjective experience (an experience of myself as a particular individual), but a rational experience that is nevertheless outside the boundaries of proof.5 At this stage, however, Schlegel does not offer any detail regarding this rational, nonsubjective experience and how it relates to the apparently subjective act of self-consciousness. Nonetheless, by pointing to a nonsubjective region of experience and claiming that intellectual intuition offers insight into this region, Schlegel appears to be moving away from a philosophy that seeks to determine the conditions of reflective knowledge (i.e., transcendental philosophy) to a philosophy that is concerned with the “most expansive sphere of reason,” in other words, with a presubjective, preobjective ground of experience and reality. Furthermore, unlike Fichte and Schelling, Schlegel does not designate this ground as the “unconditioned.” The question then is: Lacking an unconditioned, on what basis and according to which goal does transcendental philosophy proceed? In turn, in what ways does Schlegel’s conception of intellectual intuition—which offers insight into a nonsubjective realm of reason—differ from Fichte’s? And finally, where does Schlegel ultimately end up (if not in transcendental philosophy)? Let us begin with the first question.

6.2 Idealism and History After explicating the necessity of the two poles, or Urfakta, of philosophy (that of the infinite and that of consciousness), Schlegel adds that the two positions can be traced back to particular figures in the history of philosophy, namely, Spinoza and Fichte. Spinoza represents the view of absolute realism, while Fichte represents subjective idealism. Fichte’s subjective idealism, Schlegel explains, was the necessary result of Spinoza’s absolute real-



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ism. It was the only philosophical system that could come after Spinoza’s absolute substance. Thus, instead of remaining on the plane of transcendental deductions, Schlegel transitions to the plane of history, the history of philosophy, and seeks to show parallels between historical development in philosophy and transcendental philosophy. This move, while slight, is extremely significant. After all, its claim is that the transitional necessity between moments or epochs in the history of consciousness or the self, which Fichte and Schelling had reserved for transcendental derivations, can in fact be found in history.6 There is, in other words, necessity in history. The Jena Vorlesungen are largely concerned with unpacking the sense in which history is inherently philosophical or systematic (i.e., contains necessity) and the accompanying claim that philosophy is historical. The two claims go hand in hand because, Schlegel argues, history appears necessary (or achieves necessity) through philosophical interrogation, while philosophy must become historical in order to grasp reality. Let us consider this more closely. After commencing along Fichtean lines, Schlegel begins to question Fichte’s approach. First, he notes that as the opposite or counter to Spinoza’s system, Fichte’s philosophy must be just as one-sided as Spinoza’s. Neither can grasp reality fully, he explains, because each is concerned with only one element or aspect of reality—the infinite or consciousness. Reality, however, cannot be reduced to either because, as transcendental abstraction has shown, they are both equally original and necessary. In other words, the basic goal of transcendental philosophy—which is to locate the ground or condition of experience and reality—results not in one but two conditions. Thus, Schlegel concludes, reality is the point at which the two meet: “The two elements make a closed sphere, in whose middle lies reality” (KFSA 12, 6).7 The absolute is therefore neither “mere being” (to recall Novalis) nor pure positing (Fichte). Rather, it must be both, as the two components are not only equally original, but also presuppose one another. They are thus equally necessary. Whereas for Fichte necessity is the result of the immediate certainty of intellectual intuition,8 and for Schelling it is based on an unconditioned ground or principle9, for Schlegel, necessity emerges out of reciprocal determination. In other words, the fact that the two principles determine and are determined by one another—that they emerge only in relation to one another—makes them absolutely necessary. Thus, rather than placing the infinite and consciousness within a higher third, and elaborating their relation in terms of an original unity, Schlegel maintains that they are

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absolutely necessary precisely because they arise from and are determined through one another (KFSA 12, 25). In turn, it is for this reason that he concludes that reality is the result of their mutual determination. This has several implications. First, because consciousness and the infinite cannot be reduced to one another, it follows that reality is expressed differently at different points of their relation. That is to say, reality is not one point of contact between them, but the entire range of their possible interactions. At the end where consciousness is most fully expressed, the self emerges. At the opposite end, where the infinite is most completely expressed, we find nature in its least conscious manifestation. Thus, Schlegel writes, “The minimum of the I is the same as the maximum of nature; and the minimum of nature is the same as the maximum of the I, that is to say that the smallest sphere of consciousness is the greatest sphere of nature, and vice versa” (KFSA 12, 6). The self and nature are thus opposite expressions of the same reality, in other words, of the absolute. Reality, in turn, consists of different levels of consciousness, from the lowest to the most complex. To this, Schlegel adds that consciousness is not static but develops and transforms over time. In other words, consciousness is historical, such that the transition from Spinoza’s system to Fichte’s indicates a real transformation in consciousness. Thus, what was considered to be self-evident in the first system becomes, from the perspective of the second, in need of justification. The transformations in consciousness imply transformation in reality. Reality then does not consist only of a multiplicity of stages exhibiting lesser or greater consciousness, but is itself in a state of development that is determined by the development of consciousness. Schlegel concludes that in order for philosophy to grasp reality, it must grasp the historical development of consciousness and explicate the ways in which reality emerges in and through the different forms of consciousness (KFSA 12, 11 and 17). Philosophy, in other words, must also be the history of philosophy, or, as Schlegel puts it, “Philosophy must be thoroughly historical. . . . Our philosophy is itself history” (KFSA 12, 93). In the Jena Vorlesungen, Schlegel provides a rough elaboration of the history of philosophy and of the necessary transitions between different philosophical perspectives. Although he does not provide the detail of The Phenomenology of Spirit, the lectures share quite a bit with Hegel’s work.10 In the same way that Schlegel points to Spinoza and Fichte as representatives of two necessary stages of philosophical development, he also identifies different epochs of consciousness with specific schools of thought. Dogmatism, for example, is the “epoch of principles,” which concerns itself



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with determination (KFSA 12, 12). Idealism, by contrast, is the “epoch of ideas” and is concerned with knowing the infinite (KFSA 12, 13). In addition, Schlegel explains the transitions from one epoch to the next in terms of error and the recognition of error (KFSA 12, 14). The conclusion of one epoch is necessitated by a recognition of error, which is worked out in the following epoch. The transformations within the history of philosophy are therefore self-transformations incited by the development or evolution of consciousness, such that every transition leads to a higher level of understanding and greater complexity. In the years that followed, Schlegel continued to explicate the history of philosophy in relation to the history of consciousness. The Kölner Vor­ lesungen, delivered between 1804 and 1806, and originally titled “The Development of Philosophy in Twelve Books” [Die Entwicklung der Philosophie in zwölf Büchern], are the fruit of this research. The goal of these lectures, Schlegel explains, is to show “how a system links to another, how it arose from out of the other, and the whole unfolding of this successive development should be traced back, where possible, to its first source” (KFSA 12, 163). To do this, Schlegel offers a detailed analysis of the development of philosophy and explicates the transitions from one perspective to the other as arising out of a necessity that is internal to the perspective. Thus, his method is not purely transcendental; rather, it is based on careful study of the history of philosophy, which seeks, above all, to understand each philosophical perspective from within and thus grasp its internal coherence and meaningfulness. It is only from out of this internal perspective that Schlegel then seeks to explain how transitions between epochs or perspectives occur: an internal incoherence or error is recognized, such that it becomes necessary to develop a different position. His goal, therefore, is to locate necessity in the transitions, rather than impose it upon them. Furthermore, Schlegel emphasizes that the aim is not to negate or cancel previous perspectives and thereby prove one’s own as the only correct or possible perspective. Rather, the aim is to understand the unfolding of philosophy and thus grasp philosophy through its history.11 Only by doing philosophy in this way, he contends, can we truly appreciate previous philosophical views and understand the meaning of philosophy. Schlegel thus challenges transcendental philosophy on several levels. First, by showing how idealism necessitates historicism, Schlegel criticizes Kant’s, Fichte’s, and Schelling’s ahistorical approach and concepts. Second, by establishing the historical nature of knowledge, Schlegel implicitly questions the idealist search for an unconditioned ground. Finally, by identifying the development of consciousness with the historical development of

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philosophy, Schlegel disputes the idealist goal of constructing a completed or closed system. In the place of a self-enclosed system, Schlegel offers the notions of an infinitely perfectible (and hence necessarily incomplete) totality and system of knowledge (KFSA 12, 103).12 Although in the lectures Schlegel is working within the paradigm of transcendental philosophy, he is also clearly challenging its methods and goals. This is not to say, however, that Schlegel rejects systematization altogether or that his conception of knowledge lacks unity and meaning. Rather, Schlegel was of the view that knowledge and consciousness are inherently connected to reality, such that reality cannot be thought of apart from ideas. Nonetheless, Schlegel was critical of any ahistorical conception of truth. Thus, he sought to develop a hermeneutic idealism, in which truth and meaning must be realized within a context and in relation. Let us turn to an examination of Schlegel’s particular brand of idealism and examine the way in which he develops his understanding of knowledge and truth.

6.3 Knowledge, Truth, and Intellectual Intuition: Schlegel’s Hermeneutic Idealism In the Jena Vorlesungen, Schlegel maintains that reality is “only in the ideas” (KFSA 12, 9). This claim immediately distinguishes his understanding of truth from the correspondence theory of truth. It implies that there is nothing beyond the ideas, to which they must correspond and in relation to which their truth must be assessed. In other words, reality is not “out there.” It is not a physical or material entity that is distinct from the world of ideas. Rather, the designation “reality” denotes that which is realized through ideas. On this basis, Schlegel goes on to make two further claims. First, he maintains that “all knowledge is symbolic,” and then adds that “all truth is relative” (KFSA 12, 9). These claims have been interpreted as skeptical.13 However, in light of Schlegel’s understanding of reality, their intended meaning is more likely to be idealistic. Ideas are expressions or symbols of reality. This notion is often taken to mean that they are representations of reality. For Schlegel, however, ideas are instantiations of reality. That is to say, reality does not happen outside of consciousness (in which case consciousness would re-present reality), but arises through consciousness and is thus realized in the symbolic presentation of ideas. This means that truth and reality emerge through symbols or ideas. We will return to this.



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Insofar as truth is concerned with reality and reality is “in the middle,” it follows, Schlegel argues, that truth is “relative.” This is because truth does not refer to an unconditioned first ground, or an external entity, but to the encounter of the infinite and consciousness. Truth is relative insofar as it is always in reference to a relation, which, in turn, can only occur within a context or a whole. Schlegel thus elaborates that “it is only through the whole [das Ganze] and in the whole that one can understand everything; and this is only another expression of the statement: all truth is relative” (KFSA 12, 94). It is important to note, however, that insofar as truth is “in the middle,” arising out of the relation between consciousness and the infinite, it follows that truth does not refer to a fixed or static object—in other words, an object that is external to the act of thinking. Rather, precisely because truth emerges in the relationship between consciousness and the infinite, consciousness and therefore thought are necessary components of truth. In other words, truth does not exist outside of the activity of thinking; indeed, one can say that it is in thinking that truth occurs. Truth is not something that is found or given; indeed it is not a thing at all. Rather, it is realized in the active engagement of thought. Schlegel adds that, insofar as reality is only in the ideas and truth emerges in the whole, it follows that “in every individual there is as much reality as there is sense, meaning, spirit” (KFSA 12, 40). Precisely because reality is inherently connected to thought, reality depends on meaningfulness. Reality and truth emerge within a sphere of meaning, within a context. This implies, first, that it is nonsensical to speak of something as true outside of a meaningful context, or outside of the thinking act in which this meaning is realized. It also implies that truth and knowledge are necessarily hermeneutic, because truth does not refer to an unconditioned first principle, upon which a system is constructed, nor does it refer to an external physical reality. Rather, truth refers to the realization of relations and processes within a (historical) context or whole. There is yet another implication. Schlegel’s statement most directly concerns reality: “in every individual there is as much reality as there is sense, meaning and spirit.” Reality is determined by sense and meaning. Thus, meaning has not only an epistemological significance but also an on­ tological one. Reality itself is hermeneutic, or, as Schlegel puts it, “the world is only an allegory” (KFSA 12, 40). That is to say, meaning and thought are not only the ground of knowledge but also the ground of reality. What exactly does this mean and in what sense is this claim idealistic? In turn, does

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Schlegel’s insistence on the ideality of reality undermine his attempt to move beyond transcendental philosophy? Schlegel’s claims that “reality is only in ideas” and “truth is relative” can be interpreted in two different ways. In the first instance, these claims can be understood subjectively. There are, however, two ways by which to conceive of a subjective interpretation. First, it can be understood as referring to an empirical subject, such that its cognitive faculties and its knowledge are determined by the structures of its particular world. Its knowledge is subjective, in other words, because it is dependent on its particular situation. Alternatively, the subject can be understood as a transcendental subject, who possesses spontaneity and hence the capacity to create or produce knowledge rather than simply receive it. The transcendental subject deter­ mines its world, such that its knowledge is determined not by its particular situation, but by its particular cognitive capacities. Its determinations are nonetheless subjective insofar as they concern its particular human perspective or cognitive capacities. Given Schlegel’s affirmation of intellectual intuition as a spontaneous cognitive capacity, it is evident that the first kind of subjectivism, that is, empirical subjectivism, cannot be ascribed to his thought.14 Nonetheless, his conception of knowledge and intellectual intuition in particular could be understood in transcendental-subjectivist terms. This would mean that rather than enabling a transition from subjective transcendental idealism, Schlegel’s notion of intellectual intuition cements the subjective viewpoint by explicating reality as the product of the progressive intuitions of the self. From this perspective, reality and truth would be determined and delimited by the human mind. Such a subjective interpretation of Schlegel’s claims, however, is mistaken for two reasons. First, it overlooks Schlegel’s repeated critique of Fichtean idealism and Schlegel’s concerted attempt to put forth a nonsubjective idealism. As early as 1793 Schlegel writes that there is “only one actual system,” which he identifies with “eternal nature” and “truth” (KFSA 23, 130). In turn, although Schlegel’s interest in Fichte’s writings peaked in mid-1796 (following his encounter with Novalis in Weißenfels), shortly thereafter he began to develop his critique of the Wissenschaftslehre. In the years that followed, Schlegel continued to describe his work as arising out of a “loyalty to the universe” (KFSA 2, 164), and in the Athenäums-Fragmente spoke of “the sense for the infinite [Sinn fürs Unendliche]” (KFSA 2, 243, no. 412). Schlegel was aware of the danger of reducing nature and the universe to a product of the human mind, writing in 1798 that the goal is “to observe nature as a whole which is in itself infinitely purposive” (KFSA 18, 149,



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no. 308). In other words, the goal is to grasp nature as self-creating, rather than as created by the progressive intuitions of a transcendental self. The second problem with the subjectivist interpretation concerns the distinction that Schlegel draws between two forms of consciousness. It is in the Jena Vorlesungen that Schlegel’s thought comes nearest to Fichte’s. It is also in these lectures, however, that Schlegel develops his most thorough and penetrating critique of Fichte’s methods and concepts. Beginning with the premises of transcendental philosophy, Schlegel demonstrates that philosophy must be based on two rather than one pole and points to a realm of consciousness that is not determined by the subject-object opposition of reflective consciousness. Schlegel distinguishes a limited form of consciousness (the subjective self) from a universal consciousness that cannot be divorced from reality (and in which the subjective mind participates). Although he sometimes uses different terms to denote the two forms of consciousness, the distinction remains the same. Thus, in one instance he differentiates “thought (Denken)” from “consciousness (Bewußteyn),” noting that while “thought is higher and more universal than consciousness,” consciousness is specific to us, to our “strange and wretched way of thinking” (KFSA 18, 180, no. 646). In the Jena Vorlesungen, he draws the same distinction, speaking however in terms of reason (Vernunft) and understanding (Verstand). “The understanding,” he writes, “is the highest perfection of the spiritual and thinking capacity, that which the ancients expressed through nou˜ V,” adding that “the understanding is a universal consciousness, or a conscious universe” (KFSA 12, 13n1).15 In both cases the distinction is not between two forms of subjective consciousness (an empirical and a transcendental). Rather, the distinction is between a reflective consciousness and a universal consciousness, or a “conscious universe.” While the first form of consciousness is plagued by the contradictions and limitations of the discursive intellect, the second form is nonsubjective and nondiscursive. It is this form of consciousness which, along with infinite substance, co-creates reality. In turn, it is its act of thinking that realizes sense, meaning, and truth. Yet the question is, how can reflective human consciousness gain access to universal consciousness? In the Jena Vorlesungen, as I have discussed, Schlegel maintains that insight into consciousness can only be achieved through intellectual intuition. This is because in intellectual intuition, the individual is able to rise above his or her individual consciousness to “the most expansive sphere of reason,” which Schlegel identifies with the “middle-point of our being”

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(KFSA 12, 9n1). In other words, it is through intellectual intuition that access to a nonsubjective, nondiscursive form of consciousness (consciousness as co-creator of reality, as the realization of meaning and truth) is achieved. This is the case for two reasons. First, gaining this insight could not occur through a transcendence of consciousness. Not only would this be impossible—given the fact that any insight necessarily involves consciousness—but it is also based on a misunderstanding of the relation between reflective human consciousness and universal consciousness. We are, Schlegel writes, “imprisoned in this fact [of intellectual intuition] because we are simultaneously an effusion [Ausfluß]— because we have consciousness. Consciousness belongs to this, it is infinite” (KFSA 12, 9n1). As an “effusion” of universal consciousness, human consciousness does not stand outside of it, such that it must somehow move beyond itself in order to arrive at what is external to it. In other words, as an effusion of universal consciousness—as a particular manifestation of it—human consciousness need not negate itself. The opposite is the case: the only way by which to gain insight into universal consciousness is to participate in it. This does not mean, however, that we should be content with an individual view of the universe or with a particular human perspective. Rather, the goal is to overcome the individual perspective and arrive at “the most expansive sphere of being,” which affords a view of the self in relation to the whole (KFSA 12, 9n1). In other words, the goal is to transcend one’s particularity, without, however, losing sight of one’s relation to and place within the whole. By gaining this insight, then, one grasps universal consciousness without forgoing one’s own consciousness. Intellectual intuition alone can achieve this, Schlegel maintains, because it does not objectify the infinite, but rather participates in it. Precisely because in intellectual intuition one does not strive to know an “other”—an object that is distinct from the knowing subject—one does not make the mistake of objectifying. After all, what is known is not something that is external to consciousness. It is not a thing at all. Rather, what is grasped in intellectual intuition is one’s participation in universal consciousness as such. Furthermore, Schlegel contends that intellectual intuition is the only mode of thought that does not necessarily result in mechanical causal explanations. This is because it does not seek to understand something in terms of an external cause and thus grasp it by what it is not. Thus, Schlegel concludes, intellectual intuition alone can achieve insight into the world as an integrated structure in which the self is not an isolated part but an active participant (KFSA 12, 51).



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Schlegel’s understanding of universal consciousness and his conception of intellectual intuition may appear similar to Fichte’s. It might be on account of this apparent similarity that Schlegel provides explicit and lengthy explanations of his disagreement with Fichte in the Kölner Vorlesungen. In these lectures he goes so far as to cease using the term “intellectual intuition” because it is too closely associated with Fichte. Nonetheless, the critique he levels against Fichte’s notion of intellectual intuition and the theory of knowledge he puts forth as his own do not significantly depart from his earlier writings. The key differences are terminological. In the Kölner Vorlesungen, Schlegel makes use of the term intuition in two different ways. First, he identifies it with Kant’s sensible intuition, and second, he identifies it with Fichte’s intellectual intuition as self-intuition. He criticizes the two versions because he sees both as ultimately residing in the sphere of reflection, as opposed to understanding (nou˜ V). In both instances, he argues, intuition remains on the level of objectification, and is thus unable to grasp the “inner essence” of reality—in other words, reality as nonobject (KFSA 12, 324–29). Schlegel commences his critique of Fichte with an examination of Fichte’s understanding of intellectual intuition, which arises from the original statement of identity, a = a. On the basis of this first positing, a second positing becomes necessary—in other words, the philosopher realizes that there must be an I or a self that is doing the original positing (KFSA 12, 324). Thus, an I is posited. Soon, however, the philosopher recognizes that the identity of a = a can only be found in self-identity, in the I = I (KFSA 12, 325). “Thus,” Schlegel writes, “the presupposition of a = a connects up with the presupposition of a possible object for the I; the I should take this object in itself, connect itself with it. This is, according to all views, what makes intuition” (KFSA 12, 325). In other words, upon realizing that the statement of identity is realizable only within self-identity, it becomes necessary for the I as cognizing subject to identify itself with the I as cognized object. Intuition, therefore, is the moment in which the self comes to recognize itself as an object and takes this object as itself. The identity of intuition is therefore founded on an original objectification that is followed by an identification with the object.16 This state of affairs is clearly pernicious for a cognizing self, insofar as it challenges its status as knower. Thus, Schlegel continues, “in order for the I not to lose itself in the object of intuition, but remain an I, it must at the same time be an I of an I, it must have the capacity of the activity that turns back into itself, i.e., intuition is always necessarily connected with reason” (KFSA 12, 325). In other words, in order for the I to remain the

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knower rather than the known object, it must become conscious of itself as a self. This requires that the I first objectify itself and then retrospectively attempt to grasp itself as a self. Schlegel locates three problems with this conception of intellectual intuition and self-consciousness. The first concerns the fact that in order for the self to emerge it must retrospectively recognize itself as a self. However, Schlegel argues, it is impossible for a self to emerge in this way, because there is nothing inherent to the mechanism of intuition that signals a necessary “end” to the moment of intuition. In other words, there is nothing inherent to the retrospective activity that would signal that one has arrived at an I and not at an object. Thus, lacking an external source, the self can go on intuiting itself as an object ad infinitum. “This capacity of the I to be an I is infinite,” Schlegel writes, and this means that “just as there is an intuition of intuition, so there is also an intuition of intuition of intuition etc. into the infinite. This has no limits. If the I followed this limitless reflection unconditionally, then there would be no intuition, since intuition should be a grasping, in which the representer distinguishes himself from the representation” (KFSA 12, 325–26). For this reason, Schlegel conclusively remarks, “the ground necessary for positing a limitation does not lie in the capacity of self-consciousness itself. There must be a third condition, a third side of the I, so that this can take place, and this is the will, i.e., the capacity to determine the limits of one’s own activity, even if negatively” (KFSA 12, 326). In other words, because intellectual intuition would go on to infinity, objectifying the self, on its own it would not be able to arrive at an insight of the self. Thus, a capacity that is distinct from the act of intellectual intuition, namely, the will, is necessary for the achievement of self-consciousness. It is only through the will that the “illimitability of reflection” is brought to an end (KFSA 12, 326). The second problem arises immediately from the first: Insofar as intellectual intuition results in an infinite regress that cannot grasp the self as subject, it necessarily fails to provide knowledge of the self (KFSA 12, 326). The third problem that Schlegel draws out concerns the structure of intellectual intuition. From the beginning, Schlegel argues, the structure of intellectual intuition assumes that its two members are inherently distinct: the self and the not-self. While the self is the active subject or knower, the not-self is the passive object, the known. Intellectual intuition is thus based on an original—but, Schlegel contends, unjustified—objectification. In the course of intuition, this assumption is never questioned, nor is it shown to be true. Furthermore, this objectification determines the outcome of intuition, which retains the structure of a passive object distinct from an active



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knowing subject (KFSA 12, 327). This means that not only is intuition based on an unjustified opposition between an active self and a passive object, but also that this opposition persists without question and determines the results of intuition. “In intuition the object [Gegenstand] always appears to us as something persisting, calm, different from the self, which it may very well not be.” For these reasons, Schlegel surmises, “Intuition cannot teach us anything” (KFSA 12, 327). Schlegel’s critique of Fichte’s conception of intellectual intuition does not, however, indicate a significant departure from his earlier understanding of intellectual intuition. As he sees it, the fundamental problem with Fichtean intuition is that it remains bound to reflective, objectifying consciousness. He thus writes that Fichte failed because “he limited himself, on completely subjective grounds, to the domain of the conditioned I-hood. Out of fear of Schwärmerei he did not advance to the idealism of the unconditioned I-hood” (KFSA 12, 292). The distinction between “conditioned” and “unconditioned I-hood” recalls Schlegel’s distinction between individual, subjective consciousness and universal consciousness. The first instance describes the I insofar as it is determined and limited, in other words, as object or as a self that gains its self-awareness through an original (self-) objectification. The unconditioned I-hood, by contrast, is not an object or a thing and is in principle nonobjectifiable. Universal consciousness is not the result of reflection and objectificaiton. The opposite is the case: objectification or reflection is made possible through it. In the Kölner Vorlesungen, Schlegel names the capacity that grants insight into universal consciousness “thought” and in some instances “understanding [Verstand]” (KFSA 12, 353 and 357). In thought, he explains, we come to realize that the relation of our particular I to the universal or original I (Ur-Ich) is a relation of derivation, such that we see ourselves as arising from and residing within a whole. As parts within the original I, we are not parts of something other than ourselves; rather, as Schlegel aptly describes it, “our I is only a piece of ourselves” (KFSA 12, 339 and 343). Thus, he continues, “the ground of our I is the original I, it is this original I, but not from all sides” (KFSA 12, 339). In other words, the individual I is a particular aspect (manifestation) of the original I. The original I, however, does not only underlie particular selves, but, Schlegel explains, “The original I, the all-encompassing in the original I is everything; outside of it is nothing” (KFSA 12, 339). This means that the relation between the original I and what it encomposses is not the result of an act of self-reflection. After all, the original I underlies not only particular (reflective) selves but reality in general (including nonreflective beings).

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Furthermore, Schlegel explains that the original I is “found,” not “made” by the particular self (KFSA 12, 343). The original I is thus not the outcome of the synthetic act of self-reflection. In other words, self-reflection, which involves retrospectively recognizing oneself in the object, is not the determining relation between the original I and its parts; it is not the ground of reality. That the original I is “found” and not “made” does not mean that it is a thing that is found, as one finds a physical object. Rather, one “finds” universal consciousness by seeing it in its manifestations. Thus, what is grasped in intellectual intuition is not an infinite substance, a universal concept, or an undifferentiated simple identity. Rather, the insight is of an original or absolute I that manifests itself in one’s self and in reality. Thought grasps the original I in the world. It discerns the way in which the diverse community of reality realizes or instantiates the original I (KFSA 12, 343). Furthermore, Schlegel maintains that in intuitive thought, the difference between inactive object and active subject is eliminated. Instead, the difference that emerges is between an I and a “You [Du].” “Every power [Kraft], as soon as it enters into a relation with us, that is, as soon as we think, perceive, research and seek its ground, becomes a You; this is the real in intuition” (KFSA 12, 343).17 While the object is an absolute “other,” insofar as it is understood as an inanimate, passive object opposed to the active self, the You is an active, communicative being, which participates in creating meaning. It is this capacity for expression, which depends on participating in a conversation and realizing meaning, that distinguishes a You from an object. By instantiating an I-You relation, intuitive insight recognizes difference, without, however, reducing it to the terms of a subject-object difference. Rather, an original identity underlies the I-You relation, insofar as both are participants in the realization of meaning. As such, intuitive insight is able to draw distinctions while at the same time recognizing an underlying unity. From this it is clear that Schlegel’s theory of knowledge does not amount to subjective idealism. His conception of reality as “only in the ideas” does not imply that reality is the product of either Fichte’s intellectual intuition or of reflective cognition (Kant). Rather, ideas are real because they bring the meaning of the world to expression and, as such, realize the world. If reality is only in the ideas and truth is relative, then reality, like truth, emerges in and through meaningful relations. It emerges, in other words, in expressive community. It is for this reason that Schlegel claims that the



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world is allegorical and things have as much reality as they have “sense, meaning and spirit” (KFSA 12, 343). Individual beings are insofar as they are expressive and meaningful within a context. Schlegel’s form of idealism can thus best be described as “hermeneutic idealism.” The You speaks to us, he writes in the Kölner Vorlesungen, through word and image (KFSA 12, 343).18 Although Schlegel’s view may seem radical, it is the view that underlies much hermeneutic thought and is the necessary result of transcendental philosophy. Being (the infinite) and universal consciousness (the I) are absolutely interdependent, such that being is only in relation to thought and vice versa. Truth, knowledge, and meaning are thus the results of the encounter between being and consciousness, which in turn means that reality is only in the ideas and truth is relative.

6.4 Concluding Remarks: From Transcendental Philosophy to Ontology In the Woldemar review, Schlegel makes the important distinction between the unconditioned and the infinite. While the unconditioned is not opposed to anything—for opposition implies conditioning, determination—the infinite is necessarily opposed to the finite. For this reason, Schlegel explains, a system based on two reciprocally conditioning and conditioned principles could not be founded on the notion of an unconditioned principle. By contrast, he maintains that a “healthy” striving after the infinite goes hand in hand with the Wechselerweis. The exact meaning of the infinite and its relation to the Wechselerweis are not elaborated in his Woldemar review. Nonetheless, the idea of reciprocal determination remains foundational throughout Schlegel’s writings. In the Jena Vorlesungen, Schlegel begins—with Fichte and Schelling—by abstracting from everything finite and relative. However, unlike his contemporaries, he arrives not at an unconditioned ground but at two reciprocally conditioning principles: the infinite and consciousness. In turn, rather than locating them in a higher third—a final or absolute synthesis—Schlegel argues that they are absolutely necessary because they determine and condition one another absolutely. In other words, he does not seek to derive their necessity from a higher condition or ground, but determines their necessity through their absolute interdependence. Furthermore, Schlegel argues that transcendental philosophy as practiced by Kant and Fichte had been limited to a particular manifestation of thought. In Kant’s case, thought was understood as entirely discursive

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or conceptual, while for Fichte, thought was conceived in terms of a selfgrounding intellectual intuition that nonetheless remains reflective. In both instances, thought was reduced to its products—the phenomena or objects that emerged out of thought—such that neither offered an adequate consideration of the ground of the phenomena, of thought itself. By contrast, Schlegel contends that the very possibility of selfconsciousness implies that thought is self-grounding and must therefore be understood as such. In other words, it must be grasped not in terms of its products, but as the very ground of these products, the ground of particular human consciousness. For this reason, Schlegel concludes that thought is the ground of meaning not only in a limited, transcendental sense, but also in an ontological-hermeneutic sense. Finally, Schlegel disputes the ahistorical character of transcendental philosophy and argues that idealism necessitates historicism. Schlegel’s historical approach challenges both the notion of an unconditioned ground and the goal of constructing a final or complete system of knowledge. Schlegel offers an alternative to transcendental philosophy, one which could best be described as hermeneutic idealism, that is, an idealism in which truth emerges only in relation, knowledge is symbolic, and reality is “in the middle.” Although at first sight these claims appear to be skeptical and subjective, upon closer consideration, it becomes evident that they are not. Reality is ideal because it is realized in the act of thinking. This act of thinking, furthermore, participates in and is made possible through universal consciousness—which inheres in and is inseparable from reality. Truth is relative because it is always in relation—in relation to the historical context, to the meaningful whole, and to the active realization of reality in thought. Reality and truth, therefore, are determined by sense, meaning, and understanding. This means, Schlegel goes on, that understanding and being cannot be thought apart from one another. Importantly, Schlegel assesses transcendental philosophy on its own grounds. Thus, the move from transcendental philosophy to ontology was prompted by the results of transcendental philosophy itself. Just as Fichte’s subjective idealism was the necessary outcome of Spinoza’s realism, so Schlegel’s transition to ontology is the necessary conclusion of the premises of transcendental philosophy.

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ne of the key notions Schlegel develops in the Jena Vorlesungen is that of the historicity of consciousness, reality, and philosophy. Insofar as reality is determined by consciousness, and consciousness is historical, so reality must also be historical. In turn, philosophy—which is concerned with reality—must also be historical, or as Schlegel puts it, philosophy must become history (KFSA 12, 93). The transformations of consciousness, Schlegel explains, occur through incremental self-determination, wherein consciousness moves from greatest indeterminacy (infinitude) to greatest determinacy (KFSA 12, 20). Thus, with each self-determination, consciousness achieves greater determinacy, such that, Schlegel writes, “consciousness is a history of the organism up until the highest apex of human thought, the understanding [Verstand]” (KFSA 12, 26). In other words, greatest determinacy is realized when consciousness reaches its apex in understanding or intuitive thought (KFSA, 12, 25). This means that the history of consciousness, the history of reality, and the history of philosophy are all inextricably linked to the history of infinite consciousness and its self-realization in the finite. Yet this self-realization seems to be deeply paradoxical. After all, the infinite is infinite and thus cannot realize itself in the finite. In turn, it is not self-evident why the infinite’s self-realization must take place in history. How, then, does Schlegel justify the historical turn of his ontology? The question concerning the nature of the infinite, its relation to the finite, and its historical dimension, becomes central for Schlegel during his Jena period and the Jena Vorlesungen exemplify his most consistent attempt to respond to this question.

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7.1 The Infinite and the Finite Having established that reality and consciousness emerge out of the transition from indeterminacy to determinacy—from infinitude to finitude— Schlegel turns his attention to asking the question concerning the nature of this transition. “Why,” he asks in the Jena Vorlesungen, “has the infinite gone out of itself and made itself finite [aus sich herausgegangen und hat sich endlich gemacht]?” He continues, “in other words: why are there individuals? Or, why doesn’t the game of nature run out in an instant, so that nothing would exist at all?” (KFSA 12, 39). In the Kölner Vorlesungen, he similarly remarks: “What is the cause of this emanation? What is the goal of the world? Why doesn’t the divine not remain inactive and in itself [ruhig in sich selbst]?” (KFSA 12, 221). And, in notes from 1789–1799, he exclaims, “There must be a motive for the infinite to merge into the finite [ins End­ liche überzugehen]” (KFSA 18, 281, no. 1033). In the Jena Vorlesungen, Schlegel attempts a response: “The answer to this question is only possible if we introduce concepts. We have the concept of one, infinite substance and individuals. If we want to explain the transition from the one to the other, we can do this only by introducing yet another concept, that of image [Bild], presentation [Darstellung] or allegory [Allegorie]. The individual is thus an image [Bild] of the infinite substance (one could express this also as follows: God has brought forth the world, in order to present himself [Man könnte dies auch ausdrücken: Gott hat die Welt hervorgebracht, um sich selbst darzustellen])” (KFSA 12, 39). Selfpresentation is therefore the motive (in the Kölner Vorlesungen he calls it the “goal of the world”) for the infinite to go out of itself. “The divine,” he remarks in the Kölner Vorlesungen, “wants to present itself, to reveal itself [sich darstellen, sich offenbaren]” (KFSA 12, 419). It accomplishes this through individuals, which are its image. But why does the infinite want to present itself in the first place? The answer to this question, Schlegel writes, lies in the nature of the infinite: The only thing we can know of the infinite is that it is the indetermi­ nate [das Unbestimmte]—this is thus the positive element. The opposite is the determinate [das Bestimmte], and it is the negative element of the infinite. The formula for this could be a definition of the infinite, namely, the infinite is a product [Produkt] of the indeterminate and the determinate. A proof for this is not necessary, whereas an explanation is. If the indeterminate should become actual [wirklich], then it must go out of itself and determine itself [aus sich selbst herausgehen, und sich



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bestimmen]. (Applied this could read: the divine has formed the world in order to present itself [Die Gottheit hat die Welt gebildet, um sich selbst darzustellen].) (KFSA 12, 20)

The infinite moves out of indeterminacy to determinacy in order to become actual. Thus, the only way by which to explain (rather than prove1) the existence of the world is by positing an original desire—the infinite wants to realize itself, to present itself, ultimately, to know itself. In the Kölner Vorlesungen, Schlegel speaks of this movement as the infinite’s longing to be actualized, on the one hand, and its longing to return to an absolute oneness, an absolute identity, on the other (KFSA 12, 218–19). In this transition from indeterminacy to determinacy, which occurs through self-presentation, consciousness and reality arise. But what does it mean for the infinite to “actualize” itself? Or, put differently, what does Schlegel mean by the term actual? Is it a logical category (actuality as opposed to possibility)? Or does it denote an existential status? In the Athenäums-Fragmente, Schlegel maintains that the process of actualization (Wirklichwerden) is a historical process, insofar as “the object of history is the actualization of all that which is necessary practically” (KFSA 2, 178, no. 90). In the Jena Vorlesungen, he describes the actual (wirklich) as “that which relates itself to the whole,” adding that “that which relates itself to the whole is divine” (KFSA 12, 78). In turn, in notes from 1798–1799, he remarks that the “actuality [Wirklichkeit] of God is a better expression than existence [Daseyn]” (KFSA 18, 280, no. 1958). Two things are immediately clear. First, actuality implies both existence and history, such that what is actual exists and is necessarily historical. In other words, the process of actualization—the transition from indeterminacy to determinacy—takes place in history or is historical. Second, actuality is intimately connected with presentation—the move from indeterminate to determinate occurs through the self-presentation of the infinite in the finite. The two points are interdependent. First, let us examine the meaning of presentation. There are several ways by which to understand the self-presentation of the infinite in the finite. Presentation can be taken to mean re-presentation, wherein the infinite (indeterminate) exists prior to the finite and brings the finite forth in order to represent itself. In this case, the infinite and the finite are ontologically distinct, because the infinite exists (is actual) prior to the emergence of the finite. There are two problems with this interpretation of presentation. First, it does not accord with Schlegel’s thesis that in order for the infinite to become actual, it must first determine itself—that is to say,

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it achieves actuality only in and through the finite presentations. In other words, the infinite does not exist prior to the finite, but becomes actual only in its finite presentations. The second problem concerns the way in which the infinite is depicted. Insofar as the infinite is thought of as outside of and prior to the finite (the world, individuals), then it begins to look like an unconditioned ground that stands outside of and opposed to that which it grounds. However, as previously noted, as soon as the unconditioned stands in opposition to something (the conditioned), it becomes determined and hence conditioned. Thus, any conception of presentation that assumes an infinite outside of the finite ends up with the same problems faced by the notion of an unconditioned. A second type of presentation, which Schlegel identifies as “symbolic” is also untenable and for similar reasons. According to Schlegel, a symbol depicts something that is itself unpresentable. Symbols, he writes, are “signs, representations of elements which in themselves are not presentable [Darstellbar]” (KFSA 2, 420, no. 197). A symbolic presentation of the infinite would mean that the infinite cannot be directly presented, but only indicated or pointed to (hingedeutet) by way of the symbol. Thus, although the symbol is a “presentation” of the infinite, the infinite is not present in the symbol. Rather, the symbol is pointing to something beyond or outside of itself. A symbolic presentation of the infinite thus presents the infinite through its absence, or through what it is not. However, Schlegel contends, it is the nature of the infinite to present itself. This is what it means for the infinite to “go out of itself” and determine itself. Thus, presentation is an integral aspect of the infinite, and the infinite cannot be beyond or outside of presentation. Furthermore, Schlegel distinguishes symbolic presentation from the “image” or “history” of the infinite. Reality or existence, is “the image [Bild] or better the history [Geschichte] of the becoming deity [werdende Gottheit],” which, he adds, “should therefore not be understood as symbol, but as the deity itself [sondern eigentlich]” (KFSA 12, 58). From this it is clear that the kind of presentation Schlegel is after—the only kind which is adequate to the nature of the infinite and its relation to the finite—is a presentation that rests on an identity between infinite and finite. As he puts it, the image or history should not be understood as a symbol of the infinite—in other words, as pointing to the infinite outside of itself—but as the infinite itself. The image or history of the infinite is the infinite. The question, of course, is: How is such a relation of identity—between infinite and finite—possible?



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Before answering this question, it is significant to understand how Schlegel came to the conclusion that only a relation of identity between infinite and finite is adequate. As noted above (section 5.1), Schlegel’s fundamental critique of an unconditioned ground or principle has to do with the fact that the unconditioned must exist outside the sphere of conditions. Although the unconditioned grounds the system of knowledge, it remains outside of the system and thus exists outside of that which it grounds. This is problematic for several reasons. First, it instantiates a dualism between the unconditioned and the system, such that the unconditioned cannot be expressed in the system. In addition, it develops (or is based on) a mode of thought which externalizes and objectifies the unconditioned. Finally, it maintains a dogmatic stance toward the unconditioned—wherein the unconditioned is something that is external to and other than the cognizing subject. Unlike the unconditioned, the infinite, Schlegel had suggested in the Woldemar review, is not external or opposed to the system—rather, it is one of the elements of the Wechselerweis (the other being the finite). Thus, the question is, given that the relation between the infinite and the finite is a relation of necessary opposition, how is it possible to conceive of this relation also as a relation of identity? The answer to this question once again harkens back to Schlegel’s critique of externalization and objectification. A conception of the infinite as outside of or other than the finite (whether as a blueprint that precedes and predetermines the finite or as an elusive, hidden infinite that is distinct from its symbolic presentation) implies a mode of cognition that externalizes or objectifies the infinite, making it seem like an unconditioned ground. What is necessary, then, is to think of the infinite not as outside of the finite, but as internal to it, as immanent within it. In turn, the finite must similarly be thought of as essential to the infinite. Thus, the relation between infinite and finite is not one of difference or opposition, but of mutual determination—each determines and makes possible the other, such that both are absolutely necessary. In this picture, the infinite emerges only in and through the finite, and the finite is, as Schlegel puts it, “an outpouring of the infinite” (KFSA 12, 219).2 The relation of mutual determination between infinite and finite implies that neither exists or is actual without the other—there is neither an infinite nor a finite that precedes the relation; it is in the relation that they emerge, and they can exist only within it.3 The question remains as to how this relation between infinite and finite is possible. How can something individual and particular contain the infinite within itself, and how is the infinite present in the finite?

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Schlegel’s answer to this question is history. By conceiving the world and nature in historical terms, in terms of development and transformation, Schlegel explains how the infinite is “in” the finite and how the finite “contains” the infinite. Nature, just like self-consciousness, emerges in the movement from indeterminacy to determinacy. This means that it is also the “task” of nature to “realize” the infinite (KFSA 18, 416, no. 1140).4 Thus, nature cannot be static, but rather “is becoming and life” (KFSA 12, 58). But what does it mean for nature to “realize” the infinite? It is here that Schlegel makes his central claim: as the realization of the infinite, nature must itself be infinite. “Nature,” he writes, “is not infinite, but becomes infinite” (KFSA 18, 149, no. 319). The distinction between being and becoming is essential. Being implies objectivity or thing-hood—that is to say, something that is has been determined, delimited, made into an object. By contrast, that which is becoming has not yet been determined, and thus cannot be made into an object. Schlegel explains the significance of this distinction in the Kölner Vorlesungen: “The assumption of an eternal becoming, that all things are only a becoming, is necessary to unify our thinking, and to mediate [vermitteln] the finite and the infinite. All conflict between the two is overcome, insofar as the finite, which is a becoming, contains within itself an infinite fullness, and the infinite fullness [unendliche Fülle] is proper [eigen] to the finite insofar as it is considered as becoming and active” (KFSA 12, 410–11). The apparent incommensurability of infinite and finite is thus overcome through becoming. Precisely because the infinite is realized infinitely in the finite, the chasm between infinitude and finitude disappears. Thus, in becoming, the two poles are unified, even if their differences are not fully eliminated. Schlegel explains that every individual is in a state of becoming, which means that it must be both infinite and finite. It is finite insofar as it is individual and distinct; it is infinite, however, insofar as it grows and develops. In other words, growth and development necessarily imply that the finite contains the infinite within itself. Schlegel goes on to criticize Plato, the mystics, and the empiricists because all three failed to recognize the relationship between infinite and finite. Any position that separates the infinite from the finite, the ideal from the real, Schlegel argues, necessarily faces three difficulties. First, the separation of the ideal and the real undermines morality, because it separates theory from practice. So long as ideas and life are “so absolutely separated,” such that “the ideal is so raised, and actuality so debased [Wirklichkeit herabgesetzt], then a realization of the first in the second is inconceivable” (KFSA 12, 225). Morality, in other words, becomes an unrealizable ideal that does not affect praxis (KFSA 12, 156).



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Second, this separation makes philosophy itself impossible.5 As quoted above, the notion that all things are in a state of “eternal becoming” helps to “unify our thinking,” that is, helps us to understand the relation of the infinite to the finite (KFSA 12, 410–11). In contrast, “a separation of speculation and life,” Schlegel elaborates, “is not philosophical, a belief that is separated from and opposed to knowledge is no longer philosophical” (KFSA 12, 156). Philosophy is concerned not with either the infinite or the finite, the ideal or the real, but with both. For this reason Schlegel describes Plato’s idealism as “an incomplete idealism.” Plato’s mistake was to posit a static notion of being that is separate from life and action. In Plato, Schlegel writes, “the persistence [Beharrlichkeit] assigned to the divine understanding is distant from any notion of a living divine, which, through eternal activity, creates and develops more effectual fullness and force” (KFSA 12, 218). Similarly, in claiming that reality is only what is temporal over and against the ideal, the empiricists force an eternal separation between the real and the ideal. “If one assumes with the empiricists mere temporality as the real,” Schlegel writes, “then one loses philosophy” (KFSA 12, 414).6 “Becoming” is thus an epistemological tool or category through which we can unify our thinking and overcome the opposition between the two basic elements in philosophy (the infinite and the finite, the ideal and the real). Becoming, however, is not only a necessary condition for the possibility of morality and philosophy. Rather, and this is the third reason for Schlegel’s introduction of the notion, becoming is also the state of things. That is to say, it is an ontological category as well. Schlegel’s critique of mysticism rests on this point. The mystics, he claims, separate the ideal and the real, maintaining that only the eternal is real. However, Schlegel writes, “If one assumes with the mystics the reality of the eternal, then one loses all experience and history” (KFSA 12, 414). That is, if one assumes that the real and the ideal, the finite and the infinite, are eternally separated, then one loses not only philosophy and morality, but also reality. Reality is, after all, determined by history, which means that it too is in a state of infinite becoming. Schlegel’s arguments and his conclusion rest on the fundamental claim that the infinite is not an object or a thing—and thus cannot be opposed to the finite. In fact, the infinite and finite are absolutely interdependent—the infinite is only in the finite and the finite is only in the infinite. This relationship, however, results in an apparently insuperable tension. Schlegel maintains, though, that it is only a tension if one conceives of the infinite and finite in static terms. The tension is overcome by thinking of both in terms of becoming or development. If one does not think in these terms,

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Schlegel contends, then not only does one objectify and thus lose the infinite, but one also loses morality, philosophy, and history. From this it is clear that, according to Schlegel, there is nothing that is not a mediation or presentation of the infinite, which is to say, there is nothing that is not in a state of eternal becoming. Neither the infinite nor the finite exists or is actual outside of its relation to the other—its relation in becoming. The infinite is actualized only in the finite and the finite is the self-actualization of the infinite. The infinite, therefore, is not “beyond” or “outside of” presentation, but is the presentation, the phenomenon. The reciprocal determination of infinite and finite, which occurs in infinite becoming, illustrates the necessity of both the infinite and the finite. Precisely because the one can only exist in and through the other, they are absolutely necessary.7 As discussed in the previous chapter, Schlegel challenges the notion of an unconditioned from an epistemological perspective. Now he adds that the unconditioned is similarly problematic from a metaphysical or ontological perspective. In other words, Schlegel is not only rejecting the idea of the unconditioned as the ground of a system, but also claiming that there is no such thing as an uncaused cause or ultimate ontological ground—a first moment or absolute beginning. Instead, he maintains that reality is the reciprocal mediation of the infinite and the finite, and all things are therefore necessarily mediated and historical. From this it is clear that for Schlegel the Wechselerweis is not a solely epistemological tool that replaces the unconditioned ground of a system of knowledge. It is also the very movement that underlies the universe or nature. The question thus is: What does Schlegel mean by nature and how are we to understand nature as a manifestation of infinite becoming? It is to answering this question that we now turn.

7.2 Organicism versus Mechanism: Freedom in Nature Schlegel maintains that the only way by which to grasp nature is by recognizing it as self-creating. In notes from 1798, he writes that the task in the study of nature is “to observe nature as a whole which is in itself infinitely purposive” (KFSA 18, 149, no. 308; emphasis added). Thus, although ‘‘nature divides itself into products, processes, and elements,” the aim is to think of nature not merely as products or elements, but also as a creative process, as a self-determining and self-organizing process (KFSA 18, 148, no. 304).



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But what exactly does it mean to say that nature is a self-producing, selfdetermining process? First, it means that nature is free—as self-determining, nature is not determined by anything other than itself. It also means that nature cannot be conceived in terms of mechanistic determination, wherein the cause (or source) of a natural phenomenon is external to the phenomenon. Rather, Schlegel claims, nature must be understood as “one whole[,] free, alive and organic” (KFSA 12, 77). However, organicism and freedom do not self-evidently go hand in hand. How, then, does Schlegel understand the relation between organization and freedom in nature? Schlegel’s first attempt to identify organization and organism is in a letter to his brother from December 1795, where he describes two kinds of musical sounds—one that is “physical” because the movement that causes the sound is external, and another that is “organic” because the movement is internal. Although he does not offer much detail regarding the difference, he does go on to make a significant point. It is only within an organic unity, he maintains, that individuality is possible, because “every organic tone, as general as it may be, nonetheless has something individual, which, like all individuality, is inexhaustible and infinite in the true sense” (KFSA 23, 265). In a work of music that exhibits organic unity, the individual tone re­ mains individual, even though it is a member of a larger whole. Indeed, its individuality is essential to the unity of the music. What does this mean? In the Jena Vorlesungen, Schlegel begins by distinguishing his own view from the mechanistic (which he also terms dogmatic) view by noting that “in dogmatism the human being and the world are completely separated, without a how or a why. In our view the two are connected [verbunden], and thought of as one” (KFSA 12, 57). With regard to the question of freedom, he maintains that freedom is impossible within mechanism. After all, he contends, “if the world is thought of as a row of necessary laws, then predestination is unavoidable. In our theory, by contrast, the world is an organism, a nature” (KFSA 12, 73). Freedom makes no sense within the mechanical worldview, because mechanism is based on the notion of external causality—a dubious notion, Schlegel argues, which rests on an unjustified distinction between one “privileged being” and all other beings. The mechanistic understanding of absolute causality depends on a separation (or opposition) between one free being (as the possessor of absolute causality, it must be in some sense free) and all other beings, which are necessarily not free. Thus, by granting freedom to one being or substance, the mechanistic perspective denies freedom to everything else. All action is the necessary effect of the original first

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cause. However, Schlegel maintains, “we want our actions to have a consequence, such that something should come out of them, such that nothing has already been concluded.” This, however, is “missing in the system of mechanism” (KFSA 12, 50). Freedom of the parts, Schlegel contends, is only possible if the activity which determines and motivates each part is internal to the part. In other words, freedom is only possible when the laws of its activity—its growth and development—are not imposed from without. Only an organic conception of the whole-part relation, he argues, grants the parts the freedom of self-determination (KFSA 12, 41). But how can a part be self-determining, given that it is a member of a self-determining, self-organizing whole? If the part is acting in accordance with the law of the whole, then how can it be acting in accordance with its own law? The organic relation between part and whole in nature is the same as the relation of presentation between infinite and finite. As we saw above, this relation cannot be based on a predetermined idea that is simply re-presented in each of the parts. The relation, in other words, is not one of mechanical causation. Rather, there is an immediate identity between the infinite and the finite, the whole and its parts, such that the whole achieves actuality, existence, only in and through the parts, and the parts are realized in and through the whole. In other words, the world is not caused by the infinite, but is the infinite’s self-presentation or mediation in the finite. If the relation between whole and parts is not one of external causation but of reciprocal determination, then, Schlegel maintains, it is a free relation. The parts or members are free because they actively participate in the actualization of the whole. Each of the members manifests the law of the whole in its individual manner—and, in this way, instantiates or realizes the whole. It is only such a relation, he elaborates, that can adequately portray and explain growth and development—Bildung—in nature. “Our viewpoint of nature as an organism, an individual,” Schlegel writes, “leads us to a kind of lawfulness [Gesetzmäßigkeit], which proves itself as the only one possible, namely, the laws of formation [Bildung], the laws of the organism” (KFSA 12, 57). It is important to dwell on this point, as it further differentiates organic and mechanical unities and shows how only an organic unity is a unity of individual or distinctive parts. A mechanical unity is a homogeneous unity of parts that are merely quantitatively and spatially distinct. The qualitative diversity of the parts, their specificity or individuality, plays no role in mechanical unity. That is to say, internal differences are irrelevant to mechanical unity, because the relations between the parts are purely external. The unity is thus ex­



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trinsic to the distinctive parts and their relations. It is, in other words, an external unity that is not internally differentiated. In contrast, an organic unity with an underlying purposive form must involve internal relationality. It is a unity in which the different parts are only possible in relation to one another, and their differences constitute their relations. For this reason, Schlegel conclusively remarks that “there is no substantial unity other than the organic” (KFSA 18, 305, no. 1338). In light of this, we can return to Schlegel’s reference to music in his letter to August Wilhelm. The unity of a piece of music does not exist beyond or outside of the different instruments, but emerges in their coming together. It is, furthermore, composed of their differing, yet mutually supportive, individual contributions. Thus, musical unity exhibits the most immanent kind of unity: it exists only in and through the distinctive parts, but is not reducible to any one part. The example of music continues to influence Schlegel’s understanding of unity and becomes particularly relevant for his notion of a “system of fragments.”

7.3 Concluding Remarks Reality, truth, and philosophy are necessarily historical because they are determined by consciousness. Historicity, as I have discussed, is the necessary result of idealism. In turn, it is only through history or the notion of infinite becoming that the apparent opposition between the infinite and the finite (between the infinite as undetermined and its self-determination in the finite) can be overcome. Becoming is an epistemological category which can “unify our thinking,” a moral category which enables us to imagine the manifestation of the ideal in the real, and an ontological category. It is ontological because it is only through becoming that development and growth are possible. This means that nature too is historical. Thus, Schlegel remarks that “if one observes nature thoroughly idealistically, then one gets to history, the object of which is free becoming” (KFSA 18, 156, no. 390). Nonetheless, there is an important difference between nature and history, between natural productivity and human productivity. After all, natural products are unconscious, while cultural products are conscious— designed with intention and motivated by a definite goal or purpose. Thus, a question arises concerning the exact status of the relation between nature and culture, natural productivity and human activity. What, in other words, is the relation between cultural products—philosophical writings, poetry, music—and the natural world? Let us turn to answering this question.

chapter eight

Presenting Nature: From the System of Fragments to the Romantic Novel

I

 n a letter to Novalis from December 10, 1798, Schlegel provides one of the  most illuminating accounts of his goals and the direction of his thinking. It is in this letter that Schlegel first expresses his wish to compose an “encyclopedia.” It is also in this letter that he speaks of his interest in religion and his desire to write a bible. Although Schlegel’s interest in modes of expression is not new, his particular concern for an “encyclopedia” and a “bible” exhibits a more specific concern with presentation. In the letter Schlegel emphasizes that the two projects are distinct. As he sees it, the “biblical project is not literary—but rather thoroughly religious.” The “object [Gegenstand]” of the bible project, he elaborates, “cannot be treated by either philosophy or poetry,” but only by religion. By contrast, the encyclopedia project consists in both philosophy and poetry. It “impels or strives to impel writing as art and as science [Wissenschaft]” (KA 24, 207). In spite of Schlegel’s distinction between the two endeavors, the three main works he pursues in the months that follow—the novel Lucinde (1799), the collection of fragments “Ideen” (Ideas) (1800), and the Gespräch über die Poesie (Conversation on Poetry) (1800)—appear to contest, even undermine, the distinction. In these works, we see a turn to religious questions, which are nonetheless presented through poetic and philosophical writings. Furthermore, Schlegel’s first mention of Lucinde, in a letter to Novalis from October 20, 1798, places the novel in relation to his newfound religious interests and his desire to “write a new bible.” This new bible, he remarks in this earlier letter, is part of his “literary project” (KFSA 24, 183). Similarly, the first time that Schlegel speaks of the encyclopedia project is in a fragment written in the summer of 1798, where he indicates that it and the bible project are one project: “the fragment as biblical philosophy must be enthroned in the center of the encyclopedia” (KFSA 18, 199, no. 33). 126



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In addition, both Lucinde and the Gespräch are concerned with determining the significance of art and artistic presentation. The two works consist in lengthy discussions of the nature of the work of art and its relation to religion (or mythology) and an encyclopedia. As he puts it in the “Rede über Mythologie” in the Gespräch, “the new mythology must be the most artistic of all the works of art and should encompass everything” (KFSA 2, 312). Thus, it is clear that under closer scrutiny, Schlegel’s distinction between a “bible” project and an “encyclopedia” project seems not to stand at all. Both in his intentions and in his works, Schlegel did not conceive of the two projects as distinct, but regarded the bible as an encyclopedia of knowledge and saw it as inherently poetic and artistic. Nonetheless, the fact that Schlegel drew an emphatic distinction in his letter to Novalis does appear puzzling. Perhaps Schlegel wished to distinguish himself (and his projects) from his friend, who was a significant interlocutor and source of inspiration at the time. After all, Schlegel’s first mention of the idea of an encyclopedia is in a collection of notes taken while in Dresden in 1798 (KA 18, 199, no. 33). As is well known, in August 1798, Novalis and Schlegel met in Dresden, along with August Wilhelm Schlegel, Caroline Schlegel, and Friedrich Schelling, in order to visit the art gallery. Furthermore, Schlegel’s December letter to Novalis is clearly a response to Novalis’s letter from November 7, 1798, in which he speaks of the encyclopedia as a “universal method of biblicizing [Universalmethode des Biblisierens]” (NS 4, 263). Schlegel’s reply evidences not only familiarity with Novalis’s intentions, but also a desire to distinguish his encyclopedia idea from his friend’s (KFSA 24, 207).1 On many levels, Schlegel develops a conception of the encyclopedia that closely resembles Novalis’s. Like Novalis, Schlegel conceives of the encyclopedia as a unity of the various arts and sciences. Also like Novalis, Schlegel emphasizes that the encyclopedia must combine philosophy and poetry, science and art, in a meaningful way. “No encyclopedia,” he writes, “is possible without poetry; here philosophy and poetry border one another, as in religion” (KFSA 18, 378, no. 701). In another fragment Schlegel maintains that “the encyclopedia must be constructed out of a synthesis of the science of knowledge [Wissenschaftslehre] and the science of art [Kunstlehre]” (KFSA 18, 374, no. 652). Finally, for both Schlegel and Novalis, the form of the encyclopedia—the way in which it combines and presents philosophy and poetry, art and science—is essential. However, Novalis’s influence on Schlegel extends beyond the idea of an encyclopedia or “a bible of all bibles.” It was also in Dresden that Schlegel began to take a more serious interest in nature, as his notes from that time illustrate. Some of the questions and ideas which he develops share a strong

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affinity with Novalis’s views, suggesting that the two friends discussed not only the idea of an encyclopedia, but also the natural world. Schlegel’s newfound concern with nature and natural phenomena comes to play a significant role in his conception of the encyclopedia and, more importantly, in his understanding of the structure and form of the encyclopedia. Both thinkers deliberate at length on the form of the encyclopedia and conclude that the novel might be the most suitable form. Thus, although Novalis began work on Lehrlinge only after abandoning the Allgemine Brouillon, he considered his novel to be a continuation of his earlier efforts. Similarly, Schlegel came to the conclusion that a novel might be the best way to present his encyclopedia. For Schlegel, however, the relation between the novel and the encyclopedia was not entirely self-evident. Between 1799 and 1803, Schlegel associated his encyclopedia project with a variety of artistic forms, including the dialogue, a letter exchange, a collection of fragments, and the novel.2 Although it would be difficult to say which (if any) of these attempts completely exemplifies or lives up to Schlegel’s idea of an encyclopedia, it seems that Schlegel came to regard the encyclopedia as most adequately presented in the romantic novel or its equivalent, romantic poetry.3 Thus, in 1799 he draws an important connection between the encyclopedia and the novel, writing that “in the next generation, the novel will enter in the place of the encyclopedia” (KFSA 18, 364, no. 520).4 And in notes from 1802, Schlegel claims that “it belongs to the realization of the encyclopedia, that all art and science and critique must be resolved into poetry” (KFSA 16, 419, no. 34). The proximity of the encyclopedia to the novel can also be seen in Schlegel’s claim that the encyclopedia must not only unify the various strands of science and art, but also offer a theory of art. As he puts it in the letter to Novalis, his concern is with “writing,” and his “ideal book is about the principles of authorship [Prinzipen der Schriftstellerei]” (KFSA 24, 205). The primary goal of the encyclopedia, then, is to explicate the nature of writing and authorship. Both Lucinde and the Gespräch are works of art which also consider the nature of art and artistic creativity. There is a further point of difference between Schlegel’s encyclopedia and Novalis’s. Already in 1793, Schlegel had identified systematic thought and systematicity in general with the natural organism. In 1798, during and after his visit to Dresden, he returned to this earlier idea and began to think of the work of art—and the encyclopedia—in similar terms. The systematic ideals which he had suggested in 1793, and only briefly developed in the years following, became central in his conception of art and his understanding of the encyclopedia.



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Throughout his writings, Schlegel was concerned with the nature of systems and systematic knowledge. This concern, however, was often ac­ companied by a strong sense of caution toward systematicity and, as I have discussed, skepticism toward first principles and deductive reasoning. Fur­ thermore, his use of the fragment appears to illustrate a resistance to sys­ tematic completeness. Yet Schlegel was never entirely against systematicity and at times described his work as systematic. In a note from 1798, he writes that “since everywhere in poetry and philosophy I have from the beginning steered toward the system, then I suppose I am a universal systematist” (KFSA 18, 38, no. 214). What he was after, then, was not the elimination of systematicity or the ideal of systematic thought. Rather, he was after a combination of system and nonsystem. His famous statement in the Athenäum seems to confirm this attitude, for, he remarks, “It is equally deadly for the spirit to have a system and not to have one. It must therefore decide to unite them both” (KFSA 2, 173, no. 53). He termed this combination a “system of fragments,” and found the perfect examples of his ideal system in music and in the natural organism. In particular, Schlegel came to view the plant as a symbol of both the highest form of systematicity and the highest moral ideal. He argued that it is only through cultivating an active or attentive form of passivity, as opposed to a forced or willful activity, that artistic creativity and thoughtfulness can be fostered and a moral life achieved. The question is, why did Schlegel come to think of organization in the way that he did—in particular, why did he adopt the plant metaphor as a symbol for organization and systematicity? In turn, why did Schlegel conceive of art as an essential element in his encyclopedia project, and how did his conception of the plant influence his understanding of the work of art? Finally, how does Schlegel’s turn to art compare to his other, more philosophical attempts at outlining a system?

8.1 A System of Fragments Although it was not until 1796 that Schlegel turned his concerted attention to philosophy, his interest in philosophy and in the nature of systems and systematic thought was already evident in 1793. In a letter to his brother composed on August 28, Schlegel defends and articulates his conception of system. He writes, I have to come to the defense of two things which you have misjudged, the system and the ideal. I know that the damaging misuse by senseless and soulless rationalists has sullied this name for you. However, you

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look only at that and misjudge, unjustly hate, the exquisite certificates of our divine nobility. What we call souls in works, actions and artworks (in poems I call it heart) [and what we call] spirit and moral worth in humanity, God in creation—the most living nexus [lebendigster Zusammenhang]—that is system. There is only One actual system—the great hidden, the eternal nature, or the truth. But think of all human thoughts as a whole, then it makes sense, that truth is the complete unity, the necessary albeit never achievable goal of all thought. . . . And let me add that the spirit of the system, which is something entirely different from the system, alone leads to many-sidedness [Vielseitigkeit]—which can appear paradoxical, but is undeniable. (KFSA 23, 129–30)

In this first explication of his notion of system, Schlegel is careful to distinguish what he means by system from the system of the “soulless and senseless rationalists.” First, he explains that his conception of system not only applies to a philosophical system, but can also be ascribed to any integral and organized being—it is, as he puts it, the “soul” of a work of art, “spirit” in a moral act, and “God” in natural creation.5 Furthermore, Schlegel identifies the unity of the system with a “living nexus” and maintains that the only true system is “eternal nature.” Finally, he maintains that system is not opposed to many-sidedness. He acknowledges that this may appear paradoxical, but in fact, he adds, it is not. In a follow-up letter to his brother, from October 1793, Schlegel returns to the question concerning the relation between many-sidedness and unity in a system. He wishes to explain how the two are not mutually exclusive. He states, “One would not ask how system and many-sidedness are related, if system were not also one of those strangers which must be extinguished with fire and dagger, should science flourish. Definiteness of explanation [and] accuracy of scientific relations are what we often call systematic. I, however, speak only of the completeness of insight, inner perfection. That many-sidedness is the way to all-sidedness [Allseitigkeit] does make sense, doesn’t it?” (KFSA 23, 143). Here Schlegel further distinguishes his view of systems from the common view. His conception does not imply singularity, definiteness, or finality. Rather, by system he means an internally coherent and meaningful unity, which does not exclude multiplicity or difference. Significantly in both letters, Schlegel speaks of his conception of system alongside the notion of an “ideal” and maintains that the two—systematicity and striving after an ideal—go hand in hand. He describes striving after the ideal as a rational enthusiasm and remarks in the August letter that “enthusiasm is the mother of the ideal and the concept its father” (KFSA



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23, 130). In the October letter, he claims that reason is an essential aspect of the ideal, for “what is reason other than the faculty of the ideal . . . , and what is the ideal other than a concept of reason?” (KFSA 23, 143). From this it would seem that Schlegel’s system must be based on an ideal, which can never be fully achieved. The system must therefore remain open and in a state of infinite development. Although Schlegel had formulated these ideas in letters to his brother in 1793, it was not until the end of 1796 and beginning of 1797 that he considered them in more detail and began to work out the particulars of his notion of a system. This may not be a coincidence, given that it was at that time that he also began to think about the fragment and composed his first collection of fragments, the Kritische Fragmente (also known as the Lyceum Fragmente). Indeed, in 1797, Schlegel describes his system as a “system of fragments” and speaks of himself as a “fragmentary systematician” (KFSA 18, 100, no. 857; KFSA 18, 97, no. 815).6 In the two years that follow, Schlegel arranged the Athenäums-Fragmente, which include fragments by No­ valis, Schleiermacher, and A. W. Schlegel, and the “Ideen.” As is clear from his letters to August Wilhelm during that time, Schlegel was preoccupied with the idea of the fragment and with the relations between fragments within a collection of fragments. Although Schlegel abandoned the form of the fragment after 1799 and published only three collections of fragments, the fragment played a significant—even central—role in his thought. It was not only an important literary and philosophical idea, but also a significant tool for developing and constructing his ideal system. In conceiving his system of fragments, Schlegel retained two key insights which he had developed in 1793. On the one hand, he continued to think of the system as inherently connected to the idea of infinite striving. In 1797, he puts it in terms of “progression”7 and “infinite perfectibility” and a year later defines romantic poetry as a “universal progressive poetry” (KFSA 18, 100, no. 857; KFSA 2, 182, no. 116). On the other hand, Schlegel continued to identify the system with nature and to describe both the fragment and the system of fragments as natural or organic. By connecting the ideas of infinite striving and natural development to the notion of the fragment, Schlegel was able to formulate the apparently paradoxical idea of a “system of fragments.” However, before we turn to examining what he meant by this system, it is important first to consider his conception of the fragment. Unlike an ancient fragment, whose fragmentary form is unintentional and due to historical circumstance, the modern fragment is intentionally a fragment.8 That is to say, the modern fragment aims to remain open,

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consciously resists closure. The distinctive characteristic of the fragment is its form, which instantiates a tension that is foreign to a principle or concept within a self-enclosed entity. In contrast to a principle (Satz) or a moment within a completed system, the fragment refuses to be subsumed under a higher concept, refuses to be subordinated to a higher unity. A hierarchical system functions through the supersession of lesser principles or concepts into higher, more universal, principles or concepts. The fragment, however, cannot be subsumed by higher concepts precisely because it resists a final or singular meaning. It is multifaceted, and its meaning is realized anew in different contexts, under different circumstances or through new relations. Thus, the fragment, unlike a moment within a completed system, retains a degree of independence from the whole and resists the systematic goal of arriving at one, final and unchangeable meaning. Furthermore, Schlegel argues that the fragment is neither a static object nor an abstract concept but “a self-determined and self-determining thought [selbstbestimmter und selbstbestimmender Gedanke]” (KFSA 18, 305, no. 1333). In the Jena Vorlesungen, Schlegel identifies self-determination with individuation, explaining that the individual arises when undifferentiated unity (what he terms substance) transforms itself through differentiation (KFSA 12, 34).9 The individual is thus at once unified and differentiatied, or as Schlegel puts it, “the individual as substance is a whole and the parts which arise out of duplicity.” This unity in difference is the essence of a self-forming or self-determining individual. For this reason, Schlegel goes on, “the individual is the expression of form” (KFSA 12, 39). As the source of both unity and difference, form is the source of selfdetermination (KFSA 12, 37). The kind of unity that arises through selfformation defies closure precisely because it depends on internal or self-differentiation, transformation, openness. In other words, it is a unity that implies difference, such that transformation is an inherent aspect of the unity. Thus, as self-forming, the fragment remains open to transformation and new meaning. But how exactly does this take place? To answer this question, we must turn to Schlegel’s notion of a “system of fragments.” On the basis of Schlegel’s understanding of the fragment, it is clear that the “system of fragments” cannot be a closed whole or an all-subsuming unity that resolves into one final moment or principle. However, it remains unclear as to whether the system of fragments is simply an aggregate (rather than a unity) composed of mutually exclusive, contradictory terms. In that case, the fragments would remain alien to one another, in a state of infinite struggle. Throughout 1797 and 1798, Schlegel was occupied with the nature of



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the relations between fragments and with developing “harmony” within a system of fragments.10 At the beginning of December 1797, he explains in a letter to his brother that his goal for the collection of fragments he is preparing for the Athenäum is to “seek universality in an orderly way” (KFSA 24, 51–52). A few days later, on December 5, he describes the “grouping” of the fragments in musical terms and depicts the relations between the fragments “as many voices or instruments harmonizing in music” (KFSA 24, 56). And in the middle of March 1798, as he and August Wilhelm were putting the first volume of the Athenäum together, Schlegel repeats the significance of grouping the fragments in a particular order such that together they present “a whole” (KFSA 24, 102). He again employs musical metaphors to explain his reasons for including certain fragments and organizing them in a particular way. Thus, when asking his brother to contribute more fragments, Schlegel explains that only in this way will “the concept of the symphony be completely carried out” (KFSA 24, 102). Similarly, in justifying his desire for more fragments from Novalis, he explains that if Novalis contributes, then “everything [would] join in the great symphony” (KFSA 24, 103).11 Finally, Schlegel writes that he hopes his brother will take on the work of editing the fragments for the next issue, significantly adding, however, that in doing so August Wilhelm must not “injure the holy balance” (KFSA 24, 103).12 In various notes from that time, Schlegel also speaks of the fragment and system of fragments in natural or “organic” terms. He writes, for instance, “the more organic, the more systematic” (KFSA 16, 164, no. 940), and again, “systems must grow; the seeds in each system must be organic” (KFSA 16, 165, no. 953). This is not surprising given his characterization of the fragment as a “living idea” in 1793 and his claim that the fragment is a kind of self-organizing unity (KFSA 18, 139, 204). Schlegel’s vision of the system of fragments, then, is of a harmonious and organized whole—mirroring the harmony and organization of a work of music or an organism. Each fragment is understood as one instrument or one organ within this harmonizing unity. It is illuminating to think of the system of fragments in terms of both musical harmony and natural formation.13 In the two cases, we have a whole that is composed of distinctive and independent parts that are nonetheless unified. On the one hand, each of the parts contributes to the development of the whole (the organism or the piece of music), such that this development determines the different roles and relations of the parts. On the other hand, the development does not cancel the distinctiveness of each of the parts, nor does it undermine their particular contributions to the whole.

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The parts are not superseded for the sake of the whole, but maintain their distinctive character. The natural organism and the musical work thus exhibit a particular kind of unity, wherein the whole and parts are absolutely unified. The unity in a piece of music, for instance, does not exist beyond or outside of the different instruments and their harmonizing—it exists through their coming together. It is not a hegemonic, undifferentiated unity or an overarching, subsuming, and abstract concept—both of which are cases of externally imposed unities. By contrast, it is an immanent unity that cannot be separated from the distinctive parts and their various developments and relations. As discussed earlier, organic unity does not preclude difference and transformation, but implies it.14 This is because in the organism, the different parts are possible only in relation to one another, and their differences constitute their relations. Furthermore, natural unity, like the unity of a piece of music, emerges in time and through development. It is dynamic, as opposed to static (KFSA 18, 149, no. 319 and no. 316). The system of fragments, then, like a piece of music or natural organism, is a developing process, which emerges through the participation of its individual and distinctive members. It is at once the ground of relations— that which makes the relations possible—as well as their instantiation. The system cannot be separated from the different fragments, although it cannot be reduced to any one of them. Furthermore, the system of fragments is not simply in a state of transformation, but embodies transformation—it is the process, the realization of developing relationships. This means several things. First, as discussed, it means that the unity of a system of fragments is not achieved in completion or closure, but in the process of growth and development, in other words, in the organized relations themselves. This in turn means that the relation between part and whole is itself based on process and transformation, such that neither the parts nor the whole can be reduced to an object or a static concept, but are more adequately described as processes that occur through organized interactions. There are thus two key differences between a deductive system and Schlegel’s system of fragments. First, the unity of a deductive system is based on a unifying principle or concept, which determines not only its conceptual coherence, but also the very process or method by which the construction of the system takes place. Guided by an ultimate goal or concept, deductive construction is concerned with deriving one concept from the other. The system is thus constructed entirely sequentially, by determining relations purely linearly.



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Second, the deductive system proceeds through the work of subsumption, in which a less universal concept is subsumed under a more universal concept. Universality in this case is understood to mean the opposite of particularity; the more universal a concept, the less particular it is and the more it is able to subsume under or within itself. Thus, the most universal concept is also the least particular, which is to say that the most universal concept (the concept which unifies the system and determines its construction) contains no particularity, no difference within itself. The unity that is achieved in a deductive system is therefore based on the elimination of difference. Both of these characteristics contrast with the system of fragments. In the first instance, the system of fragments cannot be determined by one ultimate, all-subsuming principle or concept in which difference and particularity are eliminated. As discussed above, each fragment retains its distinctive character or meaning, such that no fragment can be reduced to another, and a tension between the fragments is sustained. This means, second, that the construction of the system cannot proceed by the work of conceptual subsumption, in other words, it cannot occur through the sequential cancellation of a lesser moment in a higher (more universal) one. Another way of thinking is necessary—a way of thinking which maintains difference without, however, forsaking unity. From this Schlegel concludes that in order to construct a system of fragments—a system whose essence involves transformation—a certain manner of thinking is necessary, one that differs from conceptual or discursive thought. As Schlegel puts it, the study and observation of nature must be, like nature, a process (KFSA 18, 149, no. 314). The question is: What does this “process” thinking look like and how does it differ from the discursive, conceptual thinking employed in the construction of a deductive system?

8.2 Imagination In a letter from the fall of 1793, Schlegel speaks of a new “kind of thinking [Denkart],” one which he began to develop through studying history. “For the last few months,” he relates to his brother, “my favorite recuperation has been to follow the great puzzling path of historical events, and from out of that, a kind of thinking [Denkart] began to develop in me” (KFSA 23, 144–45). In the years that follow, Schlegel identifies this new kind of thinking as historical and argues that it alone is capable of grasping organic unity and reciprocal relations (KFSA 18, 21, no. 36). In the Kölner Vorlesungen, he claims that only a historical perspective can grasp the “emergence and character of living things [des Lebendigen]” (KFSA 12, 422).

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In contrast to the linear or deductive procedure, the historical method understands a thing (or a part) in terms of both its development and its multifaceted relations. From this perspective, the part is not construed as either cause or effect and is thus not grasped as one thing opposed to another. Rather, the historical method focuses on the continued genesis of a part in its multiple relations (KFSA 12, 422). A shift in attention and understanding is thus required—from static objects to dynamic processes—such that what is known is not an isolated thing or a proof that can be determined only in relation to a chain of proofs, but connected individuals and their dynamic relations (KFSA 12, 307).15 Schlegel associates the historical method with “organic thought” and the imagination (Einbildungskraft) (KFSA 18, 139, no. 213). For Schlegel, the imagination does not imply fantasy or falsehood, but is an apprehending capacity that “is free from the dominance of the thing” (KFSA 12, 359). The imagination alone, he argues, is capable of grasping the changing character of an object and discerning its transformation and development. The key is the agility of the imagination—its ability to extend beyond fixed objects or abstract unities. The imagination, Schlegel maintains, is able “to jump over into the opposite” and thus see how one thing can transform and become other to itself (KFSA 13, 293). For this reason Schlegel associates the imagination with wit, which he describes as a capacity “to connect and mix the conscious and unconscious.” The distinctive character of wit, he explains, is that it enters a conversation or a train of thought “without any intention,” but nonetheless brings great “clarity and transparency” to the topic at hand. Unlike deductive reasoning, which grasps something only in terms of what precedes or what follows it, wit articulates connections which have “nothing to do with the preceding” (KFSA 12, 393). Thus, while deductive reasoning is unable to grasp dynamic and evolving relations, imagination and wit discern and articulate connections and meanings that escape one-sided or linear derivation. It is helpful to return to the example of music. What is necessary to experience a musical work is, first of all, a capacity to grasp a particular chord— the individual as individual, and not an abstract universal concept. What is necessary, in other words, is an apprehending capacity. Such an apprehending capacity must not, however, be fixated on an object. Rather, it must be able to grasp the individual as it develops and unfolds within a context or through its relations. This means that it must be able to move with the movement of the music, and thereby grasp the relations between the chords. Now, the relations between chords are twofold: on the one hand, chords harmonize simultaneously; on the other, they follow one another, they are



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successive. The imagination must therefore be able to behold the unity of the different chords at any particular moment as well as discern the unity in the development of the chords in succession. It must, in other words, grasp the unity of the whole in and through differences. Otherwise, the work would collapse into an unrelated heap of musical chords. Precisely because the imagination can apprehend things in terms of development and transformation, it is able to grasp the unity within the multiplicity, the whole in and through the relations of its parts. The imagination, then, is the necessary hermeneutic tool through which thought is able to grasp the particular, without, however, losing sight of the whole. Thus, it does not construct the system as a unilateral movement edging toward completion or as an aggregate of random (unrelated) parts. Rather, the imagination “comprehends the whole cyclically”—which is to say, it grasps individual parts hermeneutically, in context, and grasps the whole through the dynamic parts and their relations (KFSA 18, 310, no. 1397). Through the imagination, then, relations between individuals are discerned, and a unity emerges: a differentiated, dynamic unity. Schlegel attempts to apply his notion of the system of fragments and his understanding of the imagination in his artistic works. Most explicitly, in his novel Lucinde (1799), Schlegel seeks to construct a work that begins in the middle and evolves from the center outward. Before we examine the structure and goal of Lucinde, however, it is important to consider the extent to which Schlegel identified the work of art (the system of fragments, the novel, the encyclopedia) with the natural world. As I have shown, he not only models his conception of work and system on nature but also strives to develop ways of thinking that can adequately grasp the natural world. Thus, we must ask to what extent Schlegel saw nature and art (or thought) as being alike and in what ways he saw them as dissimilar.

8.3 The Poetry of Nature Although Schlegel maintains a general interest in nature throughout his early writings, it was only during and after his visit to Dresden that he developed a stronger, more focused interest in the natural world. The notes he took during that time and in the years that follow, as well as the works he composed between 1798 and 1800, evidence a growing awareness of nature, coupled with a distinctive understanding of the relation between the human being, the natural world, and the work of art.16 In the December 1798 letter to Novalis in which Schlegel relates his desire to compose an encyclopedia and a bible, he also speaks of an “ideal

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book.” This book, which he elsewhere describes as the “absolute novel” (KFSA 16, 153, no. 798), shall be composed of a manifold of styles, including “the journal, the novel, the compendium, the letter, the drama, etc.” (KFSA 24, 204). It will be, he goes on, “the first work of art of its kind [das erste Kunstwerk dieser Art],” because thus far all such works have been “products of nature [da die bisherigen nur Produkte der Natur sind]” (KFSA 24, 204). It is important to dwell on this distinction, for not only does it offer insights into what Schlegel seeks to achieve in his “ideal book,” but also provides a suggestive remark on his understanding of the relation between the product of nature and the work of art. First, Schlegel distinguishes the “work of art” and the “product of nature” in such a way as to imply both affinity and difference. He claims that his ideal book will be the first of its kind—in other words, a work of art—because until now only products of nature have achieved what he seeks to achieve in the book. This implies that his book will, in some deep and significant sense, have an affinity with products of nature; as a work of art, however, it is not a product of nature. The ideal book is thus both like and unlike the product of nature. Thus, the question is: In which ways and to what extent are the two products alike and different? Schlegel’s view of the relationship between nature and art and, more specifically, the role of the artist in relation to nature, alters between 1796– 1797 and 1798–1799. In his earlier writings, Schlegel elaborates a notion of artistic creativity as distinct from natural creativity, and of the artwork as belonging to the sphere of “culture” as opposed to the natural sphere. Thus, he writes in 1796, that “art is a product of humanity and belongs therefore under that sphere,” adding that “the goal of all human activity is humanity; since art is a product of humanity, then its goal is humanity” (KFSA 16, 19, no. 7). This is in contrast to later claims where, for instance, he states that “all art should become nature” and that “every human being is by nature a poet” (KFSA 16, 101, no. 195; KFSA 16, 105, no. 255).17 In the years 1799 and 1800, Schlegel devotes a large number of notes to questions and ideas about the relation between nature and poetry and, in particular, the potential for poetry to gain insight into natural phenomena. It was also during that time that Schlegel composed Lucinde and the Gespräch, the two works in his corpus that address the relation between the work of art and the product of nature most directly. Schlegel’s fundamental claim in the Gespräch is that the productivity of nature is the same productivity that underlies artistic creativity, such that the artistic process participates in the operations of nature. In the Gespräch,



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Schlegel begins his explication by noting that both nature and poetry are “immeasurable and inexhaustible,” creative and alive. They both develop from no self-evident order and can therefore be best described as organized or formed chaos (KFSA 2, 291). The affinity between nature and art, however, runs deeper than the fact that they both exhibit a kind of organization which we recognize as beauty.18 Nature, Schlegel adds, is “the formless and unconscious poetry, which stirs in the plant, radiates in light, laughs in children, shimmers in the bloom of youth” (KFSA 2, 285).19 Nature, in other words, is the first poem and poetry emerges out of nature. The connection between nature and poetry recalls Schlegel’s claim in the Jena Vorlesungen that “there is only one world” and the resulting conclusion that meaning and being are inherently connected. In the Gespräch, Schlegel elaborates the unity of nature and mind in similar terms, arriving at the same conclusions. Just as he begins with spirit or mind (transcendental philosophy) in the Jena Vorlesungen, so in the Gespräch he commences with spirit (Geist). The “essence of the spirit,” he writes, is “to determine itself, to go out of itself and return to itself in eternal transformation” (KFSA 2, 314). This claim echoes Schlegel’s statement in the Jena Vorlesungen that the goal of the universe is for the divine to “go out of itself” and “present itself.” In the lectures, he presented this claim as the only possible answer to the question concerning the being or existence of the world: Why is there something instead of nothing? Schlegel’s claim is that reality is determined by a movement outward, by a desire for self-expression or self-presentation. For this reason, he identifies it with spirit, that is, with the power of selfdetermination. The essence of reality is therefore activity, productivity, and self-determination. Now, self-determination implies individuation. That is to say, in the activity of self-determination, a “double life”—a second, individuated life—arises. What is revealed is twofold. On the one hand, all in­ dividuals emerge from one source, the original “secret power” of spirit’s selfdetermination. On the other hand, it is in the activity of self-determination that individuality and difference also arise. Thus, in the same moment, both “universal communicability” and “new invention” arise (KFSA 2, 314–15). Or, as Schlegel describes it, “The [same] phenomenon takes on a different form in every individual” (KFSA 2, 315). Thus, the origins of individuality and life are to be found in the selftransformation or development of spirit. For this reason, Schlegel elaborates, “from [idealism’s] womb arises a new, unlimited realism.” Precisely because this new realism has its “origin in idealism” and thus rests on a “harmony of the ideal and real,” it must be poetic (KFSA 2, 315).

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It is here, in Schlegel’s explication of the “new realism,” that we see the reasons for his turn to art and poetry. Having established the connection between natural and artistic activity and argued that nature and mind are ultimately one, Schlegel concludes that poetry and poetic vision alone are capable of offering insights into nature. “The communication of such a realism,” he writes, has not yet occurred because “the organ for it” is yet to be found. This organ must be poetic, for “in the form of philosophy or any system, realism can never enter” (KFSA 2, 315). In the “Ideen,” he makes the point most explicitly: if one “wants to penetrate the inside of physics,” he claims, then one must “be initiated into the mysteries of poetry” (KFSA 2, 266, no. 99). From this it appears that Schlegel is drawing a hard and fast distinction between philosophy and poetry and what each can achieve. Upon closer inspection, however, the distinction between the two is not so clear. For what Schlegel means by poetry is not limited to poetic verse and, in some cases, appears to be closely connected to philosophy. Thus, in the Gespräch, he maintains that Spinoza’s philosophy provides “the beginning and end of all fantasy,” which is the source or inspiration for poetry. What makes Spinoza’s philosophy poetic, Schlegel suggests, is the way in which it reveals the unity of reality and discloses difference as separation from the eternal substance (KFSA 2, 317). What Spinoza offers is a portrait of the world in which all things are “reverberations of the divine,” and this, Schlegel continues, is “the kindling spark of all poetry” (KFSA 2, 318).20 By grasping the original unity and underlying interdependency of all things, Spinoza’s philosophy offers a cosmological view of reality which, Schlegel maintains, is the source of poetry. There is, nonetheless, a significant difference between poetry and philosophy, such that even Spinoza’s vision of reality is not poetry. While Spinoza’s insights are “poetic,” Spinoza does not develop these insights in a poetic manner. His presentation is a philosophical presentation that rests on abstraction from the material or sensuous world. By contrast, Schlegel maintains that only a “spiritual sensible” presentation—a presentation which can reveal the spiritual in the material, the invisible in the visible— can depict nature and thus grasp that which “otherwise eternally eludes consciousness” (KFSA 2, 318).21 What distinguishes art from philosophy (in Spinoza’s sense), Schlegel argues, is the fact that art participates or partakes in the activity of nature, in natural formation or Bildung. This is not simply because art is a creative act. Philosophy too is a creative act and in some cases (Spinoza) offers a poetic vision of the universe. The key difference between art and



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philosophy, Schlegel maintains, comes down to the difference in their products. While the products of philosophy are entirely spiritual—ideals, concepts—the products of art are material contributions to the world and thus instantiate a unity between the spiritual and the material, the ideal and the real. The goal of art, Schlegel maintains, is to “attach us to the formed [das Gebildete], to the highest [das Höchste], the inimical, through contact to the similar or related, and thus develop, approach, in a word, form [bilden]” (KFSA 2, 318). In other words, the goal of art is not simply to analyze or consider material formation, but to participate in it and thereby bring it forth. Art thus contributes to the sensible presentations of the natural world in the most immediate way. There remains, however, an important difference between artistic and natural formation. Artistic formation is, unlike natural formation, “intentional [abischtlich].” Art is the “intentional formation” of what in nature remains an unconscious process. If such formation is impossible, Schlegel contends, then art too is impossible (KFSA 2, 318). In the Gespräch, Schlegel singles out mythology as the form of art that is capable of participating in the formation of nature. However, the key characteristics he ascribes to mythology are also shared by the novel, romantic poetry, and his understanding of an encyclopedia. What he sees in these artistic forms is the capacity to “intentionally form” nature, in other words, to consciously portray nature’s (unconscious, unintentional) form. The question is, How can a work of art, which is determined by an end or intention, portray and participate in the apparently unconscious activity of nature?

8.4 The Intentional Formation of Nature: Schlegel’s Turn to Art Throughout his writings, Schlegel speaks of art as a “revelation” or “expression of nature” (KFSA 2, 327; KFSA 18, 154, no. 369). In the Gespräch, he describes mythology as an “artwork of nature” and proceeds to argue that the only thing lacking in the new natural sciences (which he terms “physics”) is a “mythological view of nature” (KFSA 2, 315).22 What mythology and natural science share, he explains, is the desire to understand the “dynamic paradoxes” of nature (KFSA 2, 322). When science is no longer concerned with “technical goals, but with the general results,” it quickly becomes “cosmogony, astrology, theosophy . . . , in short, a mystical science of the whole” (KFSA 2, 325).23 Nonetheless, there is an important difference between science and mythology, a difference that, Schlegel maintains, grants mythology a kind of

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superiority over science. Simply, science lacks a mythological perspective.24 What is this perspective, and in what ways can it enable a deeper understanding of nature? Schlegel explains that, as a form of art, mythology does not simply portray nature as it is, but transfigures it. Mythology, he writes, is a “hieroglyphic expression of the surrounding nature transfigured [verklärt] through fantasy and love” (KFSA 2, 318). The mythological gods, after all, are not nature; nonetheless, they are also not concepts that are completely abstracted from sensible reality. Rather, as “sensible ideas,” the gods bring to expression that “which otherwise escapes consciousness.” In mythology, Schlegel explains, one can “see and behold a sensible-spiritual [sinnlich geistig]” manifestation (KFSA 2, 318). Mythology, according to Schlegel, is the “web” in which “the highest is actually formed [gebildet], everything is in relation and transformation [Beziehung und Verwandlung], formed and reformed, and this forming and reforming is precisely its characteristic process, its inner life, its method” (KFSA 2, 318). This implies two things. In the first place, Schlegel is saying that mythology is able to grasp the gods in their relations and transformations; that is to say, mythology depicts not static objects, but living, transforming entities—it depicts the history of the gods. In addition, Schlegel argues that mythology is itself a “process,” an “inner life.” It is because mythology is a process that it can depict processes. However, the processes which mythology offers are not clearly linear. This is in contrast to the goal of science, which seeks to grasp things in terms of mechanical causation and is thereby determined by the search for a first cause. In mythology there is neither a linear development nor an obvious beginning. The beginning is always depicted as chaos, “the basic concept of mythology” (KFSA 18, 156, no. 401).25 Thus, although mythology specifies a beginning, this beginning—as chaos—is not a clear beginning but an expression of the elusiveness of beginning and of the inability to discern the first moment. In composing his own works of art, Schlegel takes his cue from mythology and chooses to begin with chaos. In both Lucinde and the Gespräch, Schlegel affirms the right of the author to a “charming confusion” or an “artistically ordered confusion” in the portrayal of events (KFSA 5, 9; KFSA 2, 318). The main character and narrator of Lucinde, Julius, explains that in order to adequately depict his relationship with Lucinde, he must “destroy at the very outset all that we call ‘order,’ remove it and explicitly claim and affirm actually the right to a charming confusion” (KFSA 5, 9).



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There are several reasons for Schlegel’s decision to begin with chaos. First, in the same way that he had disagreed with the notion of beginning in philosophical systems, so he considers the idea of a narratival beginning to be impossible. Thus, Julius remarks that there is something intractable about beginnings, noting that “the mystery of a momentary beginning or transformation can only be divined and it can only be divined in allegory” (KFSA 5, 59). In addition, Schlegel argues that a linear narration of the events would be “insufferably unified and monotone” and would therefore be unable “to achieve what it should and must achieve; namely, the re-creation and integration of the most beautiful chaos of sublime harmonies and fascinating pleasures” (KFSA 5, 59). For this reason, in his retelling of the events, Julius chooses to depict the development of his relationship to Lucinde in a nonchronological order. He thus begins “in the middle” of their relationship—with a letter to Lucinde. In turn, it is in the autobiographical middle section of the novel (“Lehrhajre der Männlichkeit” or “Apprenticeship to Manhood”) that Julius provides a chronological account of his own development and his various love affairs, and finally of his meeting with Lucinde. However, even in this most chronological part of the book, Julius does not tell the reader where and when (or how) he met Lucinde. Rather, the figure of Lucinde simply emerges in his life, and he announces her appearance with a sentence that begins with the word soon—once again deflecting any attempt to depict a first moment or starting point (KFSA 5, 52). Furthermore, although the novel is divided into thirteen parts, with the middle part being the largest, preceded by six and followed by six smaller sections, the different parts do not exhibit uniformity in either style or length. Julius employs a variety of media, including letters, dialogues, character sketches, and an autobiography. Thus, in spite of the fact that the story is told by one voice (Julius’s), the narrator gives expression to a number of different voices within himself. The aim of this “artistically ordered confusion” is to create in the reader a sense of Julius’s lived experience—that is, to enable the reader to experience the events in the same unintended way that Julius had experienced them. This means that the work of art must intimate the confusion or lack of clarity that Julius himself experienced. Furthermore, the events are Julius’s life. Thus, the narrator/writer must bring the reader to experience the events from Julius’s perspective, to grasp Julius’s self-understanding. In other words, the goal is not to present the events (the lived experience) in an abstracted and distanced way, but to enable the reader to live them with the character.

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It is here that the problem of intentional formation becomes most vivid, for the aim is to intentionally present something as unintended. Lucinde is in large part dedicated to solving this problem—both theoretically and practically. From the theoretical perspective, Julius often dicusses the nature of portrayal and thereby offers insights into the construction of a work of art (KFSA 5, 9). In turn, the work aims to re-create the sense of “raw chance” that pervaded the original events and thereby puts the theoretical considerations into practice. It is clear from the structure of the novel that the connections Schlegel was aiming to construe were not based on a classical understanding of a work of art: there is no beginning, middle, and end; there is no plot; and although the reader gains a sense of both Julius and Lucinde, the character development is only a tangential aspect of the work as a whole. It is also clear that Schlegel is not employing philosophical deduction to construct his novel. The relationships between the different parts are not logical, there is no starting point or premise, and there is no conclusive end that guides the development. Nonetheless, Schlegel maintains that there is a structure to the novel, that it is not based on arbitrary connections or haphazard associations. As I have noted earlier, Schlegel often identifies the notion of system or work with natural organization, and he makes similar claims in Lucinde. However, in the novel, he specifies that the natural organism that serves as the symbol or archetype of its structure is the plant. Let us consider the ideal of the plant and its symbolic significance for the construction of Schlegel’s novel.

8.5 The Plant Metaphor and the Novel Schlegel’s goal was to construct a system modeled on the harmony and organization exhibited in natural organisms, and developed through a mode of thought that can discern dynamic relations and natural processes. In Lucinde, he similarly identifies ideas and artistic creativity with organic life, describing an idea as a “creative womb,” a “seed” that “takes root” in one’s soul and thereby imparts to the soul a productive capacity (KFSA 5, 10). Furthermore, Schlegel repeatedly uses the metaphor of the plant to speak of the work of art. Thus, in explicating his narrative, Julius states that “I resolved to begin for you this poem of truth. That is how the first germ of that wonderful plant of love and caprice was conceived. As freely as it sprouted, I thought, should it also grow and run wild; and never, from a base love of order and frugality, will I prune its living fullness of superfluous leaves and branches” (KFSA 5, 26).



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In the previous discussion of Schlegel’s systematic ideals, I showed how Schlegel developed a conception of system based on his understanding of organic beings; like a plant, the system of fragments emerges through the mutually supporting yet distinctive contributions of its members. Also, just as the parts of the plant cannot exist outside of the plant, so Schlegel maintains that the members of his system must be grasped within the context of the system and in relation to other fragments. Thus, Schlegel’s goal was to construct a system where each of the parts meaningfully contributes to a coherent whole without, however, losing their individual or distinctive identity. Like a piece of music or a living organism, the system achieves unity only in difference, such that each of its parts not only contributes to the whole, but also enables the whole to grow. The system itself is therefore in a state of transformation. Schlegel constructs Lucinde in accordance with the two motifs that underlie natural organization and development: difference and increasing complexity. These mirror the two principles of organic development which Goethe, along with Herder, Lessing, and Franz von Baader, had outlined: polarity and intensification (Steigerung).26 The two principles, importantly, go hand in hand: it is only through difference (polarity) that intensification occurs. In turn, intensification is nothing other than the progressive realization of the final goal (growth) in the different parts and their relations.27 Although Schlegel, unlike Novalis, did not concern himself directly with Goethe’s scientific writings, his interest in nature, as I have already mentioned, was rekindled in the summer of 1798 while in Dresden. At that time, Novalis had already been working with Goethe’s ideas—and as I will disucss in the third part of this book, these ideas were also present in Schelling’s philosophy of nature. Thus, however tenuous Schlegel’s biographical connection to Goethe’s scientific work was, his intellectual inheritance is indirectly linked to Goethe’s ideas and their appropriation by his friends and acquaintances.28 This is evident in his notes on nature, where, for instance, Schlegel echoes Goethe’s understanding of the flower as the “highest manifestation of the plant,” writing that “the flower is the apex of the plant and its natural beauty and formation” (KFSA 5, 23). It is also evident in the fact that Lucinde was both envisioned and to a large extent written in accordance with these two laws of organic development. Schlegel had originally planned to write Lucinde in several parts. The goal of the second part, he relates to Caroline Schlegel in March 1799, was to offer “the opposing element [to the ‘Lehrjaren der Männlichkeit’],” that is to say, it “should [offer] feminine perspectives,” in the medium of “letters from women and girls of different sorts on the good and the bad society”

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(KFSA 24, 252). Though this part never came to fruition, the underlying theme of polarity or opposition between the masculine and feminine—what he also sees as activity and passivity—plays a determining role in the structure of the novel, both thematically and formally. We will return to this. Furthermore, each section of the novel can be read independently of the whole, while also contributing to it. In turn, every section is a moment in the novel’s development, such that the work is structured in temporal or transformational terms. One of the sections is titled “Metamorphosen,” or “Metamorphoses” (KFSA 5, 59–61)—perhaps reflecting Goethe’s notion of metamorphosis—and the novel is divided into three main parts, each representing a particular moment in Julius’s development and the history of his relation to Lucinde. The three mains parts also assume different temporal modalities. The first part, which encompasses the first six sections of the novel, is situated in the present. Thus the narration, and the novel as a whole, begins “in the middle”—in the present state of things. The second part is the seventh (and hence middle) section of the whole novel, which is also the largest single section. It is the most clearly autobiographical section, where Julius details his history and his encounter with Lucinde. The narration here is in terms of the past. The last part of the novel, which consists of the last six sections, looks ahead into the future. The middle section of the novel can be considered the core—one can even say the seed—of the whole work, for although it is in the middle of the novel, the other sections develop from out of it or emerge in relation to it. Schlegel’s goal was to develop a system that emerges from out of its center, and he similarly remarks that the novel must be “centric” (KFSA 16, 164, no. 942).29 Thus, the first six sections of the novel, which are situated in the present, gain their meaning and significance in relation to the middle section, where the narration concerns the past. It is, in other words, only through the middle section that Julius’s love for Lucinde—which is detailed in the first part of the book—and his “religion of love” gain substance and meaning. What is revealed in the middle section is the fact that Julius underwent a kind of spiritual transformation through meeting and loving Lucinde—and it is this transformation which enables him to speak and write in the way that he does in the first part of the book. Similarly, the “Allegorie von der Frechheit,” or “Allegory of Impudence,” which is the fourth section of the book, gains meaning in light of Julius’s history and development. In this section, Julius witnesses two opposing ways of being in the world (that of Hercules and that of Prometheus) and receives various



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comments from personified “wit” concerning the nature of reality and fantasy, and the role of the artist. The values expressed in the allegory are those which Julius comes to adopt as part of his “religion of love.” In turn, the final six sections of the novel look out onto the future and rearticulate ideas from the first six sections. Although at first sight the ideas presented in this last section appear to repeat ideas presented in the first and second parts, in fact, they are more nuanced, more mature articulations of the earlier ideas. Thus, the last part of the novel presents an intensification of Julius’s ideas—similar to the intensification which Goethe and others recognize in the development of natural organisms. The last part of the novel can be considered its “flower” in the sense that it is a more complex or complete manifestation of the ideas expressed in the earlier stages of its development.30 Or, put differently, what was only implicit or undeveloped in the first part of the novel becomes explicit and developed in the last part. Let us take a closer look at the intensification in the novel. In the first section of the book, Julius introduces the goal of calm and equanimity (Gelassenheit) by invoking the “man of the east” and “poets, wise men and saints” (KFSA 5, 26). He argues that it is only through such a state of mind that creative artists and thinkers can achieve their goals and adds that this “purely vegetative” and passive state is the ideal of humanity in general (KFSA 5, 27). Although in the last part of the book Julius maintains this ideal, he acknowledges its difficulty and refines its meaning and intention. Thus, he remarks that “my most productive years were past and yet art and virtue still stood eternally unattainable before me,” indicating the complexity of achieving the moral ideal (KFSA 5, 71). He goes on to provide further detail about what this ideal implies. “The life of the cultivated and meditative man,” he remarks, “is a continual cultivation and meditation on the lovely riddle of his destiny. He is continually defining it anew for himself, for that is precisely his whole destiny, to be defined and to define” (KFSA 5, 72). This appears to contrast with the inactive state of contemplation that he had described in the first part. However, the relation between the two is not a contrast, but a deepening or intensification—we witness a more refined understanding of the task at hand. A similar intensification can be found in Julius’s love for Lucinde. In the first part of the novel, Julius’s love is presented as a kind of awe, in which he loses himself. Julius describes the situation in this way: “I can no longer say my love or your love . . . but [only love] for the one, true indivisible, unending world, for our eternal whole life and being” (KFSA 5, 11). This loss of self in the unity of love is mirrored in Julius’s attempt to overcome everything

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finite—all “ends and means”—for the sake of the eternal: “I resolved, satisfied with the enjoyment of my existence, to raise myself above all finite and therefore contemptible ends and means” (KFSA 5, 27). In the last part of the novel, we see a new—more differentiated, nuanced—approach to love. In place of the unity in which all difference is eliminated, Julius speaks of love as the source of formation and differentiation. “Not hate, as the wise men say,” he remarks, “but love, separates living creatures and shapes the world; and only in love’s light can you find this and observe it” (KFSA 5, 61). It is in love that singular and distinctive beings emerge, because it is through love that relationship and community become possible: “Only in the answer of its ‘you’ can every ‘I’ find its boundless unity” (KFSA 5, 61). In other words, love does not imply the elimination of difference or the annihilation of the self, but the opposite. By bringing people into intimate relations, loves allows them to see one another as individuals rather than as undifferentiated others. Love thus enables differentiation and individuation. Importantly, difference born out of love is a source not of alienation but of relation and community. For it is only in the mutual recognition of love that the “you” and “I” emerge—such that while each partner in the relationship recognizes him- or herself as distinct from the other, neither feels alienated from the other. Thus, Schlegel develops a dialogical conception of love that mirrors his understanding of the relation between self and other (“I” and “You”) elaborated in the Jena Vorlesungen. While in the lectures he had argued that this relation of difference and unity can be grasped through intuition, here he maintains that it is grasped through love, and, more significantly, born out of love.31 Love, in other words, does not only provide cognitive insight into unity in difference, but also grounds it. In light of these transformations in Julius’s views, one is struck not only by the degree to which they differ, but also by the way in which they differ. As I have already indicated, the two perspectives are not opposed. Rather, the views expressed in the last part of the book evidence deeper understanding and clarity. They are the views expressed in the earlier sections, developed and explicated from a more mature, thought-out perspective. As the final formulations of Julius’s thought, they represent the “flower” of his development. In turn, the novel as a whole can be perceived as a gradual intensification of Julius’s ideas—metamorphoses of the buds into flowers. Thus, while the views articulated at the beginning of the novel are indicative of Schlegel’s views in general, they do not offer the final word on the matter. Rather, they must be interpreted in relation to the views explicated in the last part of the book.32 This means that Schlegel’s claim that human-



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ity must seek to imitate the plant should also be understood in a more nuanced manner. For what he states at the beginning of the novel regarding the nature of passivity and equanimity should harmonize with his later claims on infinite striving and activity. It is to this juxtaposition of perspectives that we now turn.

8.6 The Plant as Moral Ideal As I have discussed, Schlegel’s use of the plant metaphor is both extensive and significant. He uses the idea of the plant to speak of the system of fragments, and he uses it to describe the novel. In addition, he identifies the plant symbol as a moral ideal and ascribes to it a passive quality that he associates with the feminine. The plant metaphor, therefore, is not limited to the artwork or the philosophical system but encompasses Schlegel’s moral ideals and his thoughts on the nature of sexual difference. The question is, in what ways and to what extent is Schlegel’s use of the plant metaphor suitable for describing human life? How does Schlegel regard the plant as an ideal of humanity? And, finally, do Schlegel’s views on this matter alter? In considering these questions, we not only return to the idea of polarity mentioned above, but also to the basic assumptions which underlie Schlegel’s turn to the work of art. As noted previously, Schlegel was of the view that the productivity of nature and the creativity of the artist are one and the same, such that insight into nature can be gained through the work of art and artistic activity. By considering the relationship between plantlike passivity and the creativity of artistic activity, we locate yet another point of affinity between the human being and the natural world. “The world in total,” Schlegel writes in his Dresden notes, “is originally a plant and should once again become plant. Humanity is in total a plant” (KFSA 18, 151, no. 332). To this he adds that “the feminine is most near to that which is least locomotive, the plant” (KFSA 18, 145, no. 263). While in some respects the identification of the feminine with the plant and the passive appears problematic, for Schlegel it is precisely this passive element that grants superiority to the feminine.33 Through its passivity, the plant evidences an “inner harmony” that is lacking in animals and humanity in general (KFSA 18, 151, no. 335). The claim that harmony is essential to morality is already present in Schlegel’s letters to his brother from 1793, where he identifies “systematic­ ity” as a moral ideal. In that instance, however, Schlegel maintains that this ideal involves an infinite striving. “What is our dignity,” he remarks, “if not the power and decisiveness to become like God, to have the infinite

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always before us?” This involves “the active striving of action [das regsame Streben des Handelns]” (KFSA 23, 130). This active striving, which he later defines as infinite perfectibility and progression, seems to contrast with the vegetative ideal presented in Lucinde. In the fifth section of the novel, titled “Idylle über den Müßiggang,” or “Ideal of Idleness,” Schlegel justifies his conception of passivity as a moral ideal, first by disagreeing with its opposite: the “unremitting aspiration for progress without rest,” which, he argues, is based on a deep misunderstanding of the world coupled with self-conceit (KFSA 5, 26–27). The incessant striving of contemporary society, Schlegel begins, arose out of antipathy toward the world and hatred toward life. This antipathy has led people to believe that they are called to transform the world, which in turn has resulted in self-conceit, because people believe that without their activity, the world would be incomplete and inadequate. This self-conceit has prevented people from truly understanding the world and being in it. However, Schlegel argues, “industry and utility are the angels of death who, with fiery swords, prevent humanity’s return to paradise” (KFSA 5, 27). What industry and utility (born out of self-conceit) prevent is the calm disposition necessary for artistic creativity and deep thought. Schlegel argues that imagination and thought can only emerge out of a state of “equanimity [Gelassenheit] and calm,” because it is only “in the holy stillness of true passivity” that “one can remember one’s whole ego and contemplate the world and life.” Thinking and writing, Schlegel continues, can only take place through a “complete dedication and submission to some guardian genius.” Thus, he concludes, “thinking and imagining are only possible in passivity” (KFSA 5, 27). However, the contemplative life is not only for artists and thinkers. Rather, Schlegel maintains that it is the ideal of all humanity. What the “poets, wise men, and saints” grasp—and what continues to behoove others—is that “everything good and beautiful already exists and can support itself” (KFSA 5, 26). There is, in other words, no need for unremitting activity to transform the world; instead, what is necessary is self-development through calm contemplation. At first sight, this moral ideal appears to contradict Schlegel’s views of infinite perfectibility and striving. Furthermore, the notion that, as Schlegel puts it “the highest, most complete life is nothing but a pure vegetating,” appears to accept, even recommend, something like acquiescence or complacency (KFSA 5, 27).34 However, a closer examination of what Schlegel says about passivity in both this section and the end of the novel reveals that passivity implies not inactivity, but the highest form of activity.



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First, it is important to note that Schlegel considers passivity to be necessary for both artistic creativity and thought—both of which require a high degree of alertness and concentration. However, the active mind in this instance is vastly different from the mind in its everyday busyness, which, rather than being focused and discerning, suffers from a lack of concentration, resulting in random association and a general inability to act in a creative, consistent, and thoughtful way. That passivity does not exclude activity, but in fact implies a particular kind of activity, is explicitly stated in the last part of the book. Schlegel describes the “life of the cultivated and meditative man” as a life of continual self-determination (Bestimmung) through unending self-reflection. “He is continually defining himself anew,” Schlegel writes, “for that is precisely his whole destiny to be determined and to determine. Only in the search itself does the human spirit find the secret that it seeks” (KFSA 5, 72). Similarly, the image of the universe that is given in the first part of the book, of the universe as composed of “eternal substances,” is reconceived in the third part to involve activity, transformation, and change. Julius depicts the universe as emerging out of the eternal opposition between the “undetermined (Unbestimmte)” and the “determined (Bestimmte),” such that the “universe is nothing but the plaything of the undetermined and determined” (KFSA 5, 73). Importantly, Schlegel maintains that the image of an eternal substance and that of eternal opposition between two symmetrical forces do not conflict. Rather, the opposing powers engender the symmetry of nature. What nature desires, he states, is “that every individual is complete and new in himself, a true portrait of the highest, indivisible individuality” (KFSA 5, 73). That is to say, the “eternal substances” or complete individuals are the symmetry that emerges out of nature’s “eternal cycle of eternally repeated experiments” (KFSA 5, 73). The question remains, however, concerning the difference between the passive feminine and the active masculine. At first sight, Lucinde seems to be structured in accordance with a basic polarity or opposition between feminine and masculine. For instance, the premise that motivates the plot appears to be that Lucinde possesses attributes (feminine attributes) that Julius does not and perhaps cannot possess on his own. However, it soon becomes clear that the attributes which are identified as feminine (and hence passive) and associated with Lucinde are not exclusive to women. Julius’s male friends are described as possessing “feminine consideration and delicacy of feeling” (KFSA 5, 45). Similarly, in the “Allegory of Impudence,” Hercules is the passive figure, opposed to the active, industrious Prometheus, and, in notes from 1802, Schlegel writes that “Hercules

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is the true idea of man” (KFSA 16, 372, no. 74). In turn, the last letter in the novel—composed not for Lucinde, but for a male friend Antonio—describes the ideal male friendship as “a wonderful symmetry,” where “all thoughts and feelings become social through the mutual excitement and cultivation of the sacred” (KFSA 5, 77). From this one can conclude that although Lucinde is based on the idea of polarity, this polarity is not a simple or straightforward passive/active, feminine/masculine polarity. Furthermore, in addition to the female and male roles in the novel (and their intermittent confusion), there is the androgynous character, who epitomizes the final moment of intensification, in which the polarity between feminine and masculine, between passivity and activity, is reconfigured in higher terms. This androgynous being, which bears a clear affinity to the flower, appears in the character of “wit” in the “Allegory of Impudence.”35 Wit guides Julius through the dreamscape in which Hercules and Prometheus offer two contrasting views of the universe. Hercules embodies calm and passivity, while Prometheus embodies industry and activity. Wit represents neither element, but appears as a mediator between the two poles. As noted above, Schlegel closely associates wit and the imagination, because the two capacities are able to grasp and articulate connections between apparently opposing elements. Schlegel distinguishes wit as the mediator between the unintentional or unconscious and the intended. This is because wit enters into a train of thought or a conversation suddenly, “without any intention and unconsciously,” and its remarks appear to have nothing to do with the preceding, but are in fact particularly illuminating and bring “clarity and transparency” to the topic at hand (KFSA 12, 393). Thus, Schlegel describes wit as a “syncretic capacity” (KFSA 18, 102, no. 882), “a connection and mixing of the conscious and unconscious” (KFSA 12, 393), and identifies it with “genius,” that is, “the ability to form [Bildungsvermögen]” (KFSA 18, 102, no. 882). Wit, in other words, brings the unconscious or inexplicit to consciousness and is thus the necessary cognitive ability of any artist who seeks to present or express the unintended and unconscious, the lived experience. The concluding sections of Lucinde, which illustrate how apparently irreconcilable oppositions are overcome and how a deeper understanding of the inherent relationality and connectedness of all things can be achieved, offer insight into how wit works. First, Schegel shows that overcoming opposition does not imply eliminating difference. Rather, it is in the opposition between infinite and finite, he maintains, that an “eternally immutable



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symmetry” is revealed (KFSA 5, 73). That is to say, opposition is overcome once the opposing elements are shown to be related and thus to coexist. In the penultimate section, titled “Sehnsucht und Ruhe” (“Longing and Calm”), Julius and Lucinde engage in a dialogue on the relation between two apparently opposing characteristics—longing and calm. What they come to realize is that longing and calm are inextricably linked and cannot be considered apart from one another. Thus, Julius remarks, “I find the holy calm only in this longing,” to which Lucinde responds, “And I [find] the holy longing in this beautiful calm” (KFSA 5, 79). That is to say, what appear to be mutually exclusive states are revealed to be essentially related and, more significantly, mutually supportive: the one cannot exist without the other. The theme of relationality is carried over into the final section of the novel, where the concern is the relation between the human being and the natural world. Here, Schlegel describes a state of understanding which grasps “the lament of the nightingale and the smile of the newborn, [it grasps that which] reveals itself in flowers and in stars alike through a mysterious symbolism [Bilderschrift]; it understands the holy sense of life and the beautiful language of nature. All things speak to her and everywhere she sees the living spirit through the delicate sheath [zarte Hülle]” (KFSA 5, 82). To achieve this level of understanding, one must develop a deep attentiveness to the natural world, coupled with an ability to discern relations which are not obvious or explicit. In other words, what is necessary is an active form of passivity, a developed receptivity, or wit. As the mediator between activity and passivity, unconscious and conscious, wit is a cognitive attitude that exhibits receptivity and openness that is intensified through focused attentiveness. Only in this way can it mediate between passivity and activity, and make explicit what is originally inexplicit or unconscious. Thus, in the place of infinite struggle and opposition, of dualities which remain in a state of contradiction, Schlegel elaborates a vision of connectedness between things, a “living nexus,” and distinguishes a cognitive comportment that is able to glean this inherent relationality and reciprocal determination. The mutual determination which he outlines in Lucinde recalls his conception of Wechselerweis in the Woldemar review. In both instances, he elaborates the way in which two elements are in a necessary relation with one another, such that the one cannot exist without the other. The fact that they are mutually determining reveals that neither exists purely as it is, but is always mediated through the other. Thus the final moment of development—embodied in the flower or in androgynous

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wit—implies not a cancellation or elimination of difference, but the continuing dialogue between the opposed. The flower is not asexual, but embodies both sexes. The final moment, then, is the instantiation of the opposition in the most vivid and complete way; it is the moment in which the drama of difference plays itself out most clearly and also most beautifully. This occurs in the work of art.

Conclusion to Part 2: Schlegel as Philosopher

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lthough Schlegel does not maintain one view or stance throughout his romantic period, he does elaborate a detailed and consistent picture of the goal and meaning of knowledge and of the relation between mind and nature. Throughout, Schlegel adamantly rejects the idea of an unconditioned first principle and argues instead for a relational absolute—that is, an absolute that is both the ground of relation or mediation and is mediation itself. The absolute is the relation between the infinite and finite; it is the act in which meaning is realized and thus truth occurs; it is the necessity that emerges in reciprocal determination. As such, the absolute is not an unconditioned principle, a static object, or an abstract concept. It cannot be reduced to any of the elements which it underlies, but it is also only made manifest in and through their activity and relations. It is, to use Schlegel’s words, an absolute that emerges “in the middle.” Schlegel’s attempt to move beyond subjective idealism through transcendental philosophy, which is most consistently carried out in the Jena Vorlesungen, signals a significant departure from Kantian and Fichtean idealism—a departure that is nonetheless nondogmatic. Schlegel does not posit an unknown Ding an sich or an infinite substance that is distinct from the subjective mind. Rather, he attempts to arrive at an understanding of reality by abstracting from everything relative and contingent and postulating what is absolutely necessary. He determines that this absolutely necessary ground is not an unconditioned principle but two reciprocally conditioning Urfakta—the infinite and consciousness. On this basis, Schlegel argues that the absolute is neither being nor thinking, neither nature nor mind, but the two together. He then goes on to develop a conception of reality, truth, and knowledge as inherently relational and contextual, and thus makes way

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for a hermeneutic approach to idealism. That is, an approach which is concerned not simply with determining the structures of consciousness, but of articulating a dynamic and historical reality. Schlegel’s rejection of the notion of a first principle and of the transcendental method leads him to the conclusion that a different kind or manner of thinking is necessary—one that is able to grasp the individual, follow the unfolding of its development, and discern the necessity in its relations. Such a manner of thinking must not proceed through conceptual subsumption, that is, through the sequential cancellation of a lesser moment in a higher (more universal) one. Rather, it must be able to behold difference without forsaking unity—it must, in other words, be able to grasp unity in difference. He describes this method as historical and identifies it with the imagination, which, he maintains, is alone able to apprehend individuals without losing sight of the whole. Already in 1793, Schlegel insisted that a system must be a harmonious whole, in which opposition and difference are not excluded. In 1796, he suggested the notion of a Wecshelerweis as a substitute for the unconditioned first principle, and in the years that followed, he went on to elaborate his ideal of a “system of fragments,” based on the notions of harmony, striving, and difference. Schlegel’s understanding of systematicity and his goal of constructing a plantlike novel ultimately rest on his conception of nature and mind as two necessary aspects of the absolute. Thus, although Schlegel’s most wellknown contributions to philosophy are epistemological, his epistemology cannot be separated from his ontology or from his move beyond transcendental philosophy in the Kantian and Fichtean senses. Throughout, Schlegel maintained a “critical,” or post-Kantian, philosophical comportment without, however, accepting the Kantian or Fichtean limits of knowledge or their understanding of the relation between mind and reality. For this reason, an adequate interpretation of Schlegel must take into account the way in which he strove to overcome the limited view of epistemology as first (and only) philosophy and his attempt to develop a deeper understanding of the place and meaning of knowledge within nature, history, and the absolute.

part 3

Schelling

A

lthough for the first century and a half following his death, Schelling’s  philosophy was interpreted through the lens of idealism, in the last decade there has been greater interest in his relationship to romanticism. This goes hand in hand with the revival of interest in romanticism as a philosophical movement. One can go so far as to say that Schelling has been reclaimed for romanticism. Frederick Beiser’s statement that Schelling’s work is the philosophically rigorous and systematic culmination of the “merely fragmentary, inchoate and suggestive in Hölderlin, Novalis and Schlegel” illustrates Schelling’s significance for understanding philosophi­ cal romanticism.1 In Schelling we witness the most systematic and detailed elaborations of key romantic themes and ideas. Nonetheless, Schelling’s place in the romantic circle, and his relation to romantic thought in general, is not straightforward. From a biographical perspective, it is difficult to deny Schelling’s proximity to romanticism. In 1798 he moved to Jena, and began lecturing at the university. During that time, Schelling befriended the Schlegel brothers and was an active par­ ticipant in their social events and a contributor to the Athenäum. One can thus conclude that the exchange of ideas between Schlegel, Novalis, and Schelling played a significant role in the development of their thought. Schelling’s philosophical background and his stated goals are clearly in concert with those of the romantics. Like Novalis and Schlegel, Schelling was at once immersed in Kantian and Fichtean idealism and in Spinozism. His aim was to find a way by which to grasp the absolute without forsaking the knowing self. Similarly, he was deeply interested in natural phenom­ ena and in the relation between the human being (the human mind) and the natural world. Like Novalis and Schlegel, Schelling was influenced by

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Goethe’s scientific work and sought to integrate Goethe’s insights into his philosophical system. However, Beiser’s claim that Schelling’s philosophical writings are the final, philosophically rigorous, culmination of romanticism is not en­ tirely accurate. A consideration of the relatively frequent transformations in Schelling’s thought—transformations which concern his conception of the absolute and the means by which the absolute can be known and pres­ ented—makes evident the difficulties underlying any attempt to conceive the absolute. Thus, Schelling’s philosophy is not so much the culmination of romanticism, but a thorough display of its challenges. As is well-known, Schelling’s views underwent several, often radical, shifts—Hegel famously said of Schelling that he undertook his philosophi­ cal education in public. Indeed, in the years leading up to his move to Jena and during his time as a member of the romantic circle, Schelling’s position altered in significant ways. While in 1800, at the conclusion of the System des transcendentalen Idealismus (System of Transcendental Idealism), he explicated art and aesthetic intuition as paramount to the philosopher, by 1801 he maintained that only reason can grasp the absolute. A similarly drastic change can be found in Schelling’s understanding of the meaning and role of a philosophical system. While both Schlegel and Novalis were unequivocally critical of the notion of a first principle, Schelling main­ tained—in his writings from 1796 to 1800—that only a system whose first principle is also its last is adequately scientific and complete.2 After 1800, however, Schelling became critical of the notion of a system based on a first principle and argued that such a system is unable to grasp the relationship between the absolute and its parts. The same holds for Schelling’s methodology. Schelling wavered between a method of successive construction, which seeks to produce a sequence of thoughts that mirrors the development of nature and consciousness, and a method of construction based on geometry, which grasps the absolute di­ rectly through intellectual intuition. While the former grasps the absolute in its stages and thus as “becoming,” the latter grasps the absolute in and through its parts and as “being.” What distinguishes Schelling from the other romantics is not a philo­ sophical perspective, a particular methodology, or a starting point, but his continuing struggle with the notion of the absolute. It is in Schelling’s re­ current questioning of philosophical methods and goals, in his unraveling of the fundamental ideas that underlie romantic and idealist thought, that his distinctive philosophical contribution to romanticism and to philosophy in general can be found. As such, the difficulties that Schelling encountered in



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his various attempts to articulate the absolute should not be discounted as a mere change of mind. Rather, the transformations arose as a consequence of his philosophical rigor. In the following, I examine the development of Schelling’s early thought, from his first philosophical writings in 1794 to his 1802–1803 works, pub­ lished just before his departure from Jena and his split from the romantic circle.3 My goals in this third and last part of the book are threefold. First, I want to examine Schelling’s development in relation to Fichte. Fichte was one of the thinkers who most influenced Schelling. In turn, Schelling’s break with Fichte was one of the most significant moments in the development of German idealism. On account of its significance, nu­ merous studies have sought to understand the exchange between the two philosophers. However, there continues to be controversy regarding the extent to which Schelling was a disciple of Fichte and the point in time at which he broke with Fichtean idealism.4 These studies do agree, how­ ever, that Schelling’s break with Fichte took place either in 1799 with the publication of his Erster Entwurf eines Systems der Naturphilosophie (First Outline of a System of the Philosophy of Nature), or in 1801 with the com­ mencement of the philosophy of identity. Thus, the years between 1795 and 1799 are commonly represented as Schelling’s “Fichtean” phase. As I will show, this view is not entirely accurate. Schelling’s earliest works, Über die Möglichkeit einer Form der Philo­ sophie überhaupt (On the Possibility of a Form of Philosophy in General) (1794) and Vom Ich als Prinzip der Philosophie (Of the I as Principle of Phi­ losophy) (1795), are more Spinozist than Fichtean, in spite of their use of Fichtean terminology. This is most clear in Schelling’s conception of intel­ lectual intuition, as presented in Vom Ich, which has little to do with the notion of intellectual intuition that Fichte publicly develops in 1797. It is not until 1796 that Schelling adopts the questions and methods of transcen­ dental idealism, and, paradoxically, it is in his first writing on nature, the Ideen zu einer Philosophie der Natur (Ideas for a Philosophy of Nature) (1797), that Schelling’s goals and methods most closely resemble Fichte’s. In turn, although in 1799 Schelling develops a conception of nature as in­ dependent of mind and attempts to construct nature in the same way that he (and Fichte) had previously constructed the self, his methodology of suc­ cessive construction remains similar to Fichte’s synthetic construction. It is not until after 1801 that he alters his methods and becomes critical of the successive construction he had employed in his works from 1797 until 1800. Thus, while one can certainly say that Schelling’s break with Fichte began in 1799, it came to completion only in 1801.5 Chapter 9 is a detailed

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examination of Schelling’s relationship to Spinoza and Fichte in those early years, while chapter 12 considers the development of Schelling’s identity philosophy, Fichte’s explicit critique of Schelling’s shift, and Schelling’s at­ tempt to respond to Fichte. My second goal is to shed light on one of the most significant, yet least considered (in this context), influences on Schelling, namely Goethe. It is my contention that the shift in Schelling’s conception of nature and the commencement of his break with Fichtean idealism in the Einleitung (In­ troduction) to the Entwurf were inspired by Goethe’s notion of metamor­ phosis. Although there has been a tremendous amount of scholarship dedicated to understanding the development of Schelling’s philosophy of nature and, in particular, the way in which he came to conceive of nature as indepen­ dent of the self, not one study has taken into consideration Goethe’s role in it.6 In turn, while there have been several studies which consider the influence of Schelling on Goethe, Goethe’s influence on Schelling has not been accorded the same degree of attention.7 Chapter 10 offers an in-depth consideration of the development of Schelling’s philosophy of nature and illustrates Goethe’s influence on Schelling’s understanding of nature as selfproducing and independent. Nevertheless, the overarching aim of this part of the book is neither to explicate Schelling’s relation to Fichte and Spinoza nor to trace Goethe’s influence on his development. Rather, the ultimate goal is to examine Schelling’s conception of the absolute, how he came to it, why he consid­ ered it an essential feature of his philosophy, and the difficulties that he encountered in articulating it. These difficulties are deeply connected both to Novalis’s and Schlegel’s understanding of the absolute as inherently re­ lational and to the idealist goal of constructing a system of knowledge. For this reason, an examination of Schelling’s thought provides a particularly significant perspective on the development and complexity of German phi­ losophy and on the way in which both romanticism and idealism find a home in Schelling.

chapter nine

The Early Schelling: Between Fichte and Spinoza

W

hile still a student at the Tübingen Stift (Tübingen Seminary), Schelling began to read and write on the new critical philosophy. Al­ though this was not his only interest at the time—Schelling was also deeply immersed in questions of hermeneutics and the interpretation of ancient (especially Greek) texts and myths—it is the interest which remained with him following his departure from Tübingen and throughout his time in Jena. Schelling’s earliest available philosophical writings from his time in Tü­ bingen also evidence an acquaintance with Fichte’s work. In fact, Schelling’s emphasis on the “I” has led interpreters to argue that at this stage, Schelling was no more than a follower or disciple of Fichte’s. Fichte himself thought as much when he wrote in a letter to Reinhold from July 2, 1795, that Schelling’s most recent work, Vom Ich als Prinzip der Philosophie (1795), was nothing but “a commentary on my own” (GA 3/2, no. 294). Fichte continued to regard Schelling’s work as in line with his own project, even after Schelling’s 1799 Erster Entwurf eines Systems der Naturphilosophie, which evidences a clear break from the Wissenschaftslehre. It was not until 1800, in fact, that Fichte came to realize that Schelling’s interest in the philosophy of nature had led him to chart a path very different from and in conflict with his own.1 But was Schelling ever a fully fledged Fichtean?2 Before answering this question, it is important to note that Schelling’s familiarity with Fichte’s writings was incomplete in 1795. Although Fichte had sent him a copy of the Grundlage der gesamten Wissenschaftslehre (1794) by January 1795, a year later Schelling reports to Niethammer that he had not yet read the work in its entirety. In a letter from January 22, 1796, Schelling responds to Niethammer’s request to write a review of the Wissenschaftslehre as

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follows: “I take your request that I review Fichte’s Wissenschaftslehre with yet greater pleasure, since I myself have not yet had enough time to truly study this work. The practical part of it I have not yet once read. . . . Never­ theless I believe I have grasped the spirit of the work in general” (HKA 3/1, 40). In a follow-up letter from March 23 of that year, Schelling asks Niethammer to seek another reviewer, as he cannot promise to write the re­ view by a certain date (HKA 3/1, 49). Indeed, as Xavier Tilliette has shown, Schelling’s 1795 work Vom Ich als Prinzip der Philosophie evidences no familiarity with the Grundlage, relying, rather, on Fichte’s earlier Über den Begriff der Wissenschaftslehre (1794).3 This is not to say that Schelling and Fichte were working in entirely different philosophical directions. Rather, they both understood themselves as working within critical philosophy. Furthermore, although they both agreed on the significance of Kantian philosophy, they were keenly aware of its shortcomings and sought to overcome them. Nonetheless, the fact that Schelling perceived himself as working out of and improving upon Kantian philosophy illustrates that he never understood himself simply as a follower of Fichte, but as working within critical philosophy in general.

9.1 Shared Questions and Concerns In his earliest systematic work, Über die Möglichkeit einer Form der Philosophie überhaupt (1794), Schelling’s concerns parallel Fichte’s. The short piece, which reads more like an introduction to Schelling’s thought rather than a substantial philosophical work, considers the challenges faced by critical philosophy. Along with Reinhold and Fichte, Schelling argues that the problem with the Kantian system is its lack of a first principle, or Grundsatz, which would unify it and thus make it into a science. Only through such a Grundsatz, Schelling maintains, can the attacks against critical philosophy be defeated. Toward the beginning of Über die Möglichkeit, Schelling acknowledges his debt to both Reinhold and Fichte and mentions Fichte’s recent review of the skeptical and anonymously published work Aenesidemus (1792),4 as well as Fichte’s Über den Begriff der Wissenschaftslehre. The “Rezension des Aenesidemus” (Review of Aenesidemus) (published in early 1794) pres­ ents in miniature the new direction of Fichte’s thought.5 Fichte’s key ideas from his Jena period—including his critique of Reinhold, his elimination of the thing-in-itself, his prioritization of practical reason, as well as his notions of intellectual intuition and the I—are already present in this first outline of his system.



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Like other critiques of the Kantian system at the time, Aenesidemus argues that critical philosophy does not provide an adequate response to skepticism. The distinctive element in this revival of skepticism, however, is that it is a response to the second edition of the Kritik der reinen Vernunft (Critique of Pure Reason), in which Kant had attempted to illustrate how his system does not fall prey to the arguments put forth by the skeptics, most especially, the claim that his philosophy was nothing more than Berkeleyan idealism. In addition, the review contains the first attack against recent defenders of the critical philosophy, specifically Reinhold.6 Aenesidemus’s fundamental critique of Kant’s theoretical philosophy is that the system is inconsistent—on the one hand, it claims no knowledge of anything outside of subjective representations, while, on the other, it insists on the existence of a thing-in-itself and of a noumenal I or subject. If Kant were consistent, Aenesidemus argues, then his system would not make any claims to anything outside of representations—in other words, to a thing-in-itself or to an unknowable I—and would thus be nothing more than phenomenalism or Berkeleyan idealism. One must therefore concede, Aeneisdemus maintains, that insofar as the Kantian philosophy grants us no access to the world as it is, but limits us to our representations, it cannot provide an adequate response to skepticism. Kant’s “Refutation to Ideal­ ism,” it seems, did not put an end to such accusations. The difficulties with Reinhold’s position, in contrast, are based on his conception of a first principle. While the author of Aenesidemus agrees that a first principle would in fact be necessary to establish certainty in philoso­ phy, he challenges Reinhold’s attempts to derive a philosophical system from this first principle. Reinhold’s goal was to unify Kant’s faculties of knowledge (imagination, understanding, sensibility) and to locate this unity in a first principle which precedes and thus determines all knowledge. This principle, Reinhold claims, can be none other than the power of representa­ tion (Vorstellungsvermögen), the principle of consciousness, because it is in the moment when the self becomes conscious of itself that the the differ­ ence between subject and object—the difference that determines all knowl­ edge—originates. The power of representation, therefore, determines and precedes all knowledge, unifying the various faculties under its umbrella. The author of Aenesidemus levels several critiques against Reinhold’s first principle, all of which arise from one concern, namely, that Reinhold’s first principle is not truly a first principle but is determined by or subordi­ nated to higher principles. Thus, Aenesidemus contests the notion that the difference between subject and object originates in the power of representa­ tion, arguing that the very powers of distinguishing and relating must have

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already been determined in a particular way such that they distinguish and relate subject and object in a specific manner. In other words, the distin­ guishing and relating of the powers of representation must be subordinated to a law higher than the principle of consciousness (for example, the prin­ ciple of contradiction). Similarly, Aenesidemus maintains that because the principle of consciousness involves distinguishing and relating subject and predicate, it must be a synthetic proposition, rather than an analytic one, as Reinhold maintains. What this means, according to Aenesidemus, is that the principle of consciousness is itself an abstraction from experience (from empirical representations) and thus cannot be the principle which originally determines experience. Fichte’s response to these critiques amounts to two key points. In his defence of Kantian philosophy, he argues that Aenesidemus’s skepticism is itself based on an unjustified realist perspective which assumes that truth must correspond to an objective standard—a thing-in-itself. It is because the author of Aenesidemus assumes that knowledge can only be attained through correspondence with a thing-in-itself that he concludes that knowledge is unattainable. This conception of truth, however, is unjustified because it as­ sumes a thing-in-itself without being able to prove it. In other words, Fichte turns Aenesidemus’s critique of Kant on its head, accusing Aenesidemus of the illicit move that he had ascribed to Kant (GA 1/2, 60–63). Fichte’s claim then is that the notion of a thing-in-itself is dogmatic and must be discarded. After all, a thing-in-itself without any relation to knowl­ edge or consciousness is inconveivable. It does not, in other words, exist as a “thing-in-itself” but always, as Fichte puts it, “for the I” (GA 1/2, 62). There is, therefore, no such thing as a thing-in-itself, only a thing in relation to an intelligent being. With regard to the status of the I as a noumenal reality, Fichte maintains that there is in fact a special relationship between the I and its conscious­ ness. Thus, unlike the thing-in-itself which is discarded as a nonsensical idea, the I is rehabilitated as a “noumenon insofar as it is the ultimate foun­ dation for any particular forms of thought at all.” In other words, it is a tran­ scendental idea that “is realized through intellectual intuition, through the I am, and indeed, through the I am absolutely, because I am” (GA 1/2, 57). Hence, the notion of the noumenal subject is permissible, indeed necessary, so long as it is understood in its relation to itself, in other words, in relation to an intelligent being. Fichte agrees with the author of Aenesidemus that Reinhold’s first prin­ ciple is deficient if it is understood merely as a “fact” of reason, that is to say, an abstraction based on and determined by empirical consciousness and



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representation. For this means that “the very act of representing, along with all of its conditions, is given to consciousness only through the representa­ tion of representing. It is thus empirically given, and the empirical represen­ tations are the objects of all reflection concerning consciousness.” A first principle, however, cannot be abstracted or derived. Therefore, Fichte con­ cludes, the first principle cannot be a “mere fact, but expresses an ‘act’ ” (GA 1/2, 46). The act of reason, which Fichte claims is the ultimate prin­ ciple of philosophy, must be the self-positing of the self, because it is only through this original self-positing that we have consciousness and the sub­ ject-object distinction. Consciousness and representation are thus secondary to and derived from the original act of self-positing, intellectual intuition (GA 1/2, 48). The noumenal subject, or the pure I, is not given in empirical intuition, but realizes itself in intellectual intuition. In the Aenesidemus review, then, Fichte not only eliminates the notion of a thing-in-itself, but also places intellectual intuition at the center of critical philosophy. Although he makes no mention of intellectual intuition in Über den Begriff, he continues to work through and with the idea during this period, as is evident from his private notes and lectures. We will return to this. The foremost concern of Über den Begriff is to establish philosophy as a science (Wissenschaft). Like Reinhold, Fichte considered the next and final step in the development of critical philosophy to be the construction of a complete system or science of knowledge based on an indubitable first principle, or Grundsatz. Über den Begriff is concerned with elaborating the meaning of this first principle in relation to science. Fichte argues that the Grundsatz must have two key characteristics. First, it must be knowable—a principle that one “does know and can know”—because a principle that is unknowable cannot explain how and why a science works (GA 1/2, 113). Second, it must be certain, because it is only through a shared or “common certainty [Gewißheit]” that the propositions in the system can be connected to one another and to the Grundsatz (GA 1/2, 114). Lacking this certainty, Fichte argues, the system would consist in propositions which have nothing in common with other propositions, and in place of a system, we would have random pieces of un­ justifiable knowledge (GA 1/2, 114). As the very ground of certainty—as that which brings together all the propositions under the umbrella of certainty—the Grundsatz must be immediately certain. While all the propositions that fall under it attain their certainty in relation to the Grundsatz, such that their certainty is mediated, the Grundsatz itself is not dependent on any propositions outside of itself

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and thus can neither be proven nor demonstrated. Rather, it must be imme­ diately certain, or “certain in itself [an sich gewiss]” (GA 1/2, 115). Fichte provides a “nominal” definition of certainty, as “insight into the inseparability of a particular content and a particular form” (GA 1/2, 123–24). To grasp what this means, one must understand what Fichte takes to be the content and form of a proposition. While content is “that about which one knows something,” form is “that which one knows about this something” (GA 1/2, 121). In other words, that about which one knows—content—con­ sists of the subject of a proposition (thus in the proposition “Gold is a body,” “Gold” constitutes the content). That which one knows—form—consists in the copula and the predicate (“is a body” would thus constitute the form). Every proposition has both content and form, and the Grundsatz, which must be immediately certain, must have not only an immediately evident content, but also an immediately evident form, and the two must be insepa­ rable. “This can only mean,” Fichte concludes, “that its content determines its form and its form determines its content” (GA 1/2, 121). Put differently, the subject of the Grundsatz must conform perfectly to its predicate. Ac­ cording to Fichte, the only proposition in which content and form conform perfectly and are immediately certain is the proposition “I am I.” Fichte’s conception of the Grundsatz as knowable and certain has two significant implications. First, it grants priority to the “content” of con­ sciousness (which would in this sense contain both the content and the form of a proposition) over the formal unity of the system. Second, it means that the Grundsatz must be determined in relation to a conscious, intel­ ligent being. With regard to the first point, it is important to note that Fichte em­ ploys the term form in two distinct ways. Form can mean the predicate of a proposition—as we saw above—or it can mean systematic form, the formal unity which underlies science. It is this second sense of form that Fichte considers to be an incidental or secondary feature in contrast to the content of science (what one knows). He thus states that “the essence of science lies in the character of its content and in the relation of this content to the consciousness of the person said to ‘know’ something. Thus systematic form seems to be merely incidental to science—not its aim, but merely the means to this aim” (GA 1/2, 113; emphasis added). He repeats this idea just a few pages later, when he again maintains that the “form” of science is only incidental: “What is the point of connecting propositions in this way [i.e., in systematic form where the one proposition is shown to be certain through its connection with another]? This is undoubtedly not done merely in order to demonstrate the virtuosity in the art of connecting, but rather in



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order to confer certainty upon propositions which lack it. Systematic form is, consequently, not the aim of science, but is an incidental means toward the achievement of this aim, a means which can be employed only when a science consists of several propositions” (GA 1/2, 115–16; emphasis added) This is not to say that scientific form is inessential to science—it is not. The point is that scientific form or formal unity on its own does not guar­ antee science. Rather, because the first and foremost condition of science is the immediate certainty of the Grundsatz, that which one knows and that about which one knows (form and content of a proposition) take priority over the formal unity of science. Furthermore, Fichte’s claim that the Grundsatz is knowable and certain means that it can be established only in relation to a knower—an individual consciousness. In this way, Fichte locates science within the perspective of the knowing I. Thus, in the same manner that he limits reality in the Aenesidemus review to that which can be given to an intelligent being, so in Über den Begriff he maintains that all knowledge, including logic, is based on an original relation to the I. “The proposition ‘A = A’ is originally valid only for the I. It is a proposition derived from the proposition ‘I am I’ ” (GA 1/2, 140). Thus, the certainty of the Grundsatz is established through its self-certainty, its immediate self-evidence, which is based on a selfreflective first-person perspective.7 In significant ways, Schelling’s Über die Möglichkeit shares Fichte’s concerns and mirrors the goals of Über den Begriff. Schelling claims that the only way by which to overcome skepticism is through establishing phi­ losophy as a science, and he understands science to be based on a Grundsatz, from which further propositions can be derived. Furthermore, he agrees that although Reinhold had made significant steps toward establishing this sci­ ence, his Grundsatz was ultimately deficient. Like Fichte, Schelling con­ cedes the critiques leveled by Aenesidemus, noting that the problem with Reinhold’s Grundsatz is that it is only concerned with content and not with form. He thus agrees with Fichte that the content and form of the Grundsatz must mutually determine one another. However, Schelling differs from Fichte on three significant points. First, he does not take the formal unity of science to be incidental; rather, he maintains that science must be “a whole, which stands under the form of unity.” This means that “all the parts are subordinated to one condition (Bedingung), and that one part determines the other only insofar as the part is determined by the one condition.” In turn, the “one condition” which determines all the parts and their relations to each another, must itself be undetermined, or “unconditioned (unbedingt)” (HKA 1/1, 269).

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This means—and this is the second point of difference—that what char­ acterizes science is not a “common or shared certainty” among its proposi­ tions but the fact that all its propositions are derived from or conditioned by one unconditioned principle. The Grundsatz therefore should be under­ stood not in terms of certainty or insight into certainty, but as the uncon­ ditioned condition. Finally, while he agrees with Fichte that the form and content of the Grundsatz must be co-determining, Schelling distinguishes the “inner form” from the “outer form,” identifying the inner form with self-positing as such and the outer form with the form of identity. The former, he main­ tains, precedes and makes possible the latter. Thus, he grants priority to the self-positing I and distinguishes it from the logical form of identity, or the self-reflective “I am I.” Let us examine these differences in some detail. Early on Schelling dismisses Reinhold’s attempt to provide a first prin­ ciple on the ground that Reinhold’s first principle concerns only the con­ tent and not the form of science. Schelling’s critique of Reinhold, however, is similar to Fichte’s, and he poses precisely Aenesidemus’s questions to Reinhold: If the first principle is solely the content of consciousness, then where does the form come from? Isn’t the form being presupposed without explanation? In addition, how can the unconditioned content be uncondi­ tioned, if it is determined by a form? Lacking an explanation of the form of the Grundsatz, Reinhold’s claims appear arbitrary and thus unscientific. Furthermore, Schelling explains that just as Reinhold’s content-based Grundsatz does not meet the standards of science, the attempts to con­ ceive of the Grundsatz as form alone similarly do not meet the standards of science. He writes, “There is no universal form which does not presup­ pose some content (something that is posited) and no absolutely uncondi­ tioned universal form, which does not presuppose a particular content that is the only one possible for it” (HKA 1/1, 276). In other words, a system that is solely concerned with justifying and articulating its form does not ad­ equately explain and justify its content. Thus, the question is: Where does the content come from? How does it determine the form? Lacking answers, this system appears arbitrary and thus once again unscientific. Thus, Schelling agrees with Fichte that both the content and the form of the Grundsatz should be posited absolutely. The difference, of course, lies in the fact that what Schelling means here is that they must be “uncon­ ditioned,” while Fichte means they must be self-evidently or immediately certain. For Schelling, the form and content of the Grundsatz condition all other form and content in the science and thus cannot themselves be depen­



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dent on or conditioned by any other form and content (HKA 1/1, 270–71). This means, he explains, that in the “one ultimate absolute principle” of science, form and content must be simultaneously given, such that “along with the content of the Grundsatz (the content that is the condition for every other content), the form of it is already of necessity given as the form that is the condition of every form. . . . In this way, the Grundsatz not only expresses the entire content and form of philosophy but also gives itself in this very fashion its own content and its own specific form simultaneously” (HKA 1/1, 277). Like Fichte, Schelling concludes that the only possible Grundsatz which fulfills this criterion is the “I am I.” Only such a proposition con­ tains content and form that are unconditioned, because nothing can be pos­ ited absolutely except that “whose being-posited is determined by nothing other than itself (through absolute causality); it is posited, not because it is posited, but because it is itself that which posits [das Setzende]” (HKA 1/1, 280). Importantly, for Schelling, the Grundsatz is unconditioned not because it is self-evidently certain, but because it is positing itself: das Setzende. “I am I” thus denotes absolute self-positing. Schelling makes precisely this point when he distinguishes between the “inner form” and the “outer form” of the Grundsatz. He describes inner form as the “form of [both] the content and the form of the Grundsatz,” which is the form “of being determined through itself [des bedingtseyns durch sich selbst].” In contrast, the outer form is the “form of that which is unconditionally posited [die Form des unbedingten Geseztseyns].” This lat­ ter form, he writes, is “made possible” through the former (HKA 1/1, 274). The difference between inner and outer form is a difference between self-positing as an absolutely unconditioned act and the formal structure of positing, which results in the principle of identity. By indicating a difference between self-positing, on the one hand, and the form of unconditioned pos­ iting, on the other, Schelling distinguishes between the I as a self-causing cause, a self-determining reality, and the I as a member of the formal struc­ ture of positing, a self-identical, self-reflective consciousness. Although at first sight Schelling’s distinction appears to mirror Fichte’s distinction between the act of intellectual intuition and the structure of identity that is derived from it, there is an important difference between the two. This difference has to do with their varying conceptions of the uncon­ ditioned. Fichte’s claims is that what makes a principle unconditioned is its immediate or self-evident certainty. Now, given the fact that the content and form of the unconditioned must determine one another, it follows that

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certainty must consist in the reciprocal determination of form and content. In other words, for Fichte, the unconditioned is self-evidently certain be­ cause its form and content reciprocally determine one another. For Schelling, by contrast, the unconditioned is an “absolute causality (absolute Causalität),” whose “being-posited is not determined by anything but itself, which therefore posits itself” (HKA 1/1, 280). In other words, the unconditioned is not determined by and is therefore not equivalent to the certainty that is achieved through reciprocal determination, that is, the certainty achieved in self-consciousness.8 Rather, it is an original positing that precedes and makes the structure of reciprocal determination possible. In turn, because it precedes the self-reflective, self-determining structure of consciousness, the unconditioned cannot be grasped by it.9 Although Schelling does not say this yet (but will do so in just under a year), what is necessary for grasping this original self-causing cause that precedes and grounds reflection (and hence grounds the self-reflexive form of identity) is intellectual intuition. This means that the “outer form” of identity is not, in itself, immediately certain. For Fichte, the Grundsatz is the structure of identity, the “I am I,” and cannot be displaced by a more original reality. There is no reality that pre­ cedes the self-determining structure of identity—all that is, is “for the I.” Furthermore, as I will discuss in more detail, Fichte maintains that the pure I is not a self-positing, self-causing reality—an absolute cause—but a regula­ tive ideal, an idea of practical reason. Finally, for Fichte, seeing this original self-positing is impossible. Intellectual intuition is an act and not an insight into the absolute or pure I. We will return to this. Although Schelling does not make these differences explicit, his distinc­ tion between the inner form of the Grundsatz as a self-determining, selfpositing reality and its outer form indicates an ontological conception of the I that is foreign to Fichte’s understanding of the self. It would thus appear that already at this stage, Schelling does not share Fichte’s most basic premises. The conditions of knowability and certainty play no role in his conception of the Grundsatz, and neither does the connection between the Grundsatz and an intelligent being. For Schelling, rather, the determining characteristic of the Grundsatz is that it is an unconditioned, self-causing cause. In this way, Schelling is much closer to Spinoza and Jacobi than he is to Fichte.10 In Über die Möglichkeit, however, Schelling’s thinking is far too formal to accommodate the ideas he is working with. In Vom Ich als Prinzip we see his first explicit move toward a conception of the I as an absolute cause, or a causa sui in Spinoza’s sense.11 It is also in this work that Schelling develops a notion of intellectual intuition that corresponds to Spinoza’s third kind of



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knowledge. However, in spite of his clear affinity with Spinoza, Schelling repeatedly notes that he is not a Spinozist and that his philosophical starting point is different from Spinoza’s. Rather than positing substance as the ab­ solute, Schelling emphasizes that the I is the absolute. Why does Schelling insist on this difference between his system and Spinoza’s? And to what extent does Schelling’s I continue to have some affinities with Fichte’s, in spite of his Spinozism?

9.2 Schelling’s Early Spinozism In his letter to Hegel from February 4, 1795, Schelling famously proclaims that he has “become a Spinozist!” “Don’t be surprised,” he continues, “you will soon hear, how?” (HKA 3/1, 22). In his previous letter to Hegel, dated January 6, 1795, Schelling relates that he is working on an “Ethic à la Spi­ noza.” This ethic, he writes, “should present the highest principles of all philosophy, the principles in which theoretical and practical reason are uni­ fied” (HKA 3/1, 17). Although Schelling calls himself a Spinozist, he retains a certain dis­ tance from Spinoza. Thus, in his February letter, he writes that while “for Spinoza, the world (the absolute object opposed to the subject) was every­ thing, for me it is the I” (HKA 3/1, 22). And in his January letter to Hegel, he expresses an unparalleled admiration for Fichte: “Fichte will raise philoso­ phy to a height, from which even most of the Kantians will become dizzy,” and again, “Lucky enough, if I am one of the first to greet the new hero, Fichte, in the land of truth!” (HKA 3/1, 17). These letters have raised many questions. What could Schelling mean when he describes himself as a Spinozist, and what would his project of a Spinoza-inspired ethics look like? How could Schelling avow Spinozism and simultaneously speak of Fichte’s philosophy with such ardor? One answer to this question is that Schelling was using a Spinozist perspective to interpret Fichte’s ideas. This is precisely how Fichte read Vom Ich, writing to Reinhold that the Spinozist perspective present in it “particularly pleases me, as Spinoza’s system is the one which can most clearly explain mine” (GA 3/2, no. 294). Reinhold, however, is not entirely in agreement with Fichte’s assessment. In December 1795 he writes to Fichte, “I had until now believed that the pure I . . . arises from out of moral laws—not that the moral laws must be deduced from it. I remain afraid that the true sense of the moral law could be in danger, if one derives it from the absolutely posited absolute I. . . . In Mr. Schelling’s writing there are state­ ments on this point” (GA 3/2, no. 330).

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While Fichte sees in Schelling’s Spinozism a means by which to inter­ pret the Wissenschaftslehre, Reinhold sees the reverse—Schelling is us­ ing Fichtean ideas and terminology to interpret Spinoza. Thus, Schelling’s employment of the I and his emphasis on freedom express not a Fichtean approach, but a Spinozist approach that is merely using Fichtean terms. More and more, this has become the accepted interpretation of Schelling’s Vom Ich, with some commentators going so far as to argue that Schelling’s conception of the I in this work is nothing but a “place-holder” for Spino­ za’s substance and bears little relation to Fichte’s I.12 While this claim is not entirely unjustified, it would be a mistake to understand Schelling’s I as a mere terminological substitute for Spinoza’s substance. Although Schelling’s description of the I shares much in common with Spinoza’s sub­ stance—it is an absolute indivisible unity, whose attributes are infinite, and which can best be described as “absolute power”—Schelling emphasizes that his starting point is the I, and not, as was the case with Spinoza, the not-I. Given that Schelling’s notion of the absolute I so closely resembles Spinoza’s substance, why does he persist in emphasizing that it is an I and not simply substance?

9.3 The “I” in Vom Ich Spinoza’s presence is evident throughout Vom Ich, and Schelling is aware of this. In the first paragraph of the preface, he comments that “in this essay Spinoza is spoken of very often, not (to use Lessing’s expression) ‘as a dead dog.’ ” For this reason, he remarks, readers who are not careful “could jump to the conclusion that the author is trying to repeat Spinoza’s errors, even though they have been refuted long ago” (HKA 1/2, 69). To these readers, he continues, “this system is meant to fundamentally undermine Spinoza’s system [in seinem Fundament zu untergraben], or, more aptly, to topple it by means of its own principles” (HKA 1/2, 70). Schelling begins Vom Ich with strong realist claims, stating that the task of philosophy is, following Jacobi, “to uncover and reveal existence [Daseyn]” (HKA 1/2, 77). This is not to undercut the goal expressed in the work’s title, which is to grasp the “principle of philosophy” and, by extension, the principle of knowledge. Rather, as Schelling sees it, the principle of philoso­ phy and knowledge must be the same principle that underlies reality and being. This principle, he elaborates, cannot be objective, that is to say, “de­ termined by an ulterior principle,” because as the ultimate principle, it must be absolutely undetermined (HKA 1/2, 74). In response to those who criti­ cized Über die Möglichkeit as attempting to establish the unity (and hence



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possibility) of knowledge through an objective principle, Schelling agrees that “an objective principle could not be an ultimate one because it would have to be determined by an ulterior one. The only unresolved question between us is whether there is any principle which is not objective at all and which nevertheless furnishes the basis for all philosophy” (HKA 1/2, 74). If “the ultimate in knowledge [der letzte in unserm Wissen],” Schelling con­ tinues, were “a silent painting (as Spinoza put it) outside us, then we would never know that we know.” The very fact “that we know” implies that this unconditioned must be “in our knowledge, such that through it we know, that we know” (HKA 1/2, 74). These claims may appear to bring Schelling’s project very close to Fichte’s and Reinhold’s. However, Schelling sees a fundamental difference between what he’s doing and what Reinhold and Fichte had thus far ac­ complished. Reinhold’s attempt, he writes, “to elevate the empirically con­ ditioned I (which exists in consciousness) to the principle of philosophy,” was bound to fail because it raised the empirical or conditioned to the level of the unconditioned (HKA 1/2, 98–99). In other words, it took something that was objective and determined to be something nonobjective and non­ determinable. It is precisely this same critique that Schelling levels against Fichte, albeit silently. The unconditioned principle of all knowledge must therefore be differ­ ent from what we think of as the I, that is, the I given in experience, the self-conscious I. Nevertheless, as the ground of all knowledge, this principle cannot be outside of or other than the I. Yet if knowledge is to claim any reality, if, as Schelling puts it, “he who wants to know something, wants to know at the same time that what he knows is real,” then “there must be something which and through which everything that is reaches exis­ tence [Daseyn], everything that is being thought reaches reality [Realität] and thought itself reaches the form of unity and immutability. This some­ thing should be what completes all insights within the whole system of knowledge and it should reign—in the entire cosmos of our knowledge—as the original ground [Urgrund] of all reality” (HKA 1/2, 85). In other words, the nonobjective principle of knowledge must be, on the one hand, immedi­ ately united to the I and, on the other, the ground of all reality. What we are after, then, is not the ground of knowledge in the sense of a principle that unifies consciousness, a principle that grants coherence to a self and its experience; rather, what we are after is that which makes this principle possible—not simply the ground of self-knowledge and selfconsciousness, but that which enables knowledge as such. Such a ground or condition (Bedingung) can only be found in an absolutely unconditioned

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reality, a reality that precedes subject-object determination: “The ultimate ground of reality is a something [Etwas] which is thinkable only through itself, through its being, briefly, it is that principle in which thought and being are one [bei dem das Prinzip des Seyns und des Denkens zusammenfällt]” (HKA 1/2, 86). As unconditioned, Schelling continues, this principle must “bring it­ self forth through its thought” (HKA 1/2, 87). This distinguishes it from an object, which can never realize itself but is realized through another. An object, furthermore, is determined through its being a nonsubject, just as a subject is determined in its opposition to an object. For this reason, the ul­ timate principle must be distinguished from both object and subject. “That which I call subject is only in opposition, and is determined in reference to an already posited object” (HKA 1/2, 88). The principle of knowledge and reality, Schelling concludes, must therefore “lie in that which cannot be­ come a thing at all,” in an absolute self, or I (HKA 1/2, 90). Schelling’s designation of the ground of knowledge as an absolute I that realizes itself appears to concur with Fichte’s understanding of the self. In­ deed, it would be a mistake to deny that Schelling’s emphasis on the I places him in proximity to Fichte. Nonetheless, Schelling’s understanding of the I differs from Fichte’s in key respects. While Fichte speaks of the “idea of the I,” wherein the term idea implies an unattainable ideal that grounds the demands of practical reason, Schelling understands the I as the constitutive ground of reality and as the original unity of being and knowing. For Schel­ ling, therefore, the term idea is much more Platonic than Kantian.13 In turn, the transcendental structures of thought and the practical demands of rea­ son, which are at the foreground of Fichte’s conception of the I, play little to no role in Schelling’s conception. For Schelling the I is an ontological reality that, he repeatedly emphasizes, is. Fichte’s central claim in Über den Begriff that “I am because I am,” or simply, “I am!” is interpreted by Schelling to mean “a being [Seyn] which precedes all thinking and imagin­ ing” (HKA 1/2, 90). Furthermore, Schelling argues that self-consciousness cannot be a fact or an act of the absolute I. An I that is given through the activity of selfconsciousness is a determined I and thus, in Schelling’s terminology, an empirical I.14 This is because self-consciousness implies difference and de­ termination, a subject-object distinction. For this reason, Schelling writes, “self-consciousness presupposes the danger of losing the I; it is not a free act of the unchanging I, but an unfree striving of the changing I, conditioned by the not-I, to maintain its identity and to reassert itself in the flux of change” (HKA 1/2, 104). Although in the third part of the Grundlage, Fichte states that



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“the concern here is not with the self given in actual consciousness,” Schelling nevertheless sees Fichte’s conception of the self—as a self that is opposed to a not-self—as a conditioned, objectifiable, and hence empirical self (GA 1/2, 277). Only a self that is absolutely nonobjective and nonobjectifiable, Schelling contends, transcends the realm of the empirical (HKA 1/2, 90).

9.4 Intellectual Intuition It is in Vom Ich that Schelling speaks of intellectual intuition (intellektuale Anschauung) for the first time. Intellectual intuition alone, he main­ tains, can positively “determine [bestimmen]” the I. The I cannot be given through a concept, because concepts reside within the sphere of the condi­ tioned or determined. That is, if the I were merely a concept, it could be ex­ plained through something higher than itself. Therefore, the I can be given only through a nondiscursive or nonconceptual form of cognition, in other words, through an intuitive capacity “which grasps no object at all and is in no way a sensation” (HKA 1/2, 106). Although Reinhold and Fichte had already brought intellectual intu­ ition back into philosophical discussion, Schelling’s emphasis on it and his particular understanding of it not only distinguishes him from them but also makes for a striking return of an idea that had been buried by Kant.15 As noted earlier, Fichte’s only public mention of intellectual intuition at this point was in the Aenesidemus review. Fichte does not speak of intellectual intuition in either Über den Begriff or the Grundlage, making it even more striking that Schelling grants intellectual intuition such prominence in Vom Ich. It was not until the 1797 “Erste Einleitung in die Wissenschaft­ slehre” (First Introduction to the Wissenschaftslehre) that Fichte places intel­ lectual intuition at the center of his understanding of the I. This is not to say that Fichte had not been working with and exploring the idea of intellectual intuition in his private writings and, as has been more recently discovered, in his Zurich lectures.16 Nevertheless, the claim that Fichte’s understanding of intellectual intuition played a determining role in Schelling’s conception is not only an overestimation of Fichte’s influence on Schelling but also over­looks the fundamental differences in their conceptions and uses of the term.17 Fichte’s understanding of intellectual intuition in the early 1790s (pri­ marily developed in the unpublished Eigene Meditationen, 1793–1794) was a response to Reinhold’s conception of “inner intuition” or “inner expe­ rience,” which, Fichte came to realize, does nothing more than grant an empirical unity of consciousness and thus cannot provide an adequate refu­ tation of Aenesedimus’s skepticism.18

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Fichte’s attempts to resolve the problems of Reinhold’s theory led him to replace Reinhold’s “powers of representation” with a nonempirical self, proclaiming in the Eigene Meditationen that “the I is intuitable [das Ich ist anschaulich],” and “Intuit your I [Schaue Deine Ich an]” (GA 2/3, 27). However, unlike Schelling, for whom the I cannot be opposed to a not-I (and thus determined and objectified), for Fichte the activity of intellectual intu­ ition implies the simultaneous positing of the I and not-I.19 Such a positing, Fichte writes, takes place not “through concepts, but immediately through intuition” (GA 2/3, 28). Toward the end of the Eigene Meditationen, Fichte identifies the activity of positing with practical activity: “It is practical, self-legislating, and to that extent entirely determined through itself: it it­ self determines and determines itself. It is at once actor and that which is acted upon” (GA 2/3, 176).20 Although Fichte does not detail his conception of intellectual intuition in the Aenesidemus review, his understanding and use of the term exempli­ fies the direction of his thought in the Eigene Meditationen. As I described earlier, Fichte employs intellectual intuition to speak of the “act” of con­ sciousness, such that the absolute I or absolute subject is realized in intel­ lectual intuition. The absolute subject, he explains, is “a transcendental idea which is distinguished from all other transcendental ideas by the fact that it is realized through intellectual intuition, through the I am, and indeed, through the I simply am, because I am” (GA 1/2, 57). The absolute object, or not-I, can similarly be realized only in intellectual intuition and, he adds, must be realized as opposed to the I (GA 1/2, 48). Finally, he connects intel­ lectual intuition with practical activity and the moral law, explaining that the pure I “is because it is and is what it is,” because it is “self-positing, absolutely independent and autonomous” (GA 1/2, 55–56). By bringing the I and intellectual intuition into the realm of practical reason, Fichte seeks to secure a conception of the self as nonempirical. The moral self, he argues, is absolutely autonomous and does not have any relation to the natural world or the world of (empirical) activity. Schelling’s motivations to turn to intellectual intuition are similar to Fichte’s. Like Fichte, he is attempting to work out a theory of the self that is not empirical and a way of grounding it that evades the infinite regress of conceptual or discursive knowledge. Also like Fichte, Schelling sees him­ self as working with the spirit, if not the letter, of Kantian philosophy. In fact, both Schelling and Fichte understand their projects as fundamentally in agreement with Kant’s, while being aware of the latter’s shortcomings. However, their responses to Kant’s shortcomings are decisively different. Unlike Fichte, Schelling maintains that intellectual intuition does not in­



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volve differentiation between the I and not-I. Furthermore, Schelling does not turn to morality to secure a nonempirical conception of the I. Schelling is in complete agreement with Kant’s assertion that the I can­ not be conceptualized or given through sensible intuition.21 In turn, Schel­ ling argues that although Kant never speaks of an “I am,” but only of an “I think,” he nevertheless intimates the idea of an absolute I. Kant appears to suggest that “a deduction of the I from mere concepts is impossible . . . [because] the original proposition I am is antecedent to all concepts and only accompanies and establishes them, as it were, as a vehicle” (HKA 1/2, 133). In the distinction between the empirical I given through concepts and the absolute undetermined I, Schelling sees not only the most important philosophical contribution toward understanding the I, but also the de­ termining characteristic of criticism (as opposed to dogmatism). Thus, he writes, “Kant was the first who established the absolute I as the ultimate substrate of all being and all identity—though he established it nowhere di­ rectly but everywhere indirectly” (HKA 1/2, 162). However, although Kant makes gestures toward the priority of an original “I am” and appears to have a sense for the difference between the “I am” and the “I think,” he fails to follow through on his point. This failure is also exhibited, Schelling argues, in Kant’s denial of intellectual intuition. To Schelling, as to many of his contemporaries, Kant’s denial appeared arbitrary and disingenuous.22 Although Kant rejects intellectual intuition, he presupposes an absolute I. Schelling writes, “I know very well that Kant de­ nies all intellectual intuition, but I also know the context in which he denied it. It was in an investigation which only presupposes the absolute I at every step and which, on the basis of presupposed higher principles, determines only the empirical conditioned I and the not-I in its synthesis with that I” (HKA 1/2, 106). In other words, Kant (for particular reasons) does not allow for intellectual intuition; however, if he were consistent, he would have. The relation between the original “I am” and intellectual intuition, ac­ cording to Schelling, is a relation of determination (HKA 1/2, 103). The absolute I, he writes, is determined (bestimmt) through intellectual intu­ ition (HKA 1/2, 106). What does it mean for the absolute I to be determined through intellectual intuition? Schelling’s statement appears at first sight to be contradictory. How could the absolute, which he claims is uncondi­ tioned, be determined? In turn, what would such a determination look like if, as Schelling maintains, intellectual intuition is nonobjectifying? Though Schelling does not take up these questions directly, he provides clues as to how intellectual intuition functions and how it determines the absolute I. The majority of these clues refer to Spinoza.

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Schelling’s interest in Spinoza is based on what he takes to be Spinoza’s nonabstract understanding of substance. “The most consistent system of dogmatism, the Spinozistic,” he writes, “declares itself most emphatically against the opinion that conceives of the one absolute substance as an ens rationis, an abstract concept.” Schelling continues, “Spinoza sees the un­ conditioned in the absolute not-I, not in an abstract concept nor in the idea of the world, nor of course in any single existing thing” (HKA 1/2, 109). At this point, Schelling provides a lengthy footnote on Spinoza’s theory of knowledge. The footnote commences with references to Jacobi on Spinoza, Spino­ za’s letter to Ludovicus Meyer from April 20, 1663 (Letter 12), and Ethics 2, P40S. In these places, Spinoza outlines a distinction between what he calls “universal concepts” and intuitive knowledge. While the former are gained through sense perception, imagination, and abstraction, the latter is gained by way of the intellect alone. Schelling explains the distinction as follows: In order to understand this passage, one must know that Spinoza thought that abstract concepts were pure products of the power of imagination. He says that the transcendental expressions (which is what he calls ex­ pressions like ens, res, etc.) arise from the fact that the body is capable of absorbing only a limited quantity of impressions, and when it is over­ saturated the soul cannot imagine them except in a confused manner, without any differentiation, all under one attribute. He explains the general concepts in the same manner, e.g., man, animal, etc. . . . For Spinoza the lowest level of knowledge is the imagining of single things; the highest is pure intellectual intuition of the infinite attributes of the absolute substance [reine intellectuale Anschauung der unendlichen Attribute der absoluten Substanz], and the resulting adequate knowledge of the essence of things. This is the highest point of his system. For him, mere confused imagination is the source of all error, but the intellectual intuition of God is the source of all truth and perfection in the broadest sense of the word. (HKA 1/2, 110G–111G)

In Spinoza’s conception of intellectual intuition, Schelling finds two sig­ nificant features. The first is that it is neither objectifying nor discursive. It does not proceed from an object to form a universal, abstract concept that can in turn be applied to various instances. The second feature is that it provides adequate, or true, knowledge, whose standard is itself (“truth is the standard of both truth and falsity,” E2P43S). This means that it does not



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fall into the infinite regress of discursive knowledge. Let us examine these two characteristics. Spinoza’s third kind of knowledge, as described in Ethics 2 (E2P40S2), proceeds from an adequate idea of the absolute essence of certain attributes of God to the adequate knowledge of the essence of things. To explain the procedure, Spinoza provides a mathematical example in which one is given three numbers and is required to find the fourth number (1, 1, 2, . . .).23 The relations between the first three numbers exhibit the pattern according to which the fourth number must be related to the first three. In this case, one cannot, as would be the case with universal or abstract concepts, proceed from the particular to the universal, from various instances to a general con­ cept. Rather, one must decipher the relations between the numbers.24 The mathematical problem, Spinoza notes, requires that one understand the relations between the parts and on that basis construct the following number. In other words, one must gain insight into the idea that underlies the relations between the numbers.25 The idea, then, is not an abstraction, that is to say, it is not a concept that can only be gained by abtracting from the particulars. Instead, it is immanently realized in the particulars—in the numerical relations. The relations are singular manifestations of the idea. The idea, then, is the realization of this particular sequence—it cannot be separated from the sequence; it is the sequence. Or, put in different terms: the concept and its object are one. Through intuition, then, the numbers become meaningful and constructing the succeeding numbers in the se­ quence becomes possible. Schelling identifies this unmediated insight with what Spinoza calls seeing “with the eyes of the mind.” The context of this remark is the dis­ cussion of the eternal nature of the absolute in Ethics 5 (E5P23S). Here, Spi­ noza considers what it means to understand eternity, and Schelling quotes the passage: “Eternity cannot be defined by time, or have any relationship to it. Nevertheless we feel and know by experience that we are eternal. For the mind is no less sensible of those things which it conceives through intelligence than of those which it remembers, for the eyes of the mind by which it sees and observes things are demonstrations. Although therefore we do not recollect that we existed before the body, we feel that our mind, insofar as it involves the essence of the body under the form of eternity, is eternal, and that this existence of the mind cannot be defined by time, i.e., explained through duration” (HKA 1/2, 131R–132R; Schelling’s empha­ sis). What captures Schelling’s attention in this passage (and what he itali­ cizes) is the idea that the mind has an immediate capacity for perception

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and demonstration. Through this capacity, humans gain insight into what is eternal, into that which cannot be given through sensation or concepts. This capacity, Schelling writes, is none other than the “form of pure intel­ lectual intuition [Form reiner intellektualer Anschauung]” (HKA 1/2, 131). In the first footnote in which he speaks of Spinoza’s conception of in­ tellectual intuition, Schelling also cites the scholium to proposition 43 (E2P43S), which references the scholium to proposition 21 (E2P21S). Here, Spinoza identifies the form of the mind as such, in other words, without any determination by an object of thought. The “idea of the mind,” he begins, is the same as the mind, because they are “considered under the same attri­ bute, namely, thought.” The idea of the mind is therefore an idea of an idea, which means that the two are “nothing but the form of the idea considered as a mode of thought without any relation to any object” (my emphasis). Thus, Spinoza identifies the mind as a mode of thought as such, that is, without relation to an object of thought, without any determination. Signif­ icantly, Spinoza adds that “as soon as someone knows something, by that very fact he knows that he knows it, and at the same time he knows that he knows that he knows, and so on to infinity. But more on this later.” This “later” is the scholium to proposition 43 (E2P43S), which Schelling cites. Before proceeding to that passage, it is important to note that Spinoza (and Schelling’s reading of Spinoza) is aware of the infinite regress that can occur if thought is understood only in terms of what it thinks, in other words, in terms of the object of thought. This means, Schelling concludes, that the mind as an ideal reality must be understood, first and foremost, not as a thinking thing, that is, in relation to objects of knowledge, but as I am. Proposition 43 (E2P43) is dedicated to identifying true knowledge. “Someone who has a true idea,” Spinoza begins, “knows at the same time that he has a true idea, and cannot doubt about the truth of the matter.” In the scholium to this proposition, he recalls the problem mentioned at the end of the scholium to proposition 21. The problem of infinite regress, Spinoza writes, is easily solved in terms of the proposition just given, “for no one who has a true idea is ignorant of the fact that a true idea involves the highest certainty.” In other words, with true ideas or true knowledge, infinite regress must come to an end. For truth, as Spinoza goes on to say, is its own standard and need not be grounded in something other than itself. He thus concludes: “Who can know that he is certain of some thing, unless he is first certain of that thing? Then, what can exist which is clearer and more certain as a standard of truth than a true idea? Clearly, just as light manifests both itself and darkness, so truth is the standard of both itself and of falsity.”



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These remarks, which were favored by Schelling (he quotes them in his dedication to his friend Pfister26), provide an important insight into what Schelling saw in Spinoza’s theory of knowledge and how he attempted to employ it. Following his elaboration of the difference Spinoza draws be­ tween abstract concepts and knowledge granted through intellectual in­ tuition, Schelling turns to the meaning of true knowledge. The two are clearly connected. In providing insight into the idea that determines and is expressed in the parts, intuition uncovers the schema of construction, the inner structure that underlies and relates the parts. In this way, the insight enables further construction. Spinoza’s statement that truth is the only standard for truth, which is a response to the question that he had posed earlier regarding the infinite regress of knowledge, means that the problem of regress can only be solved through a kind of knowledge that does not seek the cause or the reason of the thing known in something other than itself. In other words, true knowledge seeks the idea of the thing in the thing—as it is expressed, for instance, in and through the numbers and their relations. This knowledge is intellectual intuition, which gains insight into the idea that underlies and constitutes the thing and thus evades the problems of discursive knowledge. Schelling, however, takes Spinoza’s conception of intellectual intuition further. While for Spinoza what is intuited is the idea that underlies the series, for Schelling it is the absolute itself—the I—and its manifestations in the whole of reality. The mark of intuitive knowledge is precisely that it concerns itself not with distinguishing and delimiting (which is the method of reason27), but with seeing the underlying whole or idea that is in each of the parts. Thus, Schelling explains that in judging A = B, one is not “making a judgment regarding A insofar as it is determined by something outside itself but only insofar as it is determined by itself, by the unity of being posited in the I, not as a determined object, but as reality as such, as at all positable in the I. Thus I do not judge this or that A or that particular point of space or time, but A as such inasmuch as it is A through the very determination by which it is A, that is, that which makes it equal to itself and = B” (HKA 1/2, 149). In other words, intuitive insight does not grasp A as a thing that exists among other things, an object in opposition to other objects, but as a being whose unity is posited in and granted through the absolute. Thus, every A is an expression of itself only inasmuch as it is also an expression of the unity of the I, of reality as such. Schelling draws the important distinction between reality or being, on the one hand, and things, on the other—a distinction, he notes, that is present in most languages that distinguish between being (Seyn), existing (Daseyn), actuality (Wirklichkeit), and existence (Existenz).

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The absolute I is in the sense of being; it does not exist (existiert), nor is it actual (ist nicht wirklich) (HKA 1/2, 137). What is perceived in intellectual intuition, therefore, is this nonobjective reality that underlies, structures, and unifies all things.

9.5 Nonobjective Intuition: Schelling’s Critique of Spinoza What Schelling sees as the distinctive character of intellectual intuition is that it is absolutely nonobjective. This means that intellectual intu­ ition does not perceive a thing as determined by other things, but sees it as a manifestation or an instance of an idea, the absolute I. Thus, Schelling writes, “The I contains all being, all reality [enthält alles Seyn, alle Re­ alität]” (HKA 1/2, 111). He adds, “we are talking here about the absolute I, this should be the genus [Inbegriff ] of all reality, and all reality must co­ incide with it, that is, must be its reality. The absolute I must contain the data, the absolute content that determines all being, all possible reality” (HKA 1/2, 112). As the genus of all reality, the absolute I presents itself in its various determinations, and each of these determinations presents the absolute I within itself. However, if intellectual intuition is truly nonobjective, then there can­ not be any difference between the knower and the known; there cannot be, in other words, any objectification. Thus, what is intuited has to be identi­ fied with the intuiter in such a way that neither can be reduced to either object or subject. Put differently, what is intuiting must not be fundamen­ tally other than or outside of the absolute. Thus, the determination of the I in intellectual intuition can only be understood as a self-determination, or what Schelling calls “self-attained intuition [selbsterrungens Anschauen]” (HKA 1/2, 146) Here, I think, we find the fundamental difference between Schelling and Spinoza and begin to see why Schelling adamantly distin­ guishes his “absolute I” from Spinoza’s “substance.” Schelling’s claim is that Spinoza’s substance remains an object distinct from the intuiting subject. As such, it is not truly absolute or absolutely immanent. It remains outside of and other than the I. In other words, every time that an individual self intuits the infinite in the finite, it is not intuit­ ing an entity that is other than itself, an absolute object. Rather, as a self that partakes of the absolute I, it is also intuiting itself. Although Schelling makes gestures toward this point in Vom Ich, it is not until the Briefe über Dogmatismus und Kriticismus (Letters on Dogmatism and Criticism) (1795–1796) that he explicitly criticizes Spinoza’s



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conception of intellectual intuition, arguing that it is “objectifying.” In this work, which is often interpreted as the early Schelling’s most favorable reading of Spinoza, Schelling argues that Spinoza’s understanding of intel­ lectual intuition is self-contradictory. Spinoza’s system, he begins, admits one of two interpretations: “either he had become identical with the absolute, or else the absolute had become identical with him.” Spinoza chose the former, Schelling writes, and thus “believed himself identical with the absolute object and lost in its infini­ tude” (HKA 1/3, 88). By eliminating the subject, Spinoza sought to move beyond the domain of subject-object opposition. In fact, however, Schelling elaborates, his perspective remains squarely within it. There are several rea­ sons for this. First, Schelling notes that we simply “cannot get rid of the self” (HKA 1/3, 89C). There must always be a knower in the act of knowing or a cre­ ative being in the act of realizing; otherwise, we would end up with the paradoxical view that the self must both annihilate itself and survive its own annihilation. Second, Schelling explains that Spinoza’s elimination of the self implies that Spinoza tacitly assumes that the self is not a selfdetermining, independent reality; for if the self were a self-determining be­ ing, then it could not simply eliminate itself in the absolute. He writes: “If the subject has an independent causality of its own insofar as it is a subject, then there is a contradiction in the demand ‘lose yourself in the absolute!’ But Spinoza had done away with just that independent causality of the I by which it is I. In demanding that the subject lose itself in the absolute, he has demanded implicitly the identity of subjective with absolute causality. He had decided, practically, that the finite world is nothing but a modification of the infinite, finite causality merely a modification of infinite causality” (HKA 1/3, 84–85). In other words, by eliminating the self in the absolute, Spinoza conceives of the self as a mere reflection of an absolute object and the self’s causality as nothing other than the causality of the absolute. It is, simply put, not self-determining. If it is the case that Spinoza tacitly denies self-determination, then, Schelling contends, he must also deny self-intuition or the immediate ex­ perience of one’s self as a knowing being. Lacking self-intuition, however, it is not clear how Spinoza could have arrived at intellectual intuition. Or, as Schelling puts it, “From where else could he have created the idea of an intellectual intuition but from his own self-intuition?” (HKA 1/3, 86). It is the immediate experience of the self, Schelling explains, that provides the ground for experience—for experience of the world, of objects—such that without self-intuition, knowledge or experience of objects is impossible.

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Thus, Schelling writes, “Because every experience of objects depends on the experience of further objects, at core our knowledge must start from an immediate experience in the strictest sense, that is, from an experi­ ence produced by ourselves and independent of any objective causality” (HKA 1/3, 87–88). The problem with Spinoza’s perspective, then, is that in spite of its ef­ fort to move beyond the domain of subject-object distinction, it remains squarely within it. By giving the self over to an absolute object and elimi­ nating self-determination, it acquiesces to an external objective causality. In turn, by denying the most immediate experience of self, it maintains an objectifying consciousness, one in which an external, absolute causality is absolutely determining. This means that it does not truly grasp the immediate and immanent nature of intellectual intuition and of the absolute. In the last footnote of Vom Ich, Schelling references Kant’s claim in section 69 of the Kritik der Urteilskraft that although Spinoza provides the necessary “unity of basis” which underlies and connects all natural beings, he does not provide a “unity of purpose.” A unity of basis is a diffuse onto­ logical unity in which all things are contained in (and are manifestations of) the one substance. In contrast, the unity of purpose is a stronger unity that connects reality through organized relations (AA 5, 393).28 While Spinoza’s goal, according to Kant, is to “offer a basis that will explain why things of nature are connected in terms of purposes (which it does not deny),” all his system provides is “the unity of the subject in which they all inhere.” “Spi­ nozism,” Kant writes, “does not accomplish what it tries to accomplish” (AA 5, 393). Schelling agrees with Kant’s assessment: “Kant is quite right when he says that Spinozism does not accomplish what Spinoza wants” (HKA 1/2, 175R). He disagrees, however, with Kant’s remedy to Spinoza’s problem. For Kant, the desired stronger unity can only be achieved through purpose—and hence contingency and intentionality.29 Contingency and intentionality cannot be ascribed to the absolute I, Schelling contends, for they presuppose limitation and finitude.30 Purpose, therefore, cannot be the means by which to solve the problem of unity. What Spinoza sought, but did not achieve, Schelling maintains, is a unity that is neither purely mechanistic nor teleological, but a higher unity that can combine (and thus overcome the difference between) the two mod­ els (HKA 1/2, 174–75).31 Though in Vom Ich Schelling does not elaborate the nature of this higher unity, an indication of it can be found in his understanding of immanent



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causality and its relation to intellectual intuition. While on the surface he appears to agree with Spinoza’s notion of causality, the difference between the two rests on the degree to which this causality is immanent. Schelling’s claim is that Spinoza’s absolute is not immanent enough; so long as it re­ mains an object, a not-I, the absolute cannot be absolutely immanent, for it remains outside of and other than the I. Furthermore, so long as the singular beings within the absolute remain mere reflections of absolute causality, their relation to the absolute is not absolutely immediate. It is only by participating in the absolute that singular beings have a truly immediate and immanent relationship to the absolute. As mere reflections, they cannot participate in the very essence of the absolute, namely self-productivity. Rather, they simply mirror the absolute’s productivity and thus remain, ultimately, other than the absolute. In contrast to Spinoza’s conceptions of intellectual intuition and of the relation between finite and infinite, Schelling maintains that intellectual intuition, in order to be absolutely immanent, must be active. As a partici­ pant in the absolute, the intuiting self is not simply an inactive part in an active whole—that would, after all, mean that the knowing self is in some way different from the absolute. Rather, the self must be active in the same way (though not to the same extent), as the absolute; it must, therefore, be self-determining and intellectual intuition must be active and productive. This is precisely what Schelling means when he maintains that the self must “realize” the absolute. The absolute is not an object that must be known; rather, it is a nonobjective reality that must be infinitely realized.32 In this way, Schelling maintains—with Kant and Fichte—that intellectual intuition is necessarily participatory and hence productive.33 Already at this stage, we see the hallmarks of Schelling’s mature con­ ception of intellectual intuition as “construction.” We also see how this later conception developed from out of his appropriation and critique of Spinoza. Intellectual intuition is an active capacity, in which the intuiter realizes the intuited, brings it forth or constructs it, such that there is an absolute identity between the concept and its object (Spinoza) and between the intuiting and the intuited (Fichte). We also see what Schelling means by a nonobjective intellectual intu­ ition. The intuiting self is not within the absolute as a part is within the whole, but participates in the absolute in the most immediate way. This is only possible if the absolute and the intuiting self are not distinct and if in­ tellectual intuition is productive. The absolute, therefore, is not a substance that contains all things, but a unity in which all the members actively

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participate. The relation is not one of reflection (where the parts reflect the whole), but of participation (where the members participate in and realize the whole) (HKA 1/2, 146).

9.6 Toward a Philosophy of Nature Although in his earliest writings Schelling does not engage with a philoso­ phy of nature, or thematize nature in a rigorous way, we can already see that his insistence on the absolute I and his understanding of intellectual intuition as absolutely nonobjective provide the first steps toward a con­ ception of nature as productive, as a self-causing cause in which all parts are active participants. As he sees it, Spinoza’s diffuse ontological unity simply cannot account for the growth and development of natural products. By following through on Spinoza’s immanentism, Schelling’s earliest writ­ ings point in the direction of a philosophy of nature that is distinctive from Spinoza’s—one that is based on the idea of nature as active and developing. This immanence is, in turn, inherently connected to knowledge and intu­ ition. It is only because the absolute is a self-intuiting I that it is active and productive. As I will explain in the next chapter, even in his most Fichtean work, the 1796–1797 “Abhandlung zur Erläuterung des Idealismus der Wissenschaftslehre,” Schelling turns to a conception of intellectual intuition closer to Fichte’s only because he is trying to find a way by which to develop a concrete idea of the unity of nature.34 In this work, the structure of intel­ lectual intuition serves as the ground of nature because it is “fully active and thus productive and immediate” (SW 1/1, 379–80). Matter, in contrast, lacks the internal structure of intuition and thus cannot explain the charac­ ter of nature (it is not self-producing). Schelling’s break in 1799, which once and for all distinguishes him from Fichte, further substantiates this view. In the Entwuf eines Systems der Naturphilosophie, Schelling grants nature the status of the absolute, only insofar as nature is—like the self—active and productive: an ideal reality whose products are participants in its infinite productivity.

chapter ten

The Philosophy of Nature

O

ne of the most fascinating moments in the development of Schelling’s thought—and in the development of German idealism in general— is the move from a philosophy of self to a philosophy of nature, or Natur­ philosophie. Rather than deriving nature from the self, the philosophy of nature conceives of nature as an independent, self-regulating reality, from which the self can be derived. Thus, while the philosophy of self takes the activity of self-intuition to be primary, both ontologically and epistemologically, the philosophy of nature accords such primacy to nature.1 Schelling’s move toward the philosophy of nature is nothing less than a fundamental restructuring of the meaning and methodology of idealism. While Fichte repeatedly emphasizes that philosophy can only be transcendental (i.e., its goal is to examine the conditions that make experience possible), Schelling comes to argue that a transcendental procedure fails to account for its own possibility. Thus, while Fichte claims that philosophy must begin with the self-reflective I, Schelling maintains that this I presupposes an original positing or causality and thus cannot serve as the foundation of philosophy. Although this difference becomes clearer around 1800, I have already shown that it was implicitly present in Schelling’s conception of the I as an “absolute causality” and in his distinction between the innerform and the outer-form of the proposition of identity. The “origin” of Schelling’s philosophy of nature, or more accurately, the seed of what later came to be his philosophy of nature, remains a disputed topic. Many scholars trace his work in Naturphilosophie back to his “Timaeus Fragment” from his time in Tübingen in 1794, prior to his encounter with Fichte’s work.2 It was not until 1796–1797, however, that Schelling began his study of nature and incorporated nature into his philosophical

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writings. Nonetheless, in these writings, Schelling’s conception of nature is squarely within the framework of transcendental philosophy—his primary concern is epistemological and nature is understood as a product of the self or spirit (Geist). It was not until the 1799 Erster Entwurf eines Systems der Naturphilosophie, and its Einleitung (which was published one month later), that Schelling granted to nature the status of the absolute and thus paved a new path in the history of German idealism. The question therefore is: What inspired this shift in Schelling’s thought? By investigating the transformation of Schelling’s understanding of nature, from 1796 to 1799, an answer to this question becomes apparent.

10.1 Matter as the Product of Spirit (Geist) In both Vom Ich and the Briefe, Schelling maintains that it is the nonobjectifying character of intellectual intuition that enables it to grasp the absolute. After all, as he repeatedly emphasizes, the absolute is not an object or a thing and thus cannot be known through either concepts (discursive understanding) or sensible intuition. Rather, as an ideal reality, the absolute can only be grasped through this “secret, wonderful capacity” that “can breathe life [Leben] into the otherwise dead and inanimate system” (HKA 1/3, 88). The difference between criticism and dogmatism which he outlines in the Briefe rests on precisely this point. While dogmatism takes the absolute to be an already realized object of knowledge, criticism conceives of the absolute as an activity, “an infinite task,” that realizes the infinite in the finite (HKA 1/3, 102). Because this task is infinite, the absolute is never made into an object of knowledge, a static entity that can be grasped through con­ cepts. Rather, it remains an active, developing reality. By working out a conception of the absolute as nonobjective, and by developing a theory of knowledge that can grasp the absolute, Schelling takes his first steps toward a philosophy of nature. That Schelling considers these two points to be fundamentally interdependent is made evident in the “Abhandlung zur Erläuterung des Idealismus der Wissenschaftslehre” (1796– 1797). It is in this work that Schelling engages with the question of nature for the first time. It is also in this work that he emphasizes the active, productive character of intellectual intuition that Fichte had outlined. Though at first sight the combination of a philosophical account of nature with a Fichtean take on intuition seems surprising, upon closer consideration it is in perfect harmony with the progress of Schelling’s thought. Having realized that the problem with Spinoza’s conception of intellectual intuition rests on its objectification of the absolute, Schelling integrates the Fichtean



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conception of intellectual intuition as activity into his own understanding of intellectual intuition. He maintains that only a nonobjectifying, and thus active, intuitive capacity can grasp the nonobjective absolute. Schelling begins the “Abhandlung” by explaining that his concern is not with nature as such, or with how things outside of us are possible, but with the possibility of our representations (Vorstellungen) of nature. In other words, the primary question is an epistemological one, concerning the “correspondence [Uebereinstimmung] of the object and our representation, of being and knowledge” (SW 1/1, 365). Or, to put it in the terminology of his previous works, the question concerns the relation between form and content. In concert with these earlier works, Schelling’s answer is the prin­ ciple of identity. However, in contrast to Vom Ich, in the “Abhandlung” he adds that self-intuition is the ground of the principle of identity: it is only in self-intuition that representation and object correspond to one another (SW 1/1, 366). On this basis, Schelling concludes, reality must be determined through our spirit, in other words, knowledge of reality is predicated upon the original unity between subject and object found in self-intuition. However, self-intuition does not only guarantee the certainty of our knowledge and its correspondence to reality. It plays another, more complex role, and here we see Schelling’s second reason. In addition to his desire to secure knowledge through the correspondence between representation and object, Schelling is concerned with comprehending the difference between matter and spirit or mind (Geist) and, in turn, understanding their relation. Schelling begins his argument by outlining two different ways by which to conceive the relationship between form and matter: either matter and form are given from something outside of me, or they are given to nature by me. The first case implies that matter is something “in itself.” For us, however, it is impossible to know how matter is in itself. In order to gain such knowledge, we would have to be matter. Insofar as we are not matter, but knowing subjects, knowledge of matter in itself is impossible. Therefore, he concludes, so long as we presuppose, i.e., assume, that matter is something that precedes our knowledge, then we do not know what we are talking about. Instead of going further with such incomprehensible concepts, it is better to ask what it is that we originally understand and can understand. Originally, however, we understand only ourselves. Since there are only two possible systems, one which makes matter the principle of spirit, the other which makes spirit the principle of matter, there remains for us only one system which we can understand, namely, not that

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spirit is born out of matter, but rather that matter is born out of spirit. (SW 1/1, 373–74)

This leaves us with the second option, namely, that matter and form are given by us to nature, that matter is the product of our spirit (Geist). In other words, our productive intuition determines the structure of matter and thereby grants it organization and unity. Schelling’s reasoning rests on what he sees as a deficiency in matter. First, matter does not intuit itself; it is turned merely outward, in contrast to the self, which is turned both inward and outward (SW 1/1, 380). Thus, while the self turns inward and, in so doing, produces itself—brings itself forth—matter is directed purely to the external world. While it is transformed by the world, it does not effect any change on itself. Matter, then, cannot be said to produce itself: its cause is not inherent to itself. Nonetheless, matter appears to be self-organizing. The question thus is: How is this possible? That the self intuits itself implies a duality—an interiority and an exteriority—which, Schelling contends, is the ground of self-productivity and self-organization. An organized being is one that causes or produces itself; it is not caused or determined by something external to itself. Furthermore, an organized being acts in accordance with an inner purpose, such that everything within it strives toward a particular goal and in this way instantiates a system. The self exhibits precisely these characteristics: as selfdetermining, the self contains within itself the origin and goal of its being. For this reason Schelling concludes that “since there is the infinite striving for self-organization in our spirit, then a universal tendency toward organization must also reveal itself in the external world.” In other words, organization in the world can only be explained by way of the organization of our selves. Our spirit, as Schelling puts it, provides the “archetype [Urbild]” for nature (SW 1/1, 386). These ideas and overarching questions underlie much of Schelling’s first work that explicitly addresses nature, the Ideen zu einer Philosophie der Natur (1797). The primary concern of the Ideen, much like that of the “Abhandlung,” is “not whether and how that assemblage of phenomena and the series of causes and effects, which we call the course of nature, has become actual outside us, but how they have become actual for us, how that system and that assemblage of phenomena have found their way to our minds, and how they have attained the necessity in our conception, with which we are absolutely compelled to think of them” (SW 1/2, 29–30). Similarly, in the Ideen Schelling turns to the self-organization of the mind as the only way



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by which to explain our experience of nature as self-organizing, leading him to conclude that “the system of nature is at the same time the system of our mind” (SW 1/2, 39). In spite of these fundamental similarities between the Ideen and the “Abhandlung,” in the Ideen we see a significant step toward an understanding of nature as self-productive. This is clear in Schelling’s distinction between natural organization and the work of art and in his claim that the unconditioned in nature is a divine (universal) intelligence and not a subjective (self-reflective) mind. Natural organization and the work of art share one fundamental characteristic: their parts are not arbitrarily chosen but are organized in accordance with an intention. A “concept lies at the base of every organization,” Schelling explains, “for where there is a necessary relation of the whole to the part and of the part to the whole, there is a concept” (SW 1/2, 41). However, while in the work of art the concept is external to the work (in the intention of the artist), in nature the concept is internal, and as such, nature must be understood as self-organizing. Schelling writes, “This concept dwells in the organization itself, and can by no means be separated from it; it organizes itself, and is not simply, say, a work of art whose concept is to be found outside it in the understanding of the artist” (SW 1/2, 41). Furthermore, Schelling explains that this “concept” or “intention” that grounds self-organization cannot be understood as an intention of a subjective mind. There must be a “third thing” which connects the subjective mind, on the one hand, and matter, on the other, because “no relation is possible except through a third thing, to whose ideas both, matter and concept, belong” (SW 1/2, 42). Only “a higher divine intelligence,” he continues, can comprehend the union of mind and matter (SW 1/2, 44). This, in turn, leads Schelling to further differentiate between the work of art and the natural organism. While it is perfectly adequate to speak of a concept determining the artwork, such a characterization falls short in depicting the processes of nature. This is because it would make the higher intelligence into a “slave” of the concept. As Schelling explains: “a being in whom the concept precedes the act, the design the execution, cannot produce, but can only form or model matter already there. . . . What he produces is purposive, not in itself, but only in relation to the understanding of the artificer, not originally and necessarily, but only contingently” (SW 1/2, 44). In other words, the higher intelligence creating nature must be internal to nature; otherwise, it would be simply following a previously outlined blue print— and would therefore lack internal necessity and originality. By differentiating nature from the artwork in this way, and explicating

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the productivity of nature in terms of a higher intelligence, Schelling grants to nature an independence from the subjective, self-reflective mind. Unlike the work of art, nature is not determined by a concept from without but by a higher intelligence that acts from within. This higher intelligence, furthermore, is not identified with singular subjectivities, but with a universal ideality, which is “inseparable” from nature (SW 1/2, 44). This leads Schelling to conclude that the purposiveness in nature “could not be imparted from without. . . . [The things of nature] are purposive originally through them­ selves” (SW 1/2, 45). However, Schelling does not follow through on his claims in the Ideen. He continues to maintain that the higher intelligence must be “an intuiting and reflecting mind [Geist],” thus identifying the activity of nature with a self-intuiting, self-reflective being. He then goes on to conceive of the organization of the self-reflective mind as the source of natural organization, for it is only “in relation to a mind [Geist],” he writes, that “organization as such is conceivable” (SW 1/2, 42; see also 47). In the Ideen, Schelling thus appears to oscillate between a conception of nature as self-organizing and his earlier understanding of nature as the product of a self-intuiting mind. This oscillation becomes most evident in his distinction between the work of art and nature, where he opposes natural organization to the intentionality and organization exhibited in the production of artefacts. Yet, although he acknowledges a real difference between the two, he continues to maintain that natural organization can be understood only in relation to a self-intuiting mind and not on its own terms. Thus, the distinction between these two kinds of organization is not coherently thought out and leaves many questions unanswered. If there is a real difference between the two kinds of productivity, then this difference must be located not only in relation to the self-intuiting mind, but also in the work of art itself and in nature itself. What, then, are the determining characteristics in nature and in the artwork that lead the mind to recognize a difference in their organization? Schelling’s difficulty arises from an unjustified assumption regarding the character of nature. As a result of identifying nature with matter and divesting matter of interiority and thereby purposive activity, Schelling concluded that nature cannot be the source of its organization. Only a self (as a self-intuiting being) could produce itself. Yet he saw that natural relations could not be reduced to mechanical, external relations. Thus, nature appeared to necessitate a notion of self-productivity. However, given his basic assumption that only a self can produce itself, Schelling was unwilling to



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grant self-productivity to nature, concluding that it is only by understanding nature as the product of our spirit that we can understand how nature functions in a nonmechanistic manner.

10.2 Goethe’s Influence Schelling’s perspective on the character of nature alters dramatically in the following year. In the Erster Entwurf eines Systems der Philosophie der Natur and in its Einleitung, he makes the remarkable claim that nature must be understood as autonomous and independent of the mind. Nature, he maintains, is not a “product” of our spirit, but is a self-producing reality. This claim, in opposition to his earlier conception of nature, leads Schelling to abandon the perspective of transcendental philosophy and to distance himself, once and for all, from Fichte’s Wissenschaftslehre. The question then is: How does Schelling’s thought shift, such that he is able to grant to nature self-productivity and thus independence from the intuiting mind? The answer to this question is the key to understanding the transformation in Schelling’s conception of nature and his break with Fichtean idealism. An examination of Schelling’s relationships at the time reveals that this fun­ damental shift had less to do with conversations with Hölderlin or with a return to Spinoza and more to do with Schelling’s appropriation of Goethe’s understanding of nature as metamorphosis. Beginning in 1798, Goethe came to play a significant role in the development of Schelling’s thought. Not only was Schelling deeply impressed by Goethe’s optics, undertaking experiments with Goethe during his first visit to Weimar in May 1798, but he also found in Goethe’s conception of plant metamorphosis the key to understanding nature as a self-producing, organic whole. Thus, in a letter to Goethe from January 26, 1801, Schelling writes, “Your presentation of the metamorphosis of plants has proven indispensable to me for understanding the emergence of all organic beings, and the inner identity of all organic forms amongst themselves and with the earth. . . . The organic was never created but has always existed [war immer schon da]” (HKA 3/2, 305). Thus, we need to consider in what sense Goethe’s idea of metamorphosis became central to Schelling’s own conception of nature and how it proved to Schelling that the organic was never “created” but always “existed.” In his 1798 Von der Weltseele (On the World Soul), Schelling is clearly familiar with Goethe’s conception of metamorphosis and quotes the Ver­ such über die Metamorphose der Pflanzen, invoking Goethe’s understanding

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of plant growth to show the underlying law of natural development. Growth, Schelling explains, takes place through the two opposing forces of expansion (Ausdehnung) and contraction (Zusammenziehung) (HKA 1/6, 221).3 The goal of growth is individuation, which, once attained, leads to reproduction (HKA 1/6, 222).4 What at first appear as two different laws of productivity in nature—growth and reproduction—are in fact two aspects of the same law.5 Schelling agreed with Goethe that the essential characteristic of nature is transformation, or Bildung. However, in spite of the clear similarities between Goethe’s conception of metamorphosis and Schelling’s understanding of nature in the Weltseele, Schelling remains within the paradigm of transcendental philosophy. For one, he opposes the empirical and the transcendental. Then, he argues that those who rely on experimentation cannot, on the basis of physical evidence, explain the original antithesis in nature—the antithesis that makes movement and change possible (HKA 1/6, 86). “The origin of this antithesis,” he writes, “is to be sought in the original duplicity of our spirit [Geist]” (HKA 1/6, 91). Therefore, although Schelling appropriates some of Goethe’s ideas concerning metamorphosis, he either does not completely understand or he does not agree with Goethe’s fundamental premise—namely, that metamorphosis is an ontological principle that underlies both the empirical and the transcendental, the real and the ideal. In other words, at this point Schelling does not agree with Goethe’s claim that the metamorphosis of plants refers to a real formative principle that inheres in the natural organism and is not imposed upon it by the mind. In fact, this is precisely the criticism which Goethe levels against Schelling’s writings on nature. In a letter to Schiller from January 6, 1798, he criticizes Schelling’s conception of nature and his method in the Ideen. “I happily admit,” Goethe begins, “that he is not speaking of the nature which we recognize, rather of a nature which we take in by way of certain forms and capabilities of our spirit. . . . The idealist can try as much as he likes to defend himself against things-in-themselves, but he will nevertheless stumble up against them before he knows it” (MA 8/1, 489). In a letter written just a week later, on January 13, Goethe once again complains to Schiller about the newest philosophy. He writes, “In reading Schelling’s book I have realized that there is little hope for help from the most recent philosophy” (MA 8/1, 494). This critical attitude soon changed, however, following Schelling’s visit to Jena and Weimar in May 1798. In a letter to Christian Voigt, Goethe expresses his interest in the prospect of Schelling being appointed as a profes-



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sor in Jena, describing Schelling as “a very clear, energetic and . . . organized mind” and concluding that Schelling “would do us a great honor if he were to become useful in the academy” (MA 6/2, 922). Less than a month later (June 21, 1798), Goethe writes to Voigt to reiterate his plea, emphasizing that “Schelling’s brief visit was a great pleasure for me; it would be beneficial for both him and us [if he came here] . . . [for him] so that he would be introduced to experience and experimentation and an assiduous study of nature” (MA 6/2, 922–23). Just a couple of weeks later, Schelling received an invitation from Goethe to join the university in Jena.6 In the winter semester of 1798–1799, Schelling offered a course on the philosophy of nature.7 In October of 1799 he published the Erster Entwurf eines Systems der Naturphilosophie and in November published the Einlei­ tung to that work. Goethe read the Entwurf toward the end of 1798, prior to its publication, and, following his reading of the Einleitung (September 1799), went through the work with Schelling in October 1799 (TAG 2, 264– 65, 277, 314; TAG 2, 318–20). In a letter from November 9 of that year, Schelling remarks that “just a while ago [Goethe] and I spent a lot of time together. I was at his place daily and had to read and work through my text on the philosophy of nature with him. What a growth of ideas these conversations were for me, you can only imagine” (HKA 3/1, 244).

10.3 Goethe and the Metamorphosis of Nature It was on his first Italian journey (1786–1787) that Goethe began to clearly formulate his idea of an archetypal plant or Urpflanze. In the garden in Palermo, Goethe writes, “I was confronted with so many kinds of fresh, new forms, I was taken again by my old fanciful idea: might I not discover the Urpflanze amid this multitude? Such a thing must exist after all! How else would I recognize this or that form as being a plant, if they were not all constructed according to one model?” (MA 15, 327). What Goethe seeks in the garden is the principle or idea that enables him to recognize all these varieties of plants as plant—the unifying principle of plants. Importantly, he does not seek it outside of the multiplicity, but “amid this multitude.” In a letter to Herder, dated May 17, 1787 (exactly one month following his visit to the garden), Goethe writes that he has come to comprehend “the secret of plant generation and structure” (MA 15, 393). He has realized that the unity he is after is integrally connected to plant growth and development. Given this insight, Goethe claims that he can now imagine an infinite variety of plants, which, although nonexistent, could exist.

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It is not until July of that year, however, that Goethe arrives at a deeper understanding of the plant. In a report in which he includes the two passages quoted above, he adds this important conclusion: “It has become apparent to me that in the plant organ we ordinarily call the leaf a true Proteus is concealed, who can hide and reveal himself in all formations. From top to bottom, a plant is all leaf, united so inseparably with the future bud that one cannot be imagined without the other” (MA 15, 456). By this Goethe does not mean that the plant is reducible to the leaf, but that the parts of the plant are various manifestations of what he saw as the archetypal principle that underlies and determines the growth and development of all plant life. In the first four paragraphs of his Versuch, Goethe elaborates how the plant parts are manifestations of the plant whole. An observation of the plant, he writes, reveals “that certain of their external parts sometimes undergo a change and assume, either entirely or in greater or lesser degree, the form of the parts adjacent to them” (MA 12, 29, no. 1). This is most evident, he explains, in what might be called intermediate parts, that is, parts which take on characteristics of preceding and succeeding parts. For instance, a stem leaf can begin to look more like the calyx, or stamens take on the attributes of petals. In other words, if the plant’s parts are observed in relation to one another, one begins to recognize continuity between the parts, and it becomes clear that each part assumes a form that is a modification or progression of the other parts. The various parts of the plant thus appear as moments in a continuum of formation—particular manifestations of the transformation which the plant undergoes from seed to fruit. This transformation, Goethe continues, is the bringing forth of “one part through the other,” which presents “the most diverse forms through modification of a single organ” (MA 12, 29, no. 3). Goethe’s claim is that what makes a plant a plant, what grants it an integral unity and coherence, is the manner in which each of its parts is a transformation of the plant’s other parts and as such a manifestation of the whole of the plant. Each part, one can say, reflects the history of the plant—manifesting what preceded it and anticipating what is to come after it—and thus contains within it the whole plant. Further observation of the plant reveals that plant metamorphosis occurs in two complementary ways. First, it is apparent that every part of the plant is a moment of either expansion or contraction. While the seed is the first contraction, the stem leaves are the first expansion. The calyx is a contraction, and the petals are an expansion. The sexual organs are once again a contraction, while the fruit is the “maximum expansion,” and the seed



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within it is the “maximum concentration.” Alongside this development is a second principle—that of progression or intensification (Steigerung). Each of the parts comes progressively closer toward reaching the goal of growth attained in the final parts of the plant, the reproductive organs (MA 12, 44, no. 50; MA 12, 65, no. 113). With this in mind, we can return to the question of different kinds of beings and their differing laws. Through the observation of plants, Goethe came to realize that what grants the plant unity is something that is specific to living beings and that cannot hold for nonliving beings. For it is not a static substance or an externally imposed principle, as in mechanical unities. Rather the unity of the plant lies in the fact that it is in a process of metamorphosis, wherein each part is a physical manifestation of the different stages of metamorphosis. Put differently, it is a unity that emerges in and through the different parts and their distinctive forms and functions over time; it is thus an internally differentiated unity. As the developing interrelation between inherently connected parts, the archetypal plant is not a static substance or a quasi-platonic form that simply precedes its parts.8 Rather, the archetypal plant is the lawful process of metamorphosis. This means that the archetypal plant is only in its parts, but is nevertheless not reducible to any of its parts. Therefore, although the archetypal plant is an ideal reality, it is not separable from the real. It is what constitutes the real, informing its growth and transformation. This implies two things. First, while the archetypal plant informs the parts, it does not in any substantial way precede the parts. Second, the archetypal plant is not a thing or a product, but productivity. Thus, it cannot be made equivalent to any one of its products. What Goethe attempts to show in the Metamorphose der Pflanzen is how the whole of the plant kingdom is in a process of metamorphosis and how each species is a particular expression of the possibilities inherent in metamorphosis. By not only seeing the separate parts of the plant or the plant kingdom but seeing the connections between each of these parts, Goethe was able to recognize the successive and simultaneous production underlying the plant’s form and development.

10.4 The Einleitung to the Entwurf: Schelling’s Conception of Nature as Metamorphosis In the first paragraph of the Einleitung, Schelling plunges into a critique of the primacy of the Wissenschaftslehre. He criticizes the idea that nature’s ground is something other than nature itself. Rather, the goal is to think

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nature “as independent and real” (HKA 1/8, 30). Thus, instead of attempting to derive nature from mind, or the real from the ideal, as he had done in his previous works, Schelling proclaims that “the ideal must arise out of the real and admit of explanation from it.” For this reason, he continues, “there is no place in this science for idealistic methods of explanation, such as transcendental philosophy is fitted to supply.” Naturphilosophie will proceed by following “the first maxim of all true natural science, to explain everything by the forces of nature” (HKA 1/8, 31). Schelling’s methods and goals in the Einleitung reveal a radical shift in his thinking about both the ontological reality of nature and the way in which to know nature. Nature is no longer imagined as inert matter, void of interiority and self-movement. Rather, nature has its own forces, out of which natural products arise. This means that nature no longer needs to be known by means of transcendental philosophy as the product of the duality of spirit. We are no longer seeking the cause of nature in something outside of nature—in a self that can grant nature activity and interiority—but in nature itself, in nature as self-production. Thus, Schelling introduces the distinction between nature as productivity, natura naturans, and nature’s products, natura naturata.9 The implication of Schelling’s statements is not only that there must be methods other than the idealistic ones, but also that self-consciousness is itself a product or an outcome of nature’s activity. Thus, Schelling writes, “There is nothing impossible in the thought that the same activity by which nature reproduces itself anew in each successive phase, is reproductive in thought through the medium of the organism . . . in which case it is natural that what forms the limit [Gränze] of our intuitive faculty [Anschauungs­ vermögen] no longer falls within the sphere of our intuition [Anschauung] itself” (HKA 1/8, 31). In other words, what was understood to be absolutely self-producing—the intuition of the self—is no longer absolute. In fact, it falls within the domain of nature’s activities and is therefore one manifestation of the forces of nature. The productivity of self-intuition is thus an instance of nature’s self-productivity, or, as Schelling puts it a letter to Fichte, the I is nothing other than the “highest potency” of nature’s activity (Traub, 178). The most distinctive aspect of Schelling’s conception of nature in the Einleitung is his claim that nature is a self-productive organic whole. This means that nature possesses a capacity that he had previously exclusively granted to the self. Self-productivity is not limited to a self-conscious being—it is no longer identified with the act of reflection in which the self brings itself forth and in so doing becomes aware of itself as a self. Thus,



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Schelling rethinks the meaning of self-productivity such that a nonconscious being, nature, can be understood as self-productive. The key to thinking of nature as self-productive is to recognize that what nature is cannot be reduced to the products of nature. Nature is thus not a composite of its parts but that which underlies and constitutes the parts and their relations. The first step toward an adequate conception of nature requires understanding nature not merely as product, but as produc­ tivity, as that which produces the products. However, to speak of nature as both productivity and products implies that nature contains within itself an original duality or opposition. Nature as productivity is opposed to nature as product. Yet it is not clear how the transition from productivity to product (and vice versa) can take place. In other words, how can productivity be limited in such a way that it can produce a particular product without transforming completely into this product. Or how can the product—as a finite thing—be maintained within infinite productivity? Essentially, how does nature maintain the necessary equilibrium, the necessary duality, between productivity and product? The question concerning the possibility of a finite product within infinite nature is, according to Schelling, the chief problem of Naturphiloso­ phie.10 A product is a point of limitation (Hemmung) to nature’s infinite productivity. Thus, it can only emerge out of the encounter between infinite productivity and its opposition, namely, infinite limitation.11 However, insofar as this encounter is between two infinite oppositions, it would seem that the result of the encounter would always necessarily be null or zero. The only way that this meeting does not result in nothing, Schelling explains, is through the infinite re-production of the product—the infinite reproduction of the encounter between infinite productivity and infinite limitation. He writes, “absolutely no subsistence of a product is thinkable without a continual process of reproduction. The product must be thought as annihilated at every step, and at every step reproduced anew” (HKA 1/8, 45). In other words, the product of nature is the infinitely reproduced point of contact between productivity and limitation and, as such, contains within itself both infinite productivity and infinite limitation. It is for this reason, Schelling continues, that the product of nature is only “apparently finite.” After all, the “infinite productivity of nature concentrates itself in it,” such that the product is not simply an empirical pre­ sentation of nature’s infinite productivity but contains productivity within itself. In turn, the productivity within the product is precisely what enables the product to grow, sustain itself, and ultimately regenerate. As Schelling puts it, “This product is a finite one, but as the infinite productivity of

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nature concentrates itself in it, it must have a drive toward infinite development” (HKA 1/8, 46). This capacity for self-production and reproduction, the drive toward infinite development, is, according to Schelling, nothing other than metamorphosis (HKA 1/8, 56). However, unlike his earlier conception of metamorphosis in the Weltseele, the metamorphosis Schelling describes in the Entwurf is an “interior relation of the forms [eine innere Verwandtschaft der Gestalten] that is unthinkable without an archetype [Grundtypus], which underlies everything” (HKA 1/8, 55). Metamorphosis, in other words, is an essential characteristic of nature, an “archetype” that underlies and constitutes the relations of nature’s parts or forms. Metamorphosis is the “inner construction” of nature (HKA 1/8, 33 and 71). Thus, infinite development does not simply imply the infinite reproduction of the same product, but also its transformation. This is because infinite development expresses itself in two ways. First, it is progressive potentiation or intensification (Steigerung). Through internal necessity, nature undergoes transformation that leads to increasing complexity.12 The second stage is polarity. The original duplicity in nature between infinite productivity and infinite limitation becomes a polar opposition, through which the activity of nature emerges as either a moment of contraction or a moment of expansion.13 The two aspects of metamorphosis reveal a unity in nature: on the one hand, the organism is an integral unified being, whose parts are manifestations of the underlying whole; on the other hand, the organism relates to other organisms through reproduction and evolution and thus represents a different stage of development or further expression of the archetype which underlies all of nature’s products.14 An important question to address at this point is: How does Schelling’s conception of metamorphosis in the Entwurf not only differ from his previous understanding of metamorphosis in the Weltseele, but also—more significantly—how does it enable him to establish the view that nature is independent from the mind? In the Weltseele, Schelling describes the development of nature; however, he does not locate the origin of this development—its ground or source—within nature itself. Rather, as noted above, the duality necessary for the productivity of nature is said to originate in the duality of our spirit (Geist). In the Entwurf, by contrast, Schelling understands metamorphosis in the same way that Goethe understands it—as the formative principle that underlies growth and development. This enables Schelling to make the claim that duality is original to nature. For it is only through the “infinite development” of the “apparently finite” product that



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the opposition between productivity and limitation—the original duality in nature—can be adequately explained and justified. In other words, the duality of nature is possible if and only if the products of nature are also productive. Nature can uphold and balance its opposing tendencies only because the products of nature are themselves in a state of infinite development, or metamorphosis. As noted above, Schelling was always aware of the inadequacy of a mechanistic conception of nature; however, insofar as he denied nature the capacity to self-produce, he could not explain how nature was a selfcausing (as opposed to mechanical) cause. By introducing the idea of metamorphosis, he makes it possible to conceive of nature as a self-producing unity, in which all of the parts “mutually bear and support each other” (HKA 1/8, 36). When speaking of nature as a whole, Schelling is not speaking of an empirical reality, any one part or all the parts of nature brought together to make up “the whole of nature.” Rather, the whole of nature is an idea or archetype that constitutes the parts. As idea, however, nature is neither a concept of the understanding imposed upon nature nor an ethical ideal that is ultimately unrealizable.15 It is the constitutive ground of nature, through which the parts of nature “mutually bear and support” one another. In other words, it is only insofar as nature is an original idea that is not the outcome of its parts, that the parts of nature can relate to one another organically.16 Although the idea of nature must be distinguished from the parts, it is neither outside of nor unrealizable in its products. There are no products without productivity, and there is no productivity without products. In light of this, Schelling returns to his earlier distinction between the work of art and nature, explaining that in art “the concept [Begriff ] precedes the act or execution, [while] in nature idea and act are simultaneous and one, the concept passes immediately into the product and cannot be separated from it” (HKA 1/8, 41). Nature as a whole, as idea, is thus in each of its parts and in their relation to one another. As an idea, nature is not a creation of the mind—a regulative ideal—developed for the sake of ordering and understanding nature. Rather, nature is a constitutive idea that underlies and determines natural products. It is thus inseparable from them. Nonetheless, it is not empirical and cannot be reduced to any one empirical phenomenon (HKA 1/8, 51). Therefore, when Schelling calls the principles of nature a priori, he distinguishes his use of the term from Kant’s. By a priori, he does not mean what is prior to experience, since everything, according to Schelling, must be given in experience.

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In contrast, the claim that nature is a priori indicates the necessary determinations or forms (archetypes) of nature: the a priori in nature is the regularity and necessity of its constitutive principles (HKA 1/8, 35).

10.5 Experimentation and Construction in the Philosophy of Nature In his previous writings on nature, Schelling had resisted the notion that an intellectual intuition of nature is possible. After all, he had identified nature with inert matter, with objects. Intellectual intuition, however, is concerned with the “principle of inner activity” that underlies and brings forth objects (SW 1/1, 390). Hence, in his early work, Schelling had limited intellectual intuition to self-intuition, intuition of the productivity of the I. However, having established in the Entwurf that nature is productivity and not merely product, Schelling’s stance on the possibility of an intellectual intuition of nature necessarily alters. In significant ways, Schelling’s views in the Entwurf evidence a return to Spinoza’s third kind of knowledge and the understanding of intellectual intuition that Schelling developed in Vom Ich—with some decisive differences. Schelling distinguishes intellectual intuition from both sensible intuition and discursive understanding. Intellectual intuition does not grasp objects as atomistic individuals but grasps the whole of nature in and through the parts and regards the parts as active manifestations of this whole. Intellectual intuition, furthermore, does not construct the whole from the parts but gains insight into the whole through grasping the relations between parts— as in the mathematical example given by Spinoza. The parts, then, gain their articulation in terms of the whole, and the whole becomes manifest only in and through the parts. While the discursive intellect can only grasp the whole by abstracting from the parts and arriving at a general concept whose unity is granted by the mind, the intuitive intellect grasps the whole that underlies and constitutes the parts in and through the parts. In addition to these characteristics which Schelling had explicitly developed in Vom Ich, he adds that the relation between the intuiter and her object of intuition is a relation of production. “We know,” he writes, “only the self-produced” (HKA 1/8, 34). This last detail is in concert with Schelling’s explication of intellectual intuition in his more Fichtean writings—the “Abhandlung” and Ideen—in which he conceives of self-intuition as self-production. In bringing together the Spinozist ideas present in Vom Ich with the Fichtean understanding of intellectual intuition, Schelling is



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making a first attempt at explicating how intellectual intuition can grant insight into the whole (nature) without objectifying it. Schelling’s new understanding of the relationship between intellectual intuition and nature, however, leads to many questions. After all, in his previous writings, Schelling maintained that nature was the product of intellectual intuition, and it is in this sense that intellectual intuition is pro­ ductive. In the Entwurf, by contrast, nature is conceived as self-producing, and this necessitates a revision of his conception of intellectual intuition. It cannot, after all, continue to produce nature in the sense previously elaborated. Thus, Schelling must answer the question: In what sense is intellectual intuition productive? Knowledge “in the strictest sense,” Schelling writes, is insight into the “principles of possibility” of that which is known. This knowledge is contrasted to a superficial “mere seeing,” which does not understand how something comes about but simply knows that it exists. Schelling provides the example of the inventor to explicate his point. “The inventor of the machine has the most perfect knowledge of it,” he writes, “because he is, as it were, the soul of the work, and because it preexisted in his head before he exhibited it as reality” (HKA 1/8, 33; see also 71). The implication is clear: in order to know something, one must understand the “inner construction,” its conditions of possibility, its function and how it relates to its structure, and the formative or underlying principle of its activity. However, the example of the inventor is for obvious reasons problematic. The relationship between the inventor and the machine is different from the relationship between the student of nature and nature. The idea of the machine arises in the inventor’s own mind—such that the inventor’s mind is the original producer of the machine. By contrast, there is no such relationship between the natural scientist and nature, if nature’s productivity is independent. What then is involved in “knowledge in the strictest sense”? It is here that we once again see Goethe’s influence.17 Schelling writes: “We know only the self-produced; knowing, therefore, in the strictest sense of the term, is a pure knowing a priori. Construction by means of experimentation.” Experimentation, he continues, is “a bringing forth of the ap­ pearance [ein Hervorbringen der Erscheinung].” “The first step toward science,” he writes, “is taken when we ourselves begin to produce the objects of that science” (HKA 1/8, 34). By bringing forth an appearance, however, an experiment is not constructing the idea of nature as such, nature as natura naturans. “Construction by means of experiment,” Schelling explains, “is . . . not an absolute

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self-production of the phenomena” (HKA 1/8, 34). Thus, although in experimentation the experimenter participates in the production of nature, the source of natural productivity is not the experiment but nature itself. The experiment, or, more accurately, the outcome of the experiment, is a particular manifestation, a specific instance, of nature’s productivity. Although this is Schelling’s first mention of experimentation as a means of achieving philosophical knowledge, it is certainly not his first mention of construction. In the “Abhandlung,” for instance, he describes the productive activity of spirit—the activity which brings forth nature as a product—as “a real construction of the soul itself [reale Construction der Seele selbst]” (SW 1/1, 380). Later on in the essay, Schelling outlines the mathematical heritage of his understanding of construction and elaborates on its philosophical significance. Schelling’s conception of philosophical construction as elaborated in the “Abhandlung” mirrors Fichte’s, as espoused throughout the latter’s Jena writings. Fichte borrows the geometrical notion of construction (and thus challenges Kant’s distinction between mathematics and philosophy) in order to explain the conditions of the possibility of self-consciousness. For Fichte (as for Schelling), the very possibility of self-consciousness depends on an original postulation or summons (Aufforderung) to abstraction and reflection. Like mathematical construction, philosophical construction begins with a postulate—an indemonstrable intuition—on the basis of which the mathematician proceeds to construct or derive further results. These results are necessary—and therefore evident—because they are the immediate outcome of the original postulation. The mathematician, Schelling explains, recognizes that there is no choice in the construction—he or she has to proceed in this way. The difference between mathematical construction and philosophical construction lies in the fact that the latter is concerned with “inner sense” and thus “cannot provide each construction with a corresponding, external intuition” (SW 1/1, 445). In the case of geometry, a line drawn on a piece of paper corresponds to the mentally constructed line. No such external object, Fichte and Schelling note, is possible for philosophical construction. However, Schelling emphasizes that although there is a corresponding external object in geometrical intuition, this object does not serve as the cause of the intuition, as would be the case with sensible intuition. Rather, it serves as the occasion for the intuition (SW 1/1, 445). The difference is significant, and I will return to it shortly.



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For now, it is important to point out that for both Fichte and Schelling in the “Abhandlung,” philosophical construction is the activity of selfproduction, in which the self abstracts from everything empirical, turns its attention to the pure self (intellectual intuition), and deduces (through synthetic thinking and creative imagination) the conditions of its possibility, that is to say, the concept that enables the opposition between subject and object that is the essence of the self. In so doing, the self progressively produces newly discovered conditions and orders these conditions. This is what Fichte calls the “pragmatic history of the spirit” and what he considers to be the task of transcendental philosophy (GA 1/2, 364). It is also what Schelling means when he writes in the Ideen that philosophy is “the natural history [Naturlehre] of our mind” (SW 1/2, 39). Schelling’s conception of construction in the “Abhandlung” remains within the limits of transcendental philosophy—the domain of the self, and the self’s production of its reality. In the Entwurf, however, the goal is to move beyond the boundaries of transcendental philosophy and the domain of the self’s constructions. What, then, does Schelling mean by construction in the philosophy of nature? Schelling’s conception of construction in the philosophy of nature must differ from his earlier understanding. Most distinctive is the fact that the construction of nature is not concerned with “inner sense” but with “outer sense,” that is, with the construction of ideas that correspond to externally given natural phenomena. This brings the construction of nature closer to geometrical construction. Both have external objects which correspond to the constructions. This fact, as Schelling explains in the “Abhandlung,” implies that there is an element of “coercion”—“I may be coerced to construct the straight line by the line drawn on paper or on a board.” In contrast, the internal construction of the self is “determined entirely by freedom” (SW 1/1, 445). Nonetheless, Schelling emphasizes that the act of geometrical construction is not simply a reproduction of the sensibly given line. This view has to do with Schelling’s conception of knowledge and construction. The empirical line, he claims, “affords us no knowledge of the line, but conversely, we compare the straight line on the blackboard to the original line (in the imagination)” (SW 1/1, 445). In other words, it is only through my mental construction of the line that I grasp what I perceive as a line. My perception becomes meaningful only through my construction. Thus, while the empirical line may occasion the construction, it does not occasion my actual understanding of it as a line. Rather, understanding can only be achieved

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in my mental construction of the line: from the idea of the line, I seek to grasp its properties and thus discern how the line, as line, is possible (its principles of possibility). This view of construction carries over to Schelling’s philosophy of nature, but to understand how it does so, it is important to begin by noting differences between geometrical construction and the construction of nature. Geometry is an entirely a priori science, in which the concept and its object correspond completely in the mental construction. Thus, although the mental construct may correspond to a sensibly given object (such as the line on the blackboard), the real object of geometry (the line) is an ideal reality. In nature, by contrast, the idea of nature does not correspond to purely mental objects. Rather, it is realized in the sensibly given phenomena. This means that the relation between the idea and its object in nature is different from—more complex than—the relation between the idea and its object in geometry. While in both cases the relationship implies identity and difference (the object is a particular manifestation of the idea), in the case of nature, the idea realizes itself in a material spatio-temporal horizon. Thus, the relation between the idea of nature and natural phenomena is not immediate in the same way that it is in geometry. One cannot simply construct forward from the idea to the object, because the idea of nature is realized not in an ideal object, but in a multiplicity of material phenomena that evidence greater or less degrees of complexity, varying spatio-temporal locations, and distinctive functions within a context. Schelling thus maintains that in addition to constructing forward, the philosophy of nature must also “construct back,” that is, construct from the phenomena back to the idea (SW 1/5, 127). This means that the construction of nature must occur through experimentation, because it is only through experiencing particular phenomena that we can grasp how the idea of nature realizes itself. The aim of the experiment, however, is not simply to reproduce the phenomenon but to reveal its genetic structure: how it came about or, more specifically, how it realizes the idea in its particular form (HKA 1/8, 34). This does not mean that Schelling was an empiricist. His claim is that an experiment on its own does not result in science. Experimentation “never gets beyond the forces of nature” to uncover the underlying idea of nature— the idea that is present in the phenomena but is not reducible to any one phenomenon. For this reason, every experiment must be guided by a hypothesis, which is in turn confirmed or rejected through experimentation. The hypothesis acts as the regulative ideal of the experiment; it determines the question that one poses to nature and the form and kind of experiment



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that is undertaken. However, its goal is not merely heuristic. Together with the experiment, its goal is to arrive at the idea of nature itself. Thus, while the hypothesis regulates the experiment, the experiment constructs natural phenomena in order to determine their principles of possibility. The experiment, therefore, functions as the middle ground or mediator between the hypothetical regulative ideal, on the one hand, and the absolute productivity of nature, or nature as a constitutive idea, on the other. By producing nature in controlled circumstances in accordance with a hypothesis, the experiment does nothing less than empirically illustrate (construct) the idea of nature. In order for this method to work, in order for experimentation to result in science and not in disconnected fragments of knowledge which have no evident relationship to one another, an experiment must be based on an “absolute hypothesis” (HKA 1/8, 34). Unlike other hypotheses, the absolute hypothesis functions as the ground of the system as a whole and as such is the basic premise upon which the knowledge of nature is based. This means, Schelling explains, that it “must bear its necessity within itself” (HKA 1/8, 35). In other words, the absolute hypothesis is not an arbitrarily chosen proposition; rather, as the ground of the system of science, it must be absolutely necessary. Furthermore, the goal of the absolute hypothesis is to explicate the entirety of nature—nature as absolute—and not just a particular phenomenon in nature. The absolute hypothesis, Schelling maintains, is the original duplicity of nature—the encounter between infinite productivity and infinite limitation. As noted earlier, it is only on the basis of this hypothesis that nature can be conceived as self-producing and self-organizing. Thus the absolute hypothesis replaces Schelling’s conception of a Grundsatz. Like the Grund­ satz, it must be absolutely necessary. Unlike it, however, it must be put to the test of experimentation: “for, inasmuch as all the phenomena of nature cannot be deduced from this hypothesis so long as there is in the whole system of nature a single phenomenon which is not necessary according to that principle, or which contradicts it, the hypothesis is thereby at once shown to be false, and from that moment ceases to have validity” (HKA 1/8, 35). In other words, the absolute hypothesis must be tested to conform to the phenomena of nature; otherwise, it is invalid. Experimentation therefore plays the distinctive and significant role of mediating between the regulative idea (hypothesis) and the constitutive idea (nature’s productivity). The goal of experimentation is to uncover the laws of nature—the inner construction of nature—by testing the absolute hypothesis. This test takes place not in relation to just one product of

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nature but in relation to nature as a whole. Through undertaking experiments, then, the student of nature seeks to reveal the productivity of nature as it manifests itself in its products and in their relations. By making apparent the relations among nature’s products and seeing them in terms of the whole of nature, experimentation aims to bring the idea of nature to consciousness and order the phenomena of nature in accordance with this idea. In this way, Schelling explains, judgments achieve necessity. “When we become conscious of them as necessary,” he writes, judgments become a priori (HKA 1/8, 35). This brings us back to the question of geometrical construction and its proximity to the construction of nature. Through experimentation, it is not only particular natural phenomena that are constructed. Rather, the whole of nature—nature as a system—is constructed. Furthermore, the system of nature must be absolutely necessary. The a priori construction of nature thus means a systematic construction that reveals the necessity (lawfulness, regularity) of nature. A phenomenon of nature is a priori (necessary) only when it is part of the system of nature, that is, when it forms part of a “necessary connection” that binds all the phenomena of nature to the underlying principle of nature, a connection that embraces “the whole of nature,” such that “everything that happens or comes to pass” is absolutely necessary (HKA 1/8, 36). The phenomena of nature, therefore, gain meaning only through the construction of the system of nature. In understanding the relations among natural phenomena and recognizing the place and function of each phenomenon within the whole of nature, one grasps both the meaning and necessity of particular phenomena. Furthermore, through the construction of nature as a system, it becomes evident that every phenomenon is one manifestation of the original productivity of nature. In other words, the phenomena of nature are, just like the line drawn on a piece of paper, realizations of an ideal construction. While in geometry, necessity and evidence are achieved in the pure act of mental construction, in the study of nature, more is necessary. This is because the necessity between universal and particular, idea and object, is not immediately given in nature. For this reason, constructing forward—from the idea of nature (the absolute hypothesis)—must be supplemented by constructing backward—from the phenomena back to the idea. It is here that experimentation becomes essential. It is only through the mediation of the experiment—the mediation between the regulative idea in the form of hypothesis and the constitutive idea of nature—that evidence can be achieved. By constructing a system of nature through experimenta-



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tion, the student of nature brings to consciousness the unconscious idea of nature. Because this idea is not immediately evident, the evidence that is produced through experimentation must be tested and retested, and the hypothesis underlying the experiment confirmed or challenged. Although experimentation plays a central role in the Entwurf, particularly in the Einleitung, it is not a central theme in all of Schelling’s writings on nature. Nonetheless, in later works, he emphasizes that construction is often carried out incorrectly and argues that the only way by which to verify construction is through experience.18 Thus, while in his 1801 essay “Ueber den wahren Begriff der Naturphilosophie,” Schelling does not emphasize experimentation to the same degree, he does explain that the coincidence of one’s construction to experience establishes that one is in fact undertaking Naturphilosophie (HKA 1/10, 95). In other words, it is only when I recognize that my construction holds in the empirical world that I can rightly call myself a philosopher of nature. By bringing experimentation into the picture and rethinking the meaning of construction in terms of experimentation, Schelling finds a way to mediate between the knowledge of nature and nature as such. The goal remains the construction of a priori knowledge; however, this a priori knowledge must be constructed through the mediation of the experiment and hypothesis. At first sight, it may appear that by incorporating the notion of a regulative idea in the form of a hypothesis and maintaining that evidence can only be gained through experimentation, Schelling introduces a chasm between idea and reality that is not present in geometrical construction. However, upon closer consideration, it becomes clear that Schelling introduces these procedural elements in order to overcome that chasm. This is because the relationship between the idea and its object in geometry is different from the relationship between the idea and its object in nature. The idea of nature is not immediately present in its products or objects. This is because the objects of the idea of nature (the natural products) are not purely mental phenomena. Rather, the products of nature are material manifestations, realized in varying degrees, within varying material contexts. Thus, the immediacy of geometry is absent in the study of nature. In order to achieve this immediacy, to perceive the relationship between the idea of nature (nature as productivity) and its objects (the phenomena of nature), one must begin by positing a hypothesis. Then, through experimentation and observation of the products of nature, one constructs back to nature as productivity. Thus, experimentation and hypothesis aim to achieve the unity between idea and reality, between productivity and product, that is at the heart of geometrical knowledge.

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10.6 Concluding Remarks In the last paragraph of the Entwurf, Schelling summarizes the key idea and basic methodology of the philosophy of nature: “It was assumed that nature is a development from one original involution. This involution cannot be anything real, however, according to the above; thus it can only be thought as act, as absolute synthesis, which is only ideal, and signifies the turning point, as it were, of transcendental philosophy and the philosophy of nature” (HKA 1/7, 271). By conceiving of nature as an ideal reality, as an act, Schelling was able to grant nature independence and develop a philosophy of nature distinct from transcendental philosophy. Such a conception of nature, however, requires that nature not be thought of as a thing among things, but as that which brings things forth—as the act of construction itself. For this reason it is necessary to rid the philosophy of nature of any conception of substance or being. He writes, “Transcendental philosophy knows of no original being. For if being itself is only activity, then the individual being can only be viewed as a determinate form or limitation of the original activity. Now, being ought to be something just as little primary in Naturphilosophie, ‘the concept of being as an original substance should be absolutely eliminated from Naturphilosophie, just as it has been from transcendental philosophy.’ The above proposition says this and nothing else: ‘Nature should be viewed as unconditioned’ ” (HKA 1/7, 78). In other words, philosophy—whether transcendental philosophy or the philosophy of nature—must not begin with substance, or being. Otherwise, it would necessarily conclude with an undesirable and untenable opposition between being and knowing (as we saw in Spinoza). It must always begin with activity. In transcendental philosophy, this activity is presented as the activity of the self as it produces itself and thus brings forth objects in the world. In the philosophy of nature, it is nature’s activity, or nature as metamorphosis. For this reason, construction is the essential methodology in both transcendental philosophy and the philosophy of nature. However, the a priori construction of nature does not simply involve observation and reflection on the phenomena of nature. Rather, construction involves determining the necessity of the phenomena, understanding their relations, and thereby developing a system of nature. This system, ultimately, aims to make explicit or conscious the unconscious activity of nature and thus bring it to its own highest manifestation. After all, nature as productivity is an ideal reality, which means that its expression remains incomplete so long as it is presented in unconscious, real products. It is only in coming to presenta-



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tion in the mind, ideally, that the idea of nature attains its final and most complete realization. Schelling’s ontology of identity between mind and nature, between ideal and real, has one significant (but often overlooked) consequence: insofar as the activity of the mind is the highest activity of nature—its most conscious manifestation—it follows that the work of construction could not simply be a reflection of nature’s activity. Rather, as its highest manifestation, the work of the mind necessarily participates in the work of nature and, in doing so, transforms it. Schelling makes this point most explicitly in the System des transcendentalen Idealismus (1800), in which he identifies productive intuition with the power of genius and identifies both with the productivity of nature. He writes, “What we speak of as the poetic gift is merely productive intuition, reiterated to its highest power. It is one and the same capacity that is active in both [nature and genius] . . . and its name is imagination. . . . Hence, that which appears to us outside the sphere of consciousness, as real, and that which appears within it, as ideal, or as the world of art, are also products of one and the same activity. . . . To be sure, then, the real world evolves entirely from the same original opposition as must also give rise to the world of art” (HKA 1/9.1, 326–27; SW 1/3, 626). From 1800 onward, Schelling turns his attention to this aspect of construction, that is, to the identity between knower and known and to the transformative character of knowledge. In the System, his goal is to provide a “conclusive proof” of this original identity, through a progressive method of deduction. As I discuss in the next chapter, however, Schelling soon realizes that identity cannot be grasped deductively and thus turns away from the method of progress or successive construction to a theory of knowledge that recalls his earliest conception of intellectual intuition.

chapter eleven

From the System of Transcendental Idealism to the Identity Philosophy

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chelling’s System des transcendentalen Idealismus (1800) is one of his most popular works. However, at least at first sight, it does not sit comfortably with the rest of Schelling’s corpus. On the one hand, it seems like a return to ideas which Schelling had developed prior to the Entwurf. It thus appears to be a regression to an earlier methodology which seeks to construct reality through the activity of self-intuition and thereby furnish the “history of self-consciousness,” as Schelling first put it in the “Abhandlung” and restates in the preface to the System.1 On the other hand, however, the System does not fit with the ideas that Schelling develops in its wake, those that shape his so-called “identity philosophy.” This, once again, is most evident in methodological differences. Instead of deriving the conditions of possibility through synthetic imagination and construction, Schelling argues in the identity philosophy that only unmediated rational insight into the absolute is adequate. A close examination of the System, however, challenges both of these views. First, the System does not involve a return to Schelling’s early writings on transcendental philosophy, but in fact departs in significant ways from his earlier methodology. In his earlier transcendental-philosophical writings (the “Abhandlung” and Ideen), Schelling had simply appropriated geometrical construction as the basis for philosophical construction. Thus, although he had noted the basic difference between the two (geometrical construction is occasioned by an external object, while philosophical construction is not), he did not develop these differences or elaborate their implications. In the System, by contrast, Schelling develops a notion of construction for transcendental philosophy that parallels the method of construction in the Entwurf and adequately accounts for the difference between the eternal self (the ideal) and its empirical manifestations (the real). 212



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Furthermore, the starting point and the goal of the System are decisively different from those of his earlier writings. The System begins with the claim that the philosophy of nature and transcendental philosophy are not only equal, but also that they require one another: “Neither transcendental philosophy nor the philosophy of nature is adequate by itself,” he writes, “both sciences together are alone able to do it” (HKA 1/9.1, 25; SW 1/3, 331). This means, Schelling continues, that the two sciences must remain “opposed” to one another—in other words, the philosophy of nature cannot be reduced to or included in transcendental philosophy and vice versa. That the System does not imply a turn away from the philosophy of nature is also clear from the fact that Schelling continually cites the work in his later writings on Naturphilosophie. Thus, in the “Allgemeine Deduction des Dynamischen Processes” (1800), the first publication in his newly founded Zeitschrift für spekulative Physik (1800–1802), Schelling references the System on numerous occasions and conceives of the System as the necessary counterpart to his philosophy of nature. It is in the System, for example, that he establishes the basic ideas of the construction of matter in relation to space and to the dimensionality of space (HKA 1/9.1, 136–46; SW 1/3, 440–50).2 However, while the System had explicated why matter must be intuited three-dimensionally, the “Allgemeine Deduction” attempts to explain why matter constructs itself three-dimensionally.3 This leads directly to the second claim, concerning the relation between the System and the identity philosophy. Although at first sight, the identity philosophy seems to be nothing less than a break with the System, there are important connections between the System and Schelling’s later views that do not admit of a clear break. For one, it is in the System that Schelling establishes the principle that becomes the heart of his philosophy of identity, namely, the identity between the activity of nature and that of consciousness. Indeed, it is the goal of the System to provide a “conclusive proof” of this identity. What had previously been “merely asserted” and is now to be proven, Schelling explains, is that the very same powers which underlie nature are those which underlie consciousness (HKA 1/9.1, 25; SW 1/3, 331). The System concludes with an elaboration of this identity in the creative activity of genius (HKA 1/9.1, 326–27; SW 1/3, 626). It is in the Sys­ tem, then, that Schelling seeks to establish the identity of the productivity of nature and the productivity of mind, which becomes the founding idea of his philosophy of identity and the inspiration behind the Zeitschrift. In the introductory remarks to the first edition of the Zeitschrift, Schelling outlines that the goal of the journal is to overcome the distinction between science and art and thus enable the two to work together: “The time has

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come when all the sciences must enter into one another in the most precise and closest alliance, in order to bring forth the highest, where the interest of art and poetry with science and vice versa begin to become absolutely one and the same, such that the readers, who are used to separating the common interests of the sciences, i.e., the interests of philosophy and physics from those of poetry and art, do not belong to those which the author had wished for himself, and whom in the following he will keep before him [as his audience]” (HKA 1/8, 250–51). This is also a founding premise of the “Allgemeine Deduction,” wherein Schelling writes that in modern times, the poet (with specific reference to Goethe) has come to understand that “nature was nothing other than the infinite fullness of his own productivity” (HKA 1/8, 311). As the text which provides the “conclusive proof” for the identity between the activity of nature and that of the self—and thus the equality of the philosophy of nature and transcendental philosophy—the System must not be regarded as either the last work prior to the identity philosophy or a departure from the philosophy of nature. Rather, the System should be perceived as the point of transition from the philosophy of nature to the philosophy of identity—with transition here not implying a break or rupture. Rather, the System simply makes explicit the ideas that ground the philosophy of nature, which are the same ideas that become the guiding premises of the philosophy of identity. In the following, I want to demonstrate how the System sets out to accomplish this task and consider its success in establishing the foundations for a philosophy of identity.

11.1 The Need for the System of Transcendental Idealism As noted above, Schelling thought of the System as providing a necessary counterpart to the philosophy of nature. It was necessary to provide a history of self-consciousness—a genetic account of the development of the I—in the same manner that he had provided a genetic account of the development of nature: beginning with an examination of the nature of selfconsciousness, deducing its conditions, and, through intellectual intuition, constructing its development. The question is: Why did Schelling take this to be necessary? There are at least two answers to this question. The first, which Schelling more explicitly elaborates, concerns the way in which the identity between nature and consciousness had been merely assumed in the Entwurf. The Einleitung takes as its starting point an original identity between conscious



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and unconscious productivity. Thus, its first paragraph reads: “The intelligence is productive in two modes: either blindly and unconsciously, or freely and consciously; it is unconsciously productive in external intuition, consciously in the creation of an ideal world.” This identity, he continues, is only “indirectly” proven in the philosophy of nature through an examination of the products of nature, “insofar as in all of them the most complete fusion of the ideal and the real is perceived.” It is “directly” proven, he continues, only “in the productions of genius” (HKA 1/8, 29). This is all that Schelling has to say about the matter in the Einleitung, leaving the reader to wonder what he means by “direct” proof and how it differs from the “indirect” proof given in the philosophy of nature. As discussed above, the systematic construction of natural products does not take place immediately (wherein the concept and its object are constructed immediately through intuition), but mediately, through the work of experimentation and hypothesis. From this, and from Schelling’s brief remarks at the beginning of the Einleitung, one can surmise what he may mean by a direct proof. While the indirect proof involves objects “outside consciousness,” the direct proof must involve objects internal to consciousness—the products of the self. Schelling’s demand in the System is that the self intuit the original identity between subject and object—the absolute—in itself. In the philosophy of nature, the original identity is not presented in the self itself, because it remains mediated through the natural organism (through an object). In other words, in the philosophy of nature, the self does not come to see this identity in itself, but only regards it in an object other than itself. Thus, Schelling explains, “the intuition here postulated is distinguished from that which we have in the case of natural products, where we certainly recognize this identity, but not as an identity whose principle lies in the self itself.” He adds that in order for the self to see itself in the natural organism, it must “already have recognized itself immediately in the identity in question,” that is to say, in the identity of itself with itself, in itself (HKA 1/9.1, 311; SW 1/3, 611). Furthermore, because the philosophy of nature does not proceed from consciousness, it does not encounter the “infinite contradiction” between subject and object that is at the heart of knowing (HKA 1/9.1, 322; SW 1/3, 622). This is because “organic being still exhibits inseparably what the aesthetic production displays after separation, though united” (HKA 1/9.1, 322, line 5 Zusatz; SW 1/3, 622). In other words, it is only in transcendental philosophy that one takes up the problems of knowledge—the necessary separation between concept and object, or subject and object, that takes

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place in self-conscious activity—and, by working through them, arrives at a demonstration of the original identity of unconscious and conscious activity. Thus, the philosophy of nature does not deal with the problems of knowledge (and by default, of skepticism) because it cannot. After all, it is only in the act of knowledge that the original identity divides into two; for this reason, it is only in transcendental philosophy that this original identity can be reestablished. The System is therefore dedicated to illustrating the original identity of conscious and unconscious activity. This means that it must not only begin with consciousness, but also encounter the “problems” of consciousness, as Schelling puts it, and resolve them. In so doing, the System begins at one level of consciousness and, by resolving its problems, moves to the next, until finally it achieves its goal. Let us take a closer look at the methodology of the System.

11.2 The Methodology of the System By this point it has become clear that for Schelling, “knowledge in the strictest sense” is productive. Thus, he writes in the preface to the System, transcendental idealism is concerned with “a new sort of truth,” which arises through the “generation of knowledge” (HKA 1/9.1, 24; SW 1/3, 330). In the System, as in the previous writings, this involves construction. However, in the same way that Schelling employed construction but modified it to a significant degree in the Einleitung, so in the System, he once again employs construction, with ample modification. While in geometrical construction, one is concerned with only one object, in transcendental philosophy, the aim is to construct both objects and their relations, and thereby develop a history of self-consciousness in and through the different, but equally necessary, realizations or determinations of consciousness. The first aim is thus “not only to separate exactly the individual stages” of this history, “but also to present them in a sequence, whereby one can be certain, thanks to the very method employed in its discovery, that no necessary intervening step has been omitted.” The goal, then, is to arrive at a systematic presentation that reveals the different stages of consciousness as an internally necessary sequence, which, as Schelling puts it, “time cannot touch.” This procedure, he concludes, is composed of a “graduated sequence [Stufenfolge] of intuitions, whereby the self raises itself to the highest power of consciousness,” that parallels the sequence developed in the philosophy of nature (HKA 1/9.1, 25; SW 1/3, 331). Unlike the sequence in the philosophy of nature, however, the one to be developed



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here is concerned not with the structure of nature but with the “mechanism of intuition itself” (HKA 1/9.1, 26; SW 1/3, 333). The task of transcendental philosophy consists in making conscious that which usually escapes consciousness, or as Schelling puts it some pages later, a “materializing” of the “law of the mind into laws of nature.” For this reason, transcendental philosophy must always have before it the duality that arises in consciousness, the duality between subject and object, between the self as the knower and the self as the known (HKA 1/9.1, 35; SW 1/3, 345). It is on the basis of this duality, or from out of it, that the entire sequence of intuition is generated. It is significant to note that for Schelling the generation of intuitions is not haphazard or arbitrary. Rather, it is based on and arises out of the necessity that knowledge and the structure of consciousness demand. Thus, even a cursory examination of the mechanism of knowledge illustrates that the contradiction which is at the heart of knowledge and which directs its development also points to its final outcome—the system of knowledge—and to the way in which this can be achieved. If we are to have any knowledge at all, we need to show how these two aspects of knowledge (subject and object) conform to one another. This goal cannot be reached through either theoretical or practical philosophy, because the two fields suffer from a similar conflict concerning the relation between presentations and their objects. While theoretical philosophy assumes that the relation between presentations and their objects is unalterable, practical philosophy assumes that it is alterable, such that we can alter the presentations through our own causality. Put differently, the conflict between theoretical and practical philosophy concerns the relationship between our causality and the causality of nature. The resolution to this conflict can only be reached through a “higher discipline” that incorporates both theoretical and practical philosophy “at once.” In other words, the conflict can only be resolved through a discipline in which our causality and the causality of nature are shown to be one and the same. Thus, from the basic contradiction of knowledge, Schelling explains, we deduce the first task of transcendental philosophy: to inquire into the productive activity that is found in both conscious willing and unconscious nature (HKA 1/9.1, 38; SW 1/3, 348). This activity, he maintains, is none other than the aesthetic, because it is in aesthetic activity that conscious and unconscious come together (HKA 1/9.1, 39; SW 1/3, 349). We will return to this. From the outset, Schelling not only outlines the basic problems, but also states the goal of a system of knowledge and suggests the methods by

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which this system is to be achieved. It is thus clear, from the first moment in the system of transcendental idealism, where we are heading and how and why we are going there.4 Although Schelling begins by stating the goal and pointing to the final result of the “sequence of intuitions,” he thinks it is necessary to develop this sequence of intuitions and present it to his readers. This raises the question as to why it is at all necessary to develop and present this sequence. After all, on the basis of the structure of consciousness, we already know the final result. There are two answers to the question. The first has to do with the task of the philosopher; the second concerns the nature of self-consciousness itself. Although I am distinguishing them here for the sake of conceptual clarity, the two reasons go hand in hand. As previously stated, the goal of the System is to provide “conclusive proof” of the original identity of conscious and unconscious activity. Proof implies demonstration. This means that the subject and object that are originally unified in the pure act of self-consciousness must be, for the sake of demonstration, “kept distinct . . . in order to allow this unification to take place before our eyes” (HKA 1/9.1, 80; SW 1/3, 389). In other words, “for us who philosophize,” the two aspects of knowledge are the necessary tools for achieving the proof. Furthermore, although the pure act of self-consciousness lies outside of time, the philosophical reconstruction occurs in time. This implies, first, that the reconstruction must occur in distinctive moments, which are nonetheless absolutely necessary. This is because the goal of the reconstruction is not simply to arrive at insight of the absolute, but to explain the necessity of the insight. Second, the temporal difference implies that the final goal—insight into the absolute—must involve an overcoming of this temporal difference. Thus, the philosopher must seek to present the sequence of successions in one moment. Let us consider the first implication. In order to demonstrate how and why this absolute synthesis is necessary, the philosopher must provide a genetic account of the self’s development—an account which details how one moment leads to the other. The goal, then, is to show that the absolute synthesis is the final and necessary conclusion to the development of consciousness. The philosopher’s task is thus not only determined by the nature of demonstration—which requires that we keep the two aspects of selfconsciousness distinct until the end—but also by the nature of selfconsciousness. An examination of self-consciousness, Schelling writes, reveals that self-consciousness is the result of an infinite opposition (between subject and object) and the synthesis of this opposition (HKA 1/9.1, 84; SW



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1/3, 392). As Schelling puts it, “The conflict . . . is not so much a conflict between two factors, as between the inability, on the one hand, to unite the infinite opposites, and the necessity of doing so, on the other, if the identity of self-consciousness is not to be blotted out” (HKA 1/9.1, 85; SW 1/3, 394). Thus, the self emerges through the synthesis of two infinitely opposing poles. But how can such a synthesis occur? For the sake of philosophical demonstration—for the sake of grasping how this synthesis occurs—the philosopher needs to consciously present the synthesis to herself. What kind of presentation would accomplish this seemingly impossible task—the task of presenting the pure act of selfconsciousness within or through the medium of time? Precisely because the opposition that underlies self-consciousness is infinite, the synthesis of the opposition must also be infinite. “The conflict,” Schelling writes, “will . . . be capable of unification, not in a single action, but only in an infinite series of actions” (HKA 1/9.1, 85; SW 1/3, 393). This means two things. First, the synthesis must occur in time, which implies a process, movement from one moment to the next, in which development occurs. Second, the conclusion of this development must transcend time— for only as such can it demonstrate the pure act of self-consciousness. The task of the philosopher thus appears paradoxical: she must first present the development sequentially and then present it in one instance or moment. The only way this is possible, Schelling explains, is through an absolute or infinite product. This product is infinite, first, because it contains all the stages of development within itself and, second, because it presents all of these stages at once. That is to say, it presents the sequential development simultaneously. It grasps the transitions in one moment and thereby presents what was determined temporally in a nontemporal horizon. While the first act is an immediate act of self-consciousness, the second act seeks to re-create the first act consciously and is thus mediated. For this reason, it is imperative that the philosopher practice caution in her re-creation of the act of consciousness—there is always the possibility of miscontruing a particular stage or the relations between stages. The only guide that the philosopher has, however, is the absolute synthesis. The absolute synthesis furnishes both the task and the goal of the philosophical reconstruction and thus determines how the philosopher should proceed. Lacking the absolute synthesis—and thus lacking an understanding of what it is that one is after—the philosopher would not only be lost, and prone to error, but would also have no way by which to determine the truth of the imitative act. “If the second series contains no more and no less than the

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first,” Schelling writes, “the imitation is perfect, and a true and complete philosophy is engendered. In the opposite case, the result is a false and incomplete one” (HKA 1/9.1, 89; SW 1/3, 397). The goal, however, is not merely to imitate the original act, but to grasp the necessity of the succession and in this way provide a conclusive proof for the final moment, the absolute synthesis. The conclusive proof, ultimately, is gained through the steady and meticulous work of constructing the development of the self from one stage to the next and detailing how one stage necessarily leads to the next. From this it is clear why construction in the System is concerned not only with particular stages or concepts, but also with understanding the necessary relations between the stages and making these relations explicit. In this regard it should be added that the reader must take it upon herself to work through each of the stages and thus construct them for herself, such that the final result would be as evident for the reader as it is for the author. The work of construction in the System proceeds by outlining the key “problems” of self-consciousness and providing solutions to the problems. The problems and their solutions are all geared toward explaining the possibility of self-consciousness, more specifically, the insight that underlies self-consciousness as both producer and product, unconscious and conscious activity. In each of the stages, the solution aims to explain the conditions of possibility of the particular stage in the development of self-consciousness. Following an explication of how the self, as a product of itself (i.e., as an object), is necessarily limited, the first problem aims to explain how it is possible for the self to know itself as limited. The solution to this problem, however, leads to another problem, the resolution of which, in turn, leads to a third problem. In the case of the first problem, the self’s intuition of itself as limited is possible only if the self feels itself to be hindered by something. This leads to a discussion of the possibility of sensation and to the second problem: How does the self come to intuit itself as sensing? At the conclusion of each of these moments, the self is “elevated” to a higher perspective and thus a higher state of consciousness.5 In each of the explanations of how the self achieves a more developed consciousness, Schelling not only unpacks what is implied in every one of the successive stages, but also explains the cognitive capacities and insights which the self achieves at the different points of its development. He provides, for instance, explanations of how the self comes to intuit matter in three-dimensional space, how it attains an intuition of organic beings, and how it comes to grasp history. Similarly, he describes how, in the course of



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the self’s development, different conceptual tools become available—reflection, analysis, and so forth—which arise out of the particular realization of the self at any one stage. In the same way that a particular manifestation of the self reveals a further problem which must be resolved, so the particular intuitions it has in that manifestation and the cognitive tools it employs are shown to be inadequate, necessarily leading to the next stage of development.6 In this way, the System provides not only the foundation for explaining the conditions of possibility of self-consciousness (which Schelling ascribes to Fichte’s Wissenschaftslehre, or “Science of Knowledge”) but also the system of knowledge. A system of knowledge, Schelling emphasizes, does not simply explicate or derive the conditions of possibility but also specifies the character of the self at every stage, by distinguishing its cognitive maturity—its capacities and failures—and thereby determines its place within a system of knowledge (HKA 1/9.1, 68; SW 1/3, 377–78). From this explication, it is clear that while Schelling is working with his earlier conception of construction, he is modifying it to more adequately suit the needs of a “system of knowledge.” This involves illustring the identity of the concept with its object—the pure act of self-consciousness and its conscious realization or presentation—by realizing each of the moments of its development and demonstrating their necessity. In other words, the aim of construction is to realize the moments in their relations, and thus grasp the necessity of moving from one moment to the next, and arriving at the final moment. This construction is guided by the final goal, which, however, is not proven until the end. This is because it is only at the last stage that a final product is realized, in which the preceding moments of selfconsciousness are presented at once or immediately. Thus, the final product must present in an immediate way the unity of the pure (unconscious) act of the self and its conscious presentation.

11.3 The Work of Art and the End of Transcendental Philosophy As discussed above, Schelling intimated the significance of the work of art at the beginning of the System. In fact, he had done so earlier, in the Ein­ leitung to the Entwurf, where he remarks that the work of genius grants immediate insight into the identity between conscious and unconscious activity, while the work of nature does not (HKA 1/8, 29). Having gone through several different “epochs” in the development of self-consciousness in the System, Schelling reiterates the fact that although

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nature contains the identity of the unconscious and conscious activities, it does not bring this identity to presentation: Nature, in its blind and mechanical purposiveness, admittedly represents to me an original identity of the conscious and unconscious activities, but for all that, it does not present this identity to me as one whose ultimate ground resides in the self itself. The transcendental philosopher assuredly recognizes that the principle of this [harmony] is that ultimate in ourselves which already undergoes division in the primary act of selfconsciousness, and on which the whole of consciousness, with all its determinations, is founded; but the self itself is not aware of this. Now the aim of our whole science was in fact precisely this, of explaining how the ultimate ground of the harmony between subjective and objective becomes an object to the self itself. (HKA 1/9.1, 310; SW 1/3, 610)

Thus, although “every organism is a monogram [Monogram] of that original identity,” a natural organism is never conscious of this original identity and, as such, does not make it conscious to the self. It is only if the self comes to recognize itself “in that reflected image,” as Schelling puts it, that it comes to recognize “itself immediately [unmittelbar] in the identity in question” (HKA 1/9.1, 311; SW 1/3, 611). To attain this immediate self-presentation, the self must bring to consciousness the identity of the conscious and unconscious for itself. Such a synthesis must be immediate, in other words, it must unite the unconscious and conscious in a way that does not leave them distinct or separated. Only an intuitive cognition can accomplish this task, because only intuition grasps immediately and thus overcomes the mediate character of conceptual or discursive cognition. Furthermore, the product of this intuition must be unconscious and conscious at once. That is, in the product, unconscious and conscious cannot be two distinct elements, but must be immediately united. Thus, Schelling writes that the product must “verge on the one side upon the product of nature, and on the other upon the product of freedom, and must unite in itself the characteristics of both” (HKA 1/9.1, 312; SW 1/3, 612). The goal of the System is to demonstrate the original unity of subject and object (mind and nature). However, demonstration implies mediation, while the original unity is necessarily immediate. The goal, then, appears paradoxical: to present the original (unmediated) unity in a conscious (mediated) way. Only a product that is able to present the unconscious in an immediate way can accomplish this task. It must, in other words, bring to



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consciousness that which usually escapes consciousness, without, however, losing its unconscious, or immediate, character. This product, Schelling maintains, is none other than the product of genius. He explains, “Just as the man of destiny does not execute what he wishes or intends, but rather what he is obliged to execute by an inscrutable fate which governs him, so the artist, however deliberate he may be, seems nonetheless to be governed, in regard to what is truly objective in his creation, by a power which separates him from all other men, and compels him to say or depict things which he does not fully understand himself, and whose meaning [Sinn] is infinite” (HKA 1/9.1, 317; SW 1/3, 617). In the product that arises out of the activity of genius, then, we have the “absolute concurrence [Zusammen­ treffen] of the two antithetical activities” (HKA 1/9.1, 318; SW 1/3, 617). In the production of the work of art, the artist is aware of a contradiction between the unconscious and conscious. In the outcome of this production, in the artwork, however, the contradiction is canceled. In its place arises an “infinite harmony [unendliche Harmonie].” Now, because this concurrence, though undeniable, remains “uncognizable [unbegreiflich],” its meaning is infinite. As a presentation of the concurrence, then, the artwork is an “ever­ lasting revelation,” whose structure mirrors that of the synthetic unity of self-consciousness. It is for this reason, Schelling explains, that “every work of art is capable of being expounded ad infinitum, as though it contained an infinity of purposes” (HKA 1/9.1, 318; SW 1/3, 618). Art thus provides the solution to the philosophical problem which the System sought to solve. Philosophy must begin from an absolutely non­ objective principle, the absolute. The absolute cannot be objective precisely because it is absolute—it is beyond the object-subject distinction. However, the problem arises as to how to make the absolutely nonobjective conscious. That the absolutely nonobjective “can no more be apprehended through concepts than it is capable of being set forth by means of them, stands in no need of proof.” This necessarily leads to the conclusion that “nothing remains but for it to be set forth in an immediate intuition.” Immediate intuition, however, is also problematic “since its object is to be something utterly nonobjective” (HKA 1/9.1, 325; SW 1/3, 625). Thus, we arrive at the dilemma that furnished the entire mechanism of the System, a dilemma that can only be resolved by introducing aesthetic intuition and the artwork. It is only through aesthetic intuition that intellectual intuition can “gain objectivity,” that is, bring to presentation or make objective the absolutely nonobjective, the absolute. For this reason Schelling concludes that “this universally acknowledged and altogether incontestable objectivity of

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intellectual intuition is art itself. For the aesthetic intuition simply is the intellectual intuition become objective” (HKA 1/9.1, 325; SW 1/3, 625).7 Thus, what the philosopher had divided in the first act of consciousness, and what remains inaccessible to the discursive understanding and unpresentable in intellectual intuition, “comes, through the miracle of art, to be radiated back from the products thereof” (HKA 1/9.1, 326; SW 1/3, 625). It is therefore not through a more complex or complete philosophical perspective that philosophy achieves both its ground and its goal—its starting point or first principle and its conclusion—but in art and aesthetic intuition. “Art is paramount to the philosopher,” Schelling elaborates, “precisely because it opens to him, as it were, the holy of holies, which burns in eternal and original unity, as if in a single flame, that which in nature and history is rent asunder, and in life and action, no less than in thought, must forever fly apart” (HKA 1/9.1, 328; SW 1/3, 628). It is only through the artwork and aesthetic intuition, then, that the System is completed. One is left to wonder whether the System, having thus announced the conclusion of philosophy in art, also announces the end of philosophy as such. If this conclusion does not imply the end of philosophy, then what role would philosophy continue to play? After all, by explicating how philosophy needs art and aesthetic intuition in order to ground itself and achieve its goal, the System challenges the usual role that is played by philosophy. Furthermore, while the transcendental method employed in the System remains essential within the purview of the System, upon its completion this kind of thinking becomes unnecessary. In addition, the dialectical oppositions that motivate its development do not themselves present or achieve the goal of absolute presentation (absolute synthesis). Thus, if philosophical thinking is to have any role following these conclusions, it is evident that it cannot be the same kind of thinking that is at play in the System. In other words, if philosophy is to remain relevant, it can no longer be transcendental philosophy. It is out of this perspective that Schelling moves on to develop identity philosophy. By providing the “conclusive proof” of the original identity, and by explicating how this proof cannot be given through transcendental philosophy but can only be given through art, the System is the point of transition between Schelling’s transcendental philosophy and his identity philosophy. The System not only furnishes the ground for the identity philosophy, but also points to the need to move beyond transcendental philosophy. And this is precisely what Schelling does.

chapter twelve

Identity Philosophy and the Philosophy of Art

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chelling introduces his identity philosophy with two essays published in the Zeitschrift—his “Darstellung meines Systems der Philosophie” (Presentation of My System of Philosophy) (1800) and the “Fernere Darstel­ lung meines Systems der Philosophie” (Further Presentation of My System of Philosophy), published a year later but written immediately after the pub­ lication of the first essay. As the titles suggest, the two works are closely connected, in that both seek to offer an explicit and conclusive account of Schelling’s distinctive system of philosophy. As explained in the previous chapter, Schelling’s move to the identity philosophy can be traced back to the conclusions of the System. The System not only prepares the path for the transition to identity philosophy, but also, and more importantly, it demands this move. One of the key achievements of the System was an explication of the necessity of art for transcendental philosophy. Without the work of art, Schelling concludes, the transcendental philosopher cannot demonstrate the original identity, which is both the ground and apex of the system. Schelling’s conclusion, however, establishes the need to move beyond transcendental philosophy, beyond a philosophy grounded on the original and ineliminable opposition between subject and object. The path from the System to the identity philosophy is not, however, entirely straightforward. The System concludes with art and aesthetic in­ tuition and not with a philosophy of identity. Thus, one would expect that Schelling would either give up philosophy altogether or dedicate himself to writing on art or the philosophy of art. He does not, however, do either. In the “Darstellung” and “Fernere Darstellung,” Schelling makes no place for art and aesthetic intuition. In contrast, it is “reason” and Spinoza’s geo­ metric method that become essential. In his lectures on the philosophy of 225

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art, from 1802 and 1803, Schelling once again grants to art a place of su­ premacy—this time, however, he places art and reason on the same level and maintains that rational intuition is also capable of achieving insight into the absolute. The question then is, What is the relationship between philosophy (or reason) and art (or aesthetic intuition) in Schelling’s philoso­ phy of identity, and what role do the conclusions achieved in the System play in the development of the philosophy of identity? Before answering this question, it is essential to consider what may have led Schelling away from the work of art and aesthetic intuition. In other words, having arrived at the conclusion in the System that the work of art objectively presents what is otherwise unpresentable, why does Schelling not persist with the view of art as the highest achievement and final presen­ tation of the absolute?

12.1 Problems with the Work of Art Schelling’s demand in the System is that the self intuit itself in itself. It is on this basis that he distinguishes the philosophy of nature and tran­ scendental philosophy, explicating that in the product of nature the original identity of subject and object is not presented in the self itself but is medi­ ated through the natural organism, for whom this original identity is not and cannot be made conscious. The artwork, in contrast, presents this identity. But is it really the case that the work of art can offer immediate insight into this original identity? Upon close examination, it becomes doubtful whether the artwork can in fact achieve this goal. There are two reasons for this. The first is that the work of art is a product of artistic activity. As a product, however, it is necessarily distinct from the self, such that the identity it presents is not an immediate identity of the self with itself, but mediated, even if not con­ ceptually, through the product. This leads to the second reason. Schelling makes the demand that the self attain consciousness of itself not in a product, but in the self itself— which, as productivity, cannot be reduced to any one product. Although the work of art is an outcome of an original productivity, and to some extent presents this productivity within itself as a product, it itself is not the pro­ ductivity. Thus, while Schelling does not consider the work of art to be a “thing,” that is to say, a particular determination or limited presentation of the absolute that fails to present the absolute, it is difficult to grasp how the artwork presents the absolute immediately. Ultimately, so long as the work of art is not a self-conscious being, it remains distinct from the self,



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such that aesthetic intuition is not intuition of the original identity “in the self,” but rather “in the work of art.” This is precisely what Schelling realizes soon after the publication of the System: so long as we are concerned with the outcome of the self’s activ­ ity—with the product—we cannot arrive at the original productivity. While the product may become increasingly capable of presenting the original productivity within itself—as is the case with the artwork—as a product, it cannot present the original activity completely. Moreover, as a product distinct from the original activity, it implicitly reinstates rather than over­ comes the dualism of self-consciousness. This means that the very method­ ology of the System, which is based on tracing the evolving determinations of the self, could not possibly achieve the goal set out by the System. While this difficulty may not have been clear to Schelling as he was com­ posing the System, it may very well have been the reason behind the shift in his view regarding the work of art and its relation to reason. Some time toward the end of 1800, Schelling came to realize that the absolute—as abso­ lute—cannot be presented or mediated through any thing (even the artwork). He also realized that the absolute cannot be the final result or outcome of the development of self-consciousness. This altered understanding of the abso­ lute and its relation to the self and nature becomes a determining factor in Schelling’s move toward the identity philosophy and plays a fundamental role in his final break with Fichte. In their increasingly bitter correspondences, Schelling criticizes Fichte’s transcendental philosophy on precisely this point, writing in 1801 that “for you this being is the last synthesis. I think, however, that if it is in fact the highest, then it is the absolute, the unconditioned itself, thus unmistakably at the same time the first” (Traub, 204). In the identity philosophy, Schelling sets out to explicate the absolute as a nonsubjective, nonobjective reality that precedes the dualism of self-consciousness. However, in spite of this apparent transformation in Schelling’s concep­ tion of the absolute, he repeatedly emphasizes that the identity philosophy is a continuation of and an elaboration on his earlier philosophical work. In the following section, I address the relation between Schelling’s introduc­ tion to the identity philosophy (the “Darstellung”) and his earlier writings and assess the accuracy of his self-understanding.

12.2 The “Darstellung”: A Rupture or a Continuity? Just a few months after the publication of the System, Schelling founded the Zeitschrift für spekulative Physik, in which he published two essays that

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argued for the adequacy of reason and rational intuition of the absolute in contrast to the artwork and aesthetic intuition. The two essays not only an­ nounce Schelling’s move to the identity philosophy, but also provide a clear and final statement on his difference from Fichte. In spite of these apparent transformations, Schelling maintains that these essays are continuous with his earlier writings. In the introductory paragraph of the “Darstellung,” he remarks, “For many years I sought to present the one philosophy that I know to be true from two wholly different sides—as philosophy of nature and as transcendental philosophy. Now I find myself driven by the present situation to present publicly, sooner than I wish, the system that for me was the foundation of these presentations, and to make everyone interested in this matter acquainted with views which until now were merely my own concern, or perhaps shared with a few others” (SW 1/4, 107). The extent to which there is continuity between this work and Schelling’s earlier writings is not, however, as straightforward as Schelling makes out. There are at least four significant differences between the “Darstellung” and his earlier writings. First, and as previously noted, in the “Darstellung” Schelling adopts Spinoza’s geometrical method; he begins by postulating definitions and discards the developmental-productive method of the Ideen, Entwurf, and System. Second, he puts forth a Platonic view of the absolute as an unchanging reality, which does not develop or go through a necessary sequence of stages. This leads him to adopt his most controversial claim, namely, that difference can only exist outside of the absolute and that in­ sofar as the absolute is all that is, difference cannot be real. Difference, Schelling maintains, arises out of the perspective of reflection, a perspective that is inadequate for conceiving the absolute. Finally, Schelling explains that the absolute is not something that is “constructed” or “produced,” but is the point of “indifference [Indifferenz]” prior to any division and con­ struction (SW 1/4, 140).1 In these four ways, Schelling is clearly departing from the methodol­ ogy and basic premises of the System—and of the philosophy of nature for that matter. However, this departure does not indicate a rupture with his thought as a whole. A close examination of the “Darstellung” reveals that in its premises and objectives, it closely resembles Schelling’s earliest writ­ ings, especially Vom Ich, writings composed at a time when he was more influenced by Spinoza than by Fichte. In fact, in his commentary on the 1809 edition of his philosophical writings, Schelling remarks that Vom Ich represents idealism “in its freshest appearance, and maybe in a sense, which it later loses. At least the I is still thought of everywhere as absolute, or



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as absolute identity of subjective and objective, not as something subjec­ tive” (HKA 1/4, 58). While it is common to interpret Schelling’s philosophi­ cal beginnings as inspired by Fichte, I attempted to illustrate in chapter 9 that Schelling’s first writings were more broadly Spinozist. It was not until 1796–1797 that Schelling’s work took on a Fichtean, subjective tone and began to concern itself with the conditions of knowledge, starting with the subject. In the writings from 1795, by contrast, the goal is to grasp a nonsub­ jective, nonobjective absolute—the stated goal of the “Darstellung.” Therefore, while there are essential differences in Schelling’s methodol­ ogy and in his conception of the absolute, these differences indicate not a rupture in his development but a return to his first philosophical goals. This return, it should be emphasized, does not imply a regress. Instead, it seems that Schelling reevaluated the progress of his philosophy and recognized the need to rethink his assumptions and reformulate his goals and methods. Thus, we should interpret the identity philosophy not as a rupture with previous work or as a regress to his earliest writings, but as an elaboration and refinement achieved through deeper understanding of the questions and concerns that motivated his project. The goal of the “Darstellung,” Schelling maintains, is to present the “indifference point [Indifferenzpunkt]” of the two opposing poles of his system—the philosophy of nature and transcendental philosophy (SW 1/4, 108). It is neither to “realism” nor to “idealism” that Schelling turns—not even to “some third combination of them”—but to “a system of identity” that cannot be grasped from the standpoint of traditional idealism and real­ ism, which is the standpoint of reflection. This is because reflection “works only from oppositions and rests on oppositions” (SW 1/4, 113). Only the standpoint of reason can achieve insight into the indifference point and de­ velop a system of identity. Schelling’s turn to the standpoint of reason suggests that he had become aware of the shortcomings of his conclusion in the System. It also reveals how Schelling intends to resolve these shortcomings. The first definition of the “Darstellung,” the starting point of Schelling’s more geometrico, is of reason. Reason, or “absolute reason,” he writes, is “the total indifference [totale Indifferenz] of subjective and objective” (SW 1/4, 114). Commonly, reason is understood subjectively, as tied to a thinking subject. This is a mistake, Schelling explains, because “reason’s thought is foreign to every­ one.” Thus, to arrive at reason as the absolute, “one must abstract from what does the thinking” (SW 1/4, 114). By abstracting from a thinking sub­ ject, one is also freed from the world of objects, “since something objective

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or a thought item is only possible in contrast to a thinking something” (SW 1/4, 115). Thereby, reason “becomes the true in-itself [an-sich],” the point of indifference of subjective and objective. In the System, it was necessary for the self to become for itself, because it is only as such that it could become an object of presentation and intu­ ition. The contradiction that arose out of the objectification of conscious­ ness drove consciousness toward further development until, in the artwork, it attained absolute self-presentation. As previously clarified, however, the artwork remains distinct from consciousness and, as such, an object opposed to the subject. Furthermore, while the self in the System is understood as the subjective aspect of philosophy (transcendental philosophy as opposed to the philosophy of nature), reason in the “Darstellung” is absolute, nonsub­ jective thought. In turn, in the System the absolute is always, and necessar­ ily, mediated through the activity of the subject, while in the “Darstellung,” the goal is to present the absolute in and through itself—unhindered or un­ tarnished by the subjective element of transcendental philosophy. In the “Darstellung,” Schelling’s goal is not to locate the absolute within the self for itself—the self made into an object of its knowing—but within reason “in itself.” As “in itself,” reason is neither subjective nor objective. Rather, as the indifference of the two, reason precedes and makes possible the subject-object distinction on which self-consciousness is based. The goal of the “Darstellung,” then, is not to think of the absolute as either subject or object, or as the result of their synthesis, but to think the absolute “in itself.” Having provided a definition of reason, Schelling goes on to analyze its structure. First, he claims that reason “is simply one and simply selfidentical” (SW 1/4, 116). This is not to say that reason and the proposition of identity are one and the same. Rather, Schelling writes, “the unique being posited through this proposition is that of identity itself, which accordingly is posited in complete independence from A as subject and from A as predicate” (SW 1/4, 117). In other words, Schelling maintains—recalling the distinction he makes in Vom Ich between “inner form” and “outer form”— identity is not to be confused with the proposition of identity, which con­ tains difference between subject and predicate.2 By drawing a distinction between identity and the form of identity, Schelling makes two important points. First, he is claiming that identity itself is not something composite, in other words, formed out of the syn­ thesis of subject and object in the proposition of identity. Rather, identity precedes the form of identity and makes it possible. Thus, identity should



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not be confused with either the form of identity or with the identity that results from this form—from the synthesis of subject and object. Second, by distinguishing identity from the form of identity, Schelling is attempting to find a way by which to articulate difference, and finitude, within a system of indifference and infinitude. Let us take a look at this more closely. While the essence of identity is simply that it is (existence), its form is A = A. The difference is decisive, because the form of A = A implies difference—it implies A as subject and A as object—whereas the essence of absolute identity does not imply difference, but implies only existence. Therefore, the essence of absolute identity remains indifferent, while its form contains difference. This means that absolute identity is not consti­ tuted by A as subject and A as object (i.e., by the difference or opposition between the two), but is the indifference of the two. Difference lies not in the essence of absolute identity but in its form. While the form A = A im­ plies a distinction between A as subject and A as object, it does not imply that there are (in essence) two distinct A’s—rather, the same A is posited. The difference, therefore, is entirely formal. Because it is one and the same A, Schelling maintains that the differ­ ence cannot be qualitative—after all, it is referring to the same essence. The difference must, therefore, be quantitative. The difference has to do with a predominance of one A (whether the subjective or the objective) over the other. In turn, when one of the two A’s predominates, Schelling argues, difference emerges, so that the proposition of identity (A = A) becomes a synthetic proposition (A = B) (SW 1/4, 124). Quantitative difference, therefore, says nothing about the essence or be­ ing of A (the essence of A remains absolutely indifferent); it is not a differ­ ence in kind (A is absolutely) but in degree (in quantity). But what exactly is the status of this difference? Since absolute identity is outside of the realm of distinction and synthesis, quantitative difference must exist outside of absolute identity, that is, outside of the absolute. The absolute, however, is everything—totality and the universe (SW 1/4, 125). Where, then, is quan­ titative difference? Schelling has two answers to this question. First, he claims that quan­ titative difference is in the individual, because individuals are not “in themselves,” that is, their essence does not imply their existence. They are, therefore, not absolute. This answer, however, is not entirely satisfying and results in further difficulties. If the individual is not “in itself,” then it is not real. Thus, in asking the question, “Where is quantitative differ­ ence?” we are led to a second question regarding the status of individuals.

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If everything that is, is in absolute identity, and if quantitative difference exists outside of absolute identity, then, what are individuals, which are the outcome of quantitative difference? Schelling’s second answer—which involves an attempt to save his first—maintains that difference is connected to perspective. First, he ex­ plains that “there is no individual being or individual thing-in-itself,” and in fact solely the absolute totality is in itself (SW 1/4, 125). This can only mean that “there is nothing-in-itself outside of totality, and if something is viewed outside of totality, this happens only by an arbitrary separation of the individual from the whole effected by reflection” (SW 1/4, 126; emphasis added). Thus, difference is an outcome of perspective, namely, reflection, and individuals are not real; they merely appear as individuals due to a limited perspective. Rather than recognizing the absolute as the point of original indifference, this limited perspective regards the absolute as something “produced [ producirt]” (SW 1/4, 128). This perspective is false, Schelling concludes, because it relies on a separation of what is “intrinsi­ cally impossible” to separate—namely, the absolute and its parts. In contrast to the separations of reflection, reason grasps things “as they are in themselves.” To know something “in itself” is to know it as absolute and unconditioned—not as an isolated object or individual thing, but in and through the absolute. Thus, the individual as individual, as an entity that is in and for itself, is merely a chimera, and the true individual is nothing but an expression or manifestation of the absolute. From this cursory examination of the basic premises of the “Darstel­ lung,” one can see the extent to which this text differs from the System. The methodological differences between the two works underlie and ex­pose  the differences in their conceptions of the absolute. In the “Darstellung,” the absolute is not a product, which means that it cannot be the outcome or final synthesis of the successive method employed by transcendental philosophy. For this reason, Schelling employs the geometrical method of definition and rational analysis. However, and in spite of these differences, the direction of Schelling’s thought in the System, the philosophy of nature, and the “Darstellung” is not fundamentally different. Moreover, it is the same direction that Schelling had articulated in Vom Ich. Beginning in 1797, Schelling attempted to explicate the absolute from the two different perspectives in which it presented itself: as knowing sub­ ject, or I, and as known object, or nature. Underlying and determining his two projects was the notion of the identity or the unity of these two aspects of the absolute. For this reason, Schelling emphasizes in the introduction to the System, transcendental philosophy must be understood as a necessary



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counterpart to the philosophy of nature. Thus, transcendental philosophy and the philosophy of nature are presentations of an underlying unity that precedes (and makes possible) their difference. Schelling reiterates these views in his response to Fichte’s critique of his two systems of philosophy. In a letter to Schelling from November 16, 1800, Fichte declares his disagreement on precisely this point: “with your opposi­ tion of transcendental philosophy and the philosophy of nature, I remain in disagreement.” Fichte goes on to contest Schelling’s claim that we can gain knowledge of nature’s laws, arguing that all that we can know must be determined through the “immanent laws of intelligence.” It is through these laws, he elaborates, that nature is given to us, or “found [gefunden]” (Traub, 176). In his response, dated November 19, Schelling defends the duality of his systems and contests the primacy and outlines the limits of the Wissenschaftslehre. In doing so, he elaborates a new understanding of the self and nature as two “potencies” within the absolute, and thus reformulates his conception of the relationship between transcendental philosophy and the philosophy of nature. Rather than identifying them as two aspects or sides of the one absolute, he speaks of them as two moments in the unfolding of the absolute. This subtle, albeit significant, distinction enables Schelling to offer a more substantive conception of the original identity of self and nature, and convincingly illustrate the need for a system of identity, that is, for a system that is not determined by the subjective perspective of tran­ scendental philosophy. Schelling begins by contesting Fichte’s claim that it is impossible to have two systems. This claim, he argues, is based on a misinterpretation of the two terms. The opposition between transcendental philosophy and the philosophy of nature, Schelling writes, has nothing to do with the differ­ ence that Fichte draws between ideal and real, but “lies somewhere higher” (Traub, 178). Fichte fails, in other words, to recogonize Schelling’s distinc­ tion between an original productive activity and the consequent activity of self-consciousness (wherein the difference between ideal and real resides). Like nature, self-consciousness is a particular potency of an original produc­ tivity that cannot be reduced to either self or nature. The self, then, cannot be the ground of productivity or of nature. Instead, it is, like nature, a mani­ festation of a more original productivity. Although in this letter, Schelling distinguishes between the pure subject-object and its moments or potencies (the I and nature) in terms that directly pertain to his disagreement with Fichte, the distinction in fact cor­ responds to his earlier distinction between the inner and outer form of the

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proposition of identity in Vom Ich and the distinction between the essence and form of identity in the “Darstellung.” In Vom Ich, Schelling described the inner form as “absolute causality,” as a nonsubjective, nonobjective productivity which he identified in the letter to Fichte as the pure subjectobject. The outer form, by contrast, is the formal structure of positing, the principle of identity, from which the difference between subject and object (self and nature) first arises. Thus, in both the letter and Vom Ich, Schelling understands the difference between subject and object which arises in the proposition of identity as a later difference, preceded by an original identity, what he calls “indifference” in the “Darstellung.” From this it is evident that in spite of the differences between the “Darstellung” and Schelling’s earlier writings, the key idea that underlies this later essay is the same idea that motivated his previous work. Repeat­ edly Schelling argued that the absolute cannot be reduced to a relation or form of identity and thus cannot be equated with self-consciousness. The question remains, however, as to how this absolute—which is beyond all difference and relation—can be grasped and articulated. Fichte posed pre­ cisely this question to Schelling.

12.3 Fichte and Schelling on the “Darstellung” In a letter from May 24, 1801, Schelling directs Fichte to the “Darstellung,” asking him to study and comment on his most recent work. In this same letter, he also alludes to a forthcoming essay, in which he would expli­ cate with more clarity and “evidence [Evidenz]” the ideas presented in the “Darstellung” (Traub, 190). Indeed, just a few months after completing the “Darstellung,” Schelling began work on the “Fernere Darstellung.” How­ ever, while Schelling already indicated in the letter his plan to write this follow-up work, Fichte’s response to the “Darstellung” may have inspired him to hurry the completion and publication of the “Fernere Darstellung.” In his response to Schelling’s request to comment on the “Darstellung,” Fichte criticizes the work as lacking “evidence.” Schelling, Fichte contends, has made the same mistakes as Spinoza—assuming and asserting without justifying or explaining. Although Fichte had penned his critique on May 31, immediately after receiving Schelling’s recommendation to read the “Darstellung,” it was not until August 7 that he sent the letter to Schelling. The letter begins by re­ counting their continued disagreement over the status of the philosophy of nature, with Fichte repeating his concerns about Schelling’s methodology (Traub, 194–95). Fichte then briefly defends the Wissenschaftslehre and, fol­



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lowing a similarly brief account of Schelling’s System, affirms the possibil­ ity of agreement between the two works (and the two philosophers). The tone of the letter, however, radically alters once Fichte begins to discuss the “Darstellung.” While he sees the “intention [Absicht]” of the System as generally in line with his own intentions, he writes that “this is no way the case with regard to the intention of the ‘Darstellung,’ and this belongs essentially to the matter at hand [diese gehört hier durchaus wesentlich zur Sache]” (Traub, 195). The fundamental problem with the “Darstellung,” he maintains, is its lack of evidence: “I believe, for in­ stance—and believe that I could prove it—that your system in itself (with­ out any tacit explanation from the W[issenschafts]l[ehre]) has no evidence and cannot get any at all. Already your first proposition proves this” (Traub, 196). The starting point of the Wissenschaftslehre, Fichte explains, is never “being [Seyn],” but “seeing [Sehen].” By contrast, the “Darstellung” com­ mences with being, which, “when posited, is called reason” (Traub, 196). However, it is only through seeing, Fichte asserts, that evidence—the act in which thought penetrates itself—can be attained. Being, by contrast, “is not self-penetrating seeing” (Traub, 197). For this reason, Fichte concludes, “to evidence, it is eternally impenetrable” (Traub, 197). Schelling responds to Fichte’s critique on October 3, 1801, in a lengthy and involved letter, in which he criticizes Fichte on three main points. First, Schelling criticizes Fichte’s inattentive reading of his work. If he had read the work more carefully, he would have realized that they agree on the meaning of identity. Second, Schelling disagrees with Fichte’s understand­ ing of the absolute. And finally, he challenges Fichte’s claim to evidence and his methodology. Let us look at these points more closely. Schelling begins by noting that the notion of identity which Fichte in­ vokes in his response, and which he employs to criticize Schelling, is the very notion that Schelling himself employs. In the very sentence in which Fichte claims that philosophy must begin with seeing as opposed to being, Schelling notes, Fichte describes identity as the “identity of intuition and thinking” (Traub, 196). “With this idea,” Schelling replies, “you express the highest speculative idea, the idea of the absolute, whose intuition is in thought and whose thought is in intuition” (Traub, 202).3 The identity be­ tween thought and intuition, he continues, is—as identity—also the point of indifference between the two. As such, it must be “the highest being” (Traub, 202). Schelling’s claim is that Fichte has misunderstood what he (Schelling) means by being, identifying his conception of being with that of dogmatism. This is not, however, the notion of being that Schelling is working with. Rather, this dogmatic view of being is Fichte’s—and Fichte

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has projected it onto Schelling’s philosophy: “for you being is thoroughly identified with reality, indeed with actuality” (Traub, 203). For Schelling, by contrast, “being has no opposition . . . for it is the absolute unity of ideal and real itself” (Traub, 203). This leads directly to Schelling’s second critique, which he distinguishes as “the main point of our difference” (Traub, 209). As that which has no op­ position, the absolute cannot be—as it is for Fichte—the “last synthesis” (Traub, 204). Rather, it must be “the first.” If it is the highest, Schelling argues, it must also be the first (Traub, 204). Finally, Schelling explains that although it is acceptable to begin with seeing (i.e., with transcendental philosophy), as Fichte does and as Schelling himself did, this is only a starting point. Furthermore, Schelling maintains, there are other equally valid points of departure. However, if one begins with seeing, then there are two options: “Either you must never go out of seeing . . . that means never go out of subjectivity, and absolute substance must be and remain of the one I, or you do go out, onto an incomprehensible and real ground, such that the whole turn to subjectivity counts only as preliminary, until the true principle is found” (Traub, 204). In other words, if one remains in seeing, then one is necessarily limited by subjectivity and does not attain truth. In order to arrive at truth, one must move beyond the perspective of seeing, such that transcendental philosophy must be regarded as a “propadeutic” to philosophy (Traub, 204).4 However, the problem with transcendental philosophy is not only its starting point, but also its methodology, which begins with the finite and from there seeks to grasp the absolute (Traub, 204).5 This transition, how­ ever, is impossible because the movement that begins with something fi­ nite necessarily remains in the series of the conditioned.6 Absolute identity “can never be reached through a gradual climbing from below,” Schelling writes, “but can only be grasped at one time and in an absolute manner” (Traub, 205).7 In other words, the evidence that Fichte is after cannot be attained through the “seeing” of transcendental philosophy, which is de­ termined by opposition and which thus can grasp only finite or conditioned manifestations of the absolute. Unless we move out of this finite series, Schelling explains, philosophy is doomed to be “a science like any other” (Traub, 204).8 It is important to note that although Schelling is critical of transcen­ dental philosophy, he is not dismissing it entirely. Rather, he describes it as “not false,” which is to say that it is also not the complete truth (Traub, 206). The philosophy of identity reveals transcendental philosophy as onesided and therefore incapable of grasping the absolute. In order to achieve



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insight into the absolute, one must resolve the oppositions of transcendental philosophy. This cannot be done, however, through a final synthesis (which would be impossible anyway). Rather, insight into the absolute must be the starting point of philosophy.9 Thus, identity philosophy strives to make the indifference point of tran­ scendental philosophy and the philosophy of nature into a comprehensive system of identity. For this reason, Schelling concludes that Fichte’s system is “a necessary and integral part of my system” (Traub, 207). Fichte composed a reply to Schelling in October 1801, shortly after re­ ceiving Schelling’s letter. However, he did not send it until January 1802, accompanied by a second letter. The reason for the delay, Fichte relates in the second letter, was his fear of hurting Schelling’s feelings (Traub, 216). In these two letters, Fichte shifts his focus from methodology to considering Schelling’s conception of the absolute. Fichte levels two main criticisms of Schelling’s absolute. First, he criti­ cizes it as being inherently negative. As the point of “indifference” between being and knowing, the absolute has no positive status. It is merely not difference. However, the absolute, as absolute, must be positive. Second, Fichte argues that Schelling’s denial of difference within the absolute is nonsensical. Insofar as the absolute is in relation to both being and know­ ing, it must contain relation and thus difference within itself (Traub, 220). The only way by which to arrive at a positive presentation of the abso­ lute, Fichte continues, is through intuition (Traub, 220). In the “Darstel­ lung,” however, intuition plays no role. Thus, although in his reply to Fichte, Schelling maintains that the absolute is the identity of intuition and thinking, in fact, his whole system is, according to Fichte, based on rational thought and the achievement of formal unity. It is therefore not Fichte’s system that suffers from formalism, but Schelling’s. By replacing intuition with rational construction, Fichte argues, Schelling’s sytem fails to grasp the positive reality of the absolute. According to Fichte, the difference between intuition and rational thought is not insignificant. Reason, or rational thought, Fichte explains, can only “postulate a relation” to the absolute. It cannot itself be the ab­ solute (Traub, 220). By contrast, in intuition, there is no such relation and thus no opposition. A system based on intuition constructs the absolute genetically and is therefore not distinct from the absolute. Schelling, how­ ever, constructs his system through rational thought. Thus, he inadver­ tently introduces an opposition between the absolute and the thought of the absolute—an opposition which is inherent to the objectifying mode of cognition that he employs.

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The absolute, Fichte continues, can be neither being nor its “adjacent member, knowledge,” but “a still higher” point of unity, in which the two “are first separated and also posited together; this point is also a knowledge (only not of something, for [it is] the absolute) and at this [point] the [Wissenschaftslehre] has always stood and is precisely for that reason transcendental idealism, and [it has] denoted [this point] through the expression of the I among others, [the point] in which the I—understanding itself as relative—and the Not-I are at first separate” (Traub, 220). In other words, the absolute cannot be knowing opposed to being, but, as Fichte repeatedly emphasizes, it is a self-penetrating intuition or seeing, which precedes the difference between knowing and being.10 For Schelling, the idea that difference and relation exist within the abso­ lute, as Fichte describes the relation of the I and Not-I in intuition, appears contradictory. For this reason, his aim in the “Darstellung” is to explain the origin of difference within the indifferent absolute through the notion of the “form of quantity.” In Schelling’s formulation of difference, however, Fichte clarifies two fundamental and connected problems. First, the elimi­ nation of difference in the absolute results in an undifferentiated unity from which it is impossible to derive anything at all—that is, anything besides this empty whole. This problem, which Fichte identifies with Spinoza’s philosophy, ultimately comes down to the inability to explain how “the one becomes all” (Traub, 221). Second, Schelling’s attempt to explicate difference under the form of quantity (rather than locating difference in the absolute) leads to a relativ­ ization of the absolute: “The absolute would not be absolute,” Fichte ar­ gues, “if it exists under some form” (Traub, 222).11 In other words, under the form of quantity, the absolute becomes determined. Furthermore, Fichte goes on to charge Schelling with arbitrarily positing the form of quantity without explaining “where it comes from” (Traub, 222). In this way, Fichte accuses Schelling of a contradictory conception of the absolute, one that fails on several levels. As indifference, it is entirely negative. In addition, although it does not contain difference within itself, it is situated within a larger framework that assumes difference—difference from the rational thought structure in which it is presented. In turn, as an indifferent absolute, it does not explain the origin of difference, of the tran­ sition from the one to the many, but wishes away the problem by positing the notion of the “form of quantity.” This form of quantity, however, does not only not resolve the problem of transition, but also accentuates the con­ tradictory nature of the absolute. Insofar as the absolute is “under” the form of quantity (or any form), it is not absolute; rather, by placing the absolute



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under a form, Schelling inadvertently objectifies it.12 The objectification of the absolute is, of course, the very problem that Schelling had encountered in the System and had attempted to overcome in the “Darstellung.” However, in spite of these grave criticisms of the “Darstellung,” Fich­ te’s concluding remarks in what turns out to be his final letter to Schelling illustrate an astounding proximity in their thought. Fichte writes, “It ap­ pears self-evident to me that the absolute can only have an absolute, i.e., in relation to a manifold, only one, simple, eternally the same, expression; and this is precisely absolute knowledge. The absolute itself however is not be­ ing, nor is it a knowledge, nor is it identity, or the indifference of the two: rather, it is precisely that—the absolute—and every second word is evil” (Traub, 221). Notwithstanding Fichte’s criticisms, it is clear that in his exchange with Schelling, he had come upon a conception of the absolute that dimin­ ishes differences in their fundamental understanding of the absolute. It ap­ pears that they agree that the absolute can be neither ideal nor real, neither knowledge nor being. As such, it cannot be fully expounded in either an idealistic philosophy or a realistic philosophy, but, as Schelling came to recognize, only from a standpoint that is “higher” than both.

12.4 The Absolute in Bruno and the “Fernere Darstellung” With these critiques in mind, Schelling begins to rethink the nature of the absolute and its relation to evidence. In the two works that follow the “Darstellung,” the dialogue Bruno (1801) and the “Fernere Darstellung,” his aim is to respond to Fichte’s critiques. In October 1801, at the point where their disagreement was becoming painfully clear, Schelling asks Fichte to read his recently published dialogue, writing that although he must place his hopes for resolving their difference in a future discussion, “in the mean­ time, you will soon receive a philosophical dialogue of mine. I wish you would read it” (Traub, 209–10). In the dialogue, Schelling details the difficulties that arise from different conceptions of the absolute and explicitly concedes the problems with the notion of a self-identical indifferent absolute, as elaborated in the “Darstel­ lung.” Thus, Bruno (Schelling’s spokesperson) explains that if the absolute is self-identical and infinite, then it necessarily excludes all difference and finitude. In so doing, however, it cannot be absolute because it ends up standing in opposition to difference and finitude. As indifferent, then, the absolute must not exclude difference, but must contain difference within

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itself, such that “unity and opposition, the self-identical and the nonidenti­ cal are one” (SW 1/4, 236). The “Fernere Darstellung,” composed of eight parts published over sev­ eral months beginning in August 1802, similarly focuses on the nature of the absolute and its relation to difference. Like Bruno, the “Fernere Darstel­ lung” is in part a defense and rearticulation of the basic ideas of the iden­ tity philosophy as put forth in the “Darstellung.” In other ways, however, both texts instantiate a return to earlier ideas and distinctions—ones which were absent in the “Darstellung.” Schelling reintroduces the notion of in­ tellectual intuition and models it on geometrical construction. He also dis­ tinguishes the two forms of cognition in the same way that he had done previously: while in geometry the object of cognition refers to an external object, in philosophy it does not. He elaborates that the object of philoso­ phy is the “eternal essence itself” and, as such, can only be presented as an “idea” (SW 1/4, 347). Furthermore, Schelling reaffirms the distinction between his philosophy and dogmatism, so as to dispel any doubt—evident in Fichte’s accusations, for instance—that his philosophy amounted to dogmatism. He explains, much in the same way that he had in the Briefe, that while in dogmatism “the unity of thought and being was . . . only just another case of being,” such that “thought remained outside this unity, and in subjective opposi­ tion to it,” in his system, “the absolute cognition . . . has no true opposite outside itself” (SW 1/4, 365–66). However, in returning to some of these ideas, Schelling is not simply re­ iterating, but also clarifying and developing thoughts which, as he puts it in a letter to Fichte, were in 1795 still “raw and undeveloped feelings” (Traub, 207). Thus, the distinction between the absolute and the principle of iden­ tity, which he makes in passing in Vom Ich, becomes central in the “Fer­ nere Darstellung.” Similarly, the notion of an archetype, which Schelling introduces in the Entwurf in order to explicate metamorphosis in nature, becomes one of the key ideas in Bruno and the “Fernere Darstellung.” In returning to and elaborating these earlier ideas, Schelling implicitly recants and disagrees with some of the basic premises of the “Darstellung.” In at least two ways, he significantly alters his position in the “Fernere Darstellung” and, in effect, responds to Fichte’s critiques. On the one hand, he reformulates his notion of the absolute and the relation between form and essence in the absolute. On the other hand, he reintroduces the notion of intellectual intuition and goes so far as to maintain that it is the very presupposition and condition of philosophy and science (Wissenschaft). In the “Darstellung” Schelling distinguished between the essence and



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the form of the absolute. While the essence is absolutely indifferent, the form—which he explicates as the proposition of identity—contains differ­ ence. In doing so, however, he inadvertently introduced a duality between form and essence, which led to a problematic conception of the absolute. As Fichte noted, the absolute cannot exist “under” any form, as that would relativize the absolute. In the “Fernere Darstellung,” Schelling maintains the distinction between the absolute and the proposition of identity with­ out however sacrificing the absoluteness of the absolute.13 He achieves this in the following ways. First, he does not identify the proposition of identity with the form of the absolute. From the start, he locates the proposition of identity—as the analytic or formal identity of A = A—in reflective thinking. He then ex­ plains that the opposition between analytic and synthetic identity arises from the opposition of thought and being that is effected in reflective con­ sciousness: “Precisely because thought and being are separated, thought can only continue in its simple identity, without ever reaching to the objective or real. It can only compare itself with itself, but it can never move out of itself” (SW 1/4, 345n). Thus, although formal identity has an unconditioned status, it does not attain reality. In contrast, synthetic knowledge connects the separated thought and being. However, because the connection is ef­ fected in reflection (i.e., discursively), it cannot be unconditioned. True knowledge is neither analytic nor synthetic because it is concerned with the unity of subject and object prior to the separation of reflection. “Truly absolute knowledge,” Schelling writes, “is only possible at one point, where thought and being come together absolutely, where there is no longer the question of a connection [Band] between the concept and the object, where the concept is simultaneously the object, and the object the concept” (SW 1/4, 346n). This means that the absolute does not exist under the form of either analytic or synthetic identity (it is neither A = A nor A = B). Second, Schelling introduces new terminology to speak of the form of the absolute—terminology that grants to form a far more significant role than previously. In the “Darstellung,” the absolute was described as existing “under” the form of identity. Thus, form was not essential to the essence of the absolute. Essentially, the absolute was without form. The formlessness of the essence of the absolute in the “Darstellung” contrasts significantly with Schelling’s philosophy of nature and transcendental philosophy, in which the manifestations or determinations of the absolute, the forms, were presented as active participants in the development of the absolute. In the Entwurf, for instance, Schelling describes the morphological at­ tributes of plants and animals in order to demonstrate the wholeness of

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each organism and illustrate continuity and relationality between different organisms. In the form of the plant, Schelling does not see segregated parts with only mechanical or arbitrary connections, but mutually supporting parts—forms—in which the plant whole develops and through which it is realized. In the same way that Goethe conceives the plant whole or the essence of the plant in and through the morphology of the plant—in its forms—so Schelling argues that the organic whole resides within the mani­ fold parts and their connections. The key terminological shift that Schelling undertakes in the “Fernere Darstellung” is the use of the preposition in instead of under to speak of the relationship between the absolute and form. While at first sight this modi­ fication may be hardly noticeable, and may even appear inconsequential, it significantly alters Schelling’s conception of the absolute and responds to Fichte’s critique. The absolute no longer exists under the form—a formula­ tion which implies that the form is outside of the absolute and thus only contingently related to it. Rather the form is in the absolute and the abso­ lute exists in the form. Thus, the essence of the absolute is not something separate from its form. Insofar as the form is in the absolute, form and es­ sence cannot be distinct, and form is just as necessary as essence. In the “Fernere Darstellung,” Schelling describes form in much the same way that he had in his philosophy of nature. Form “is that by which things are separated and distinguished; it is the difference of the universal and the particular, and is expressed in things by their existence” (SW 1/4, 267). In other words, form is difference that is inherent to the existence, the reality, of the absolute; or to put it in terms of the philosophy of na­ ture, differences within and between organisms are inherent to their (selfdifferentiating) morphologies. In the “Fernere Darstellung,” form (as differ­ ence) is thus understood as internal to the absolute and identical with its essence. Schelling writes: “Since it is form by which the particular entity is particular, the finite item finite, so too form is one with essence, each of course absolute, since in the absolute the particular and the universal are absolutely one” (SW 1/4, 267). By reformulating the relationship between form and essence, and ex­ plicating form (and thus difference) as inherent to the absolute, Schelling partially responds to Fichte’s criticisms of his conception of the absolute. However, in spite of locating difference (form) within the absolute, Schelling does not wish to abandon the essential claim of the identity philosophy that the absolute is indifferent. Rather, he repeatedly emphasizes that the “absolute indifference [absolute Indifferenz]” is the “highest point of phi­



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losophy” and that it is the goal of philosophy to achieve insight into it (SW 1/4, 372 and 362). How, then, does Schelling square his conception of the absolute as indif­ ferent with the idea of internal difference or self-differentiation? To solve this difficulty, Schelling introduces the notion of an archetype, or Urbild. Schelling first speaks of the idea of archetype and “archetypal cognition [Urbildliches Erkennen]” in Bruno (SW 1/3, 224). In both Bruno and “Fernere Darstellung,” he explicates the unity of the self-identical and different as an archetype or Urbild—original image or original form (type). The distinc­ tive character of the archetype is that it is at once universal and particular, infinite and finite, concept and object. This is to be distinguished from the world of appearances—which Schelling designates as Abbild or counter­ image—in which these unities are contingent. To explain what he means, Schelling once again refers to geometry: in geometry, it is easy to explicate how in the archetype universal and particu­ lar are immediately unified and how this unity is self-evident and certain (SW 1/4, 363). Any geometrical idea is inseparable from its object—the idea of a triangle and the triangle are ultimately one and the same. The idea can­ not exist outside of the object, and the object is the realization of the idea. The relation between them is absolutely immediate and self-evident. There is therefore no difference between the universal (as idea) and the particular (as object), but the two are essentially one. Thus, in geometry, Schelling maintains, “thought is always adequate to being, concept to object, and vice versa.” There is therefore no question as to “whether what is correct and certain in thought is also real in the object” (SW 1/4, 363). In the case of philosophy, the archetype is not a geometrical figure, but the “essence of the eternal itself,” in other words, the absolute itself (SW 1/4, 347). As the absolute unity of concept and object, infinite and finite, universal and particular, the absolute is the absolute archetype. In the same sense that the universal idea is immediately evident or present in the par­ ticular object, so, Schelling maintains, the idea of the absolute necessarily implies its object, its essence implies its existence. As such, the absolute is always necessarily both the absolute as idea and as object, as universal and as particular manifestations of the universal. For this reason, Schelling con­ cludes, the absolute is always a unity, in which the universal and particular are absolutely inseparable: “In the absolute, no form is separated from its es­ sence, and everything is in everything [ineinander], as one essence, one mass [Masse], and from out of this unity all ideas come forth as divine roots, for each is formed out of the whole essence of the absolute” (SW 1/4, 409).14

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The absolute, then, is not a universal concept, but the necessary unity of universal and particular, ideal and real. Thus, Schelling argues, the absolute cannot be grasped by understanding or reflection, which can only grasp an abstract concept, but only through a kind of knowing that is able to see the universal and the particular in their absolute unity. He terms this cognitive capacity “archetypal knowledge.”

12.5 Intellectual Intuition and the Living Archetype The concept, Schelling writes, is a “pure modus of thought” and thus “op­ poses the particular and finite.” In the archetype, by contrast, “the two are unified” (SW 1/4, 347). Conceptual thought proceeds by abstracting from the particular to the universal. Thus, the concept is a generalization based on common characteristics of particulars, but is ultimately distinct from the particularity of the particular. It is, in other words, an abstract concept that does not refer to the particular as particular. This means that the re­ lation between universal and particular is not a necessary relation—there remains a gap or contingency in the subsumption of the particular under the universal. In the case of an abstract concept, the particular has been made to conform to the generalizing structure of the universal, such that it has been divested of its particularity. Thus, conceptual thought cannot grasp the identity of universal and particular, because it subsumes (and thus eliminates) the particular under the general. Archetypal cognition does not begin with the particular and then ab­ stract to the general. Rather, it begins with the idea, that is, with the unity of particular and universal, and thus does not need to arrive at the universal through generalization. By beginning with the idea, archetypal cognition grasps the particular in the idea—in the universal—and not outside of or distinct from it. This implies that it grasps the part and whole as inherently connected, such that their relationship is not (as is the case for conceptual thought) contingent. Each of the two forms of cognition delivers a significantly different way of understanding. Conceptual thought, which proceeds from the parts to the whole, can only grasp mechanical connections—from part to part—and the only causation it can conceive is efficient—from antecedent cause to ef­ fect. Archetypal cognition, by contrast, “rests on the complete overcoming of the principle of causality” (SW 1/4, 345). Because archetypal cognition grasps the particular within the universal, it does not grasp it as a part of a successive series, but as a member of a self-causing, self-determining unity,



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wherein each part is both cause and effect in a living process. What it sees is not isolated parts effecting change in other isolated parts, but a unity that manifests itself in the different activities of its inherently connected parts. The goal of philosophy, Schelling writes, is to see that “everything in the universe is unconditioned in its own way. . . . Nothing is to the other a true cause, rather everything is grounded in the unconditioned in the same way” (SW 1/4, 344). In other words, the goal is not to understand things in terms of external causes. Rather, the goal is to see how every member is within the absolute and is thus a manifestation of the absolute. Schelling identifies archetypal cognition with intellectual intuition, which he describes as the condition of “the scientific spirit because it is generally the capacity to see the universal in the particular, the infinite in the finite, both united in a living unity [beide zur lebendigen Einheit vereinigt]” (SW 1/4, 344; emphasis added). Intellectual intuition, he empha­ sizes, does not simply grasp the unity of universal and particular, but grasps the living unity of the universal and particular. Here Schelling reintroduces the idea of intellectual intuition and explicates the archetype as a living unity. And thus we find the third way in which Schelling alters his position in the “Fernere Darstellung” and attempts to respond to Fichte’s criticism. Schelling assigns to intellectual intuition two significant tasks.15 First, intellectual intuition is the means by which one arrives at the standpoint of the absolute. Through intellectual intuition, one abstracts from every­ thing contingent and relative, from the perspective of reflection, in order to arrive at the standpoint of reason (SW 1/4, 364). This first stage, however, does not grant cognitive insight into the absolute—in other words, it does not furnish a system of knowledge in which the parts cohere and manifest the whole. Rather, it simply prepares the way for cognitive insight and sys­ tematic knowledge. The second task of intellectual intuition is to see the absolute in the world, to grasp “the indifference in the difference” (SW 1/4, 362). It is at this level, Schelling maintains, that intellectual intuition be­ comes a “totality of knowledge” (SW 1/4, 400). To explain what he means, he turns to nature. An anatomist who dissects a plant or animal may believe that she or he is “immediately seeing the plant or the animal body [Leib].” In fact, however, “he is only seeing the individual thing [Ding], which he calls the plant or animal body” (SW 1/4, 400). The difference between the two is made clear by Schelling’s terms. Whereas Leib denotes a living body, Ding is an inanimate thing. In dissecting the parts, and thus grasping them in isolation, the anatomist arrives not at the living body but only at inanimate things. To see the living body, it is essential that one grasp the body as an

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archetype, such that each of its parts is understood in relation to the whole, both as a distinctive form which realizes and anticipates the whole and as playing a specific and necessary function within the whole. The goal is to grasp the necessary unity between the whole and the parts, and thus see the whole realized or anticipated in the parts and the parts in the whole. In intellectual intuition, therefore, the anatomist is not concerned with the isolated parts of the plant, but with the archetypal in the plant, with that which makes the plant plant. This is not to say that intellectual intuition sees through the plant to something behind it, to something which is sepa­ rable from its parts and their relations. That would imply a duality between the particular form and the universal concept. Schelling uses the example of the anatomist to explain the task of the philosopher. While the anatomist is concerned with understanding the ar­ chetype of the plant, the philosopher is concerned with grasping the abso­ lute archetype. This means that in intellectual intuition, the philosopher does not see particular things in their particularity—“he does not construct the plant, the animal” but instead sees the absolute in the form of the par­ ticular. He constructs “the universe in the form of the plant, the universe in the form of the animal” (SW 1/4, 395). Thus, the goal of intellectual intu­ ition is to to annihilate the particular “in its opposition to the universal,” in other words, the particular in isolation, and instead see the particular in the universal and grasp how the plant or animal manifests the absolute (SW 1/4, 393). In intellectual intuition, then, the concern is with seeing the particu­ lar as inseparable from the whole, as an essential element in the archetype. Thus, Schelling writes, “the whole universe is in the absolute as plant, as animal, as human being; however, because the whole is in each, it is therein not as plant, not as animal, not as human, or as a particular unity, but rather as the absolute unity” (SW 1/4, 394). Archetypicality, however, does not simply involve the unity of the uni­ versal and the particular, but, as Schelling puts it, the living unity. The rela­ tion of interdependence between universal and particular that is discerned through intellectual intuition is a living relation of reciprocal productivity. This does not mean that the universal is a blueprint according to which the particular is produced—in which case the particular would be caused by something outside of itself and a duality between universal and particu­ lar would arise. Rather, the universal and the particular are unified in the forming or, as Schelling puts it, “in-forming” of the archetype. He writes, “In this sameness or same absoluteness of unity, which we distinguish as the particular and the universal, is found the innermost mystery of creation or of divine in-formation (imagination) of the foreimage and its counterpart



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[das innerste Geheimnis der Erschöpfung oder der göttlichen Ineinsbildung (Einbildung) des Vorbildlichen u. Gegenbildlichen], in which every essence has its true root. For neither the particular nor the universal for itself would have reality, if both were not formed into one in the absolute, that is if both were not absolute” (SW 1/4, 394). The claim here is not simply that the universal and particular are absolutely unified, but that they are co-forming, or co-creative: the animal or plant body exists in and through the mutual determination of the parts, acting in accordance with a formative principle or ideal. In the case of the geometrical figure, where life does not play a role, the notion of formation is not entirely evident. However, Schelling’s claim applies to archetypes in general, such that the relationship of interdepen­ dence between universal and particular in the archetype is a relationship of co-formation. As noted earlier, the archetype is not an abstract unity, that is, a unity that arises out of a contingent connection between universal and particular. Rather, it is a connection that is immanent to both, which means that the universal and particular are both absolutely necessary. This kind of reciprocal necessity, however, is achieved in only one case, wherein the universal forms the particular, and the particular forms the universal— such that the one is absolutely impossible without the other, and neither precedes or makes possible the other. In other words, the archetypical re­ lationship of absolute interdependence between universal and particular must be a relationship of co-formation (SW 1/4, 416). Thus, a triangle arises out of the formation of the idea in the object and the formation of the object through the idea. The formation of the archetype thus takes place in two directions. On the one hand, the particular forms the universal. On the other, the uni­ versal forms the particular. In the first case, the universal (idea) is made manifest (in-formed) in the particular; unity “is absorbed in multiplicity.” In the second, the particular is formed through the universal, “the finite is absorbed in the infinite, the difference in the indifference,” such that it achieves unity or a focal point (SW 1/4, 416). The result of the first direction is nature, the first potency, and the result of the second is the intelligible world, the second potency. Nature is the outcome of “the first absolute in-forming [Ein-Bildung]” because in this movement, unity is transformed into multiplicity; the infi­ nite is presented in the finite (SW 1/4, 417). In the opposing direction, partic­ ularity is transformed through unity. In this transformation, what emerges is not the appearing and multifarious nature, but the introspective intelligible world.16 In nature, it is the finite or particular that determines the presenta­ tion of the absolute, while in spirit, it is the infinite or universality that does.

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As “potencies” rather than “parts” of the absolute, nature and intel­ ligence are not particular elements of the absolute—they do not express or present one part of the absolute, one element of a larger whole. Rather, a potency is an active, developing manifestation of the absolute, such that it is absolutely inseparable from (and thus necessary to) the absolute. A part, by contrast, can be thought of as separate from the whole. Furthermore, if nature were simply a part of the absolute, a distinction between nature and the absolute would remain. However, there is no such distinction between the absolute and its potencies. Rather, as Schelling puts it, in nature “we are able to see into the essence of the absolute” (SW 1/4, 417). The same holds for the intelligible world, which also presents the es­ sence of the absolute. This does not mean, however, that either nature or the intelligible presents the absolute absolutely. An important difference remains between them, a difference which concerns the way in which the finite and infinite, the form and the essence, are formed in each of them. Schelling writes, while “all the potencies are contained [in both nature and spirit],” they are contained in them differently: “in the [former] through the exponent of finitude, in the [latter] through that of infinitude” (SW 1/4, 418). In this way, Schelling provides a conception of the absolute in which difference and identity appear to be reconcilable. The two potencies—na­ ture and spirit—are at once distinct and inseparable. Or, as Schelling ex­ presses it, “two different potencies are determined, in themselves however the two are completely the same root of the absolute” (SW 1/4, 416). Thus, by explicating the absolute as archetype and reintroducing the notion of intellectual intuition, Schelling responds to Fichte’s two main criticisms of the “Darstellung.” On the one hand, he explains how difference is internal to the absolute, without, however, foregoing the notion of absolute selfidentity. On the other hand, he provides “evidence” for his conception of the absolute through the dual-function of intellectual intuition. Intellectual intuition provides, first, the absolute standpoint from which the original or archetypal unity of universal and particular is grasped and, second, enables the perception of this unity in all things.

12.6 Overcoming Objectification Schelling acknowledges that some may criticize his conception of absolute identity as “nothing but empty night,” in which nothing can be discerned (SW 1/4, 403). Such critics, he explains, have a distorted conception of the absolute—they conceive it entirely negatively. This is because they lack



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the first and most fundamental cognition of philosophy, through which the “positive essence of the unity is cognized” (SW 1/4, 404). This cognition, in which the night becomes day, is intellectual intuition. Without “the form of all forms,” Schelling explains, the absolute “re­ veals nothing to us.” Rather, he continues, “it fills us with the presenta­ tions of an infinite enclosure, of an impenetrable stillness and concealment, in the way that the ancient forms of philosophy presented the state of the universe, before he, who is life, through the act of self-intuitive cognition, steps forth in his own form [Gestalt]” (SW 1/4, 404–5). The goal of identity philosophy is to provide a way—a form—in which the essence of the abso­ lute (the dark night) is transformed into day. This form, as the presentation of the absolute, must be as absolute as the absolute itself. It must be, in other words, a cognition that is completely identical with the absolute, a cognition in which the unity of universal and particular, concept and be­ ing, is revealed. This form is intellectual intuition, the “eternal mediator, the all-seeing and all-disclosing eye of the world, the source of all wisdom and cognition” (SW 1/4, 405). Lacking intellectual intuition, philosophy re­ mains negative. That is, it remains incapable of positively expressing the absolute (SW 1/4, 400). As explained earlier, for Schelling, intellectual intuition functions on two planes. On the one hand, it is the initial access to the absolute stand­ point or the standpoint of reason, from which the knower gains access to a rational but nonsubjective realm. On the other hand, intellectual intuition offers insight of the absolute in the world. However, it would be a mistake to understand the second moment of intellectual intuition as revealing the absolute in something that is not the absolute. Rather, what is perceived is the absolute itself. As noted above, in intuiting the plant, one does not intuit the particular plant, but the absolute in the plant, and the plant in the absolute or absolute archetype. In significant ways, Schelling’s view of intellectual intuition differs in the identity philosophy from his view in the System. The two essential char­ acteristics of successive construction as expounded in the System were, first, to posit the absolute at the beginning—as an indemonstrable starting point— and then to demonstrate it at the end of the process of construction. This methodology functions by deriving conditions and thus arriving at a syn­ thetic unity. The first principle is posited, its conditions are then derived, which in turn leads to a second principle, whose conditions are similarly de­ rived, and so on, until a final condition—the ground of all that is—is achieved. The successive method proceeds from a posited and indemonstrable first principle, and the goal is to demonstrate or prove it by generating its

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necessary conditions and ultimately arriving at its most complete form or manifestation. The presupposition is that the relations between conditions can be derived successively—such that one condition necessitates the other in a sequential order. Furthermore, this method assumes that the absolute can be derived. In other words, it assumes that insight into the absolute can be achieved through something other than the absolute. Now Schelling is clear that the absolute cannot be presented in a finite (conditioned) object— and this is precisely what motivates the succession in the System—such that the final moment of presentation results in an infinite object, the work of art. However, the artwork remains an object and thus distinct from the absolute. The absolute, Schelling came to realize, can only be known in and through itself. Thus, the method of successive deduction necessarily fails to achieve the absolute. The absolute is not derivable from or intuitable in something that is not the absolute. Thus, although the goal is to demonstrate the abso­ lute, successive construction cannot in fact achieve it. The result is a causal chain which, Schelling remarks, is a “complete absurdity [Unding] of a sci­ ence” (SW 1/4, 343).17 As he explains in a letter to Fichte, the absolute “can never be reached through a gradual climbing from below, but can only be grasped in one time and in an absolute manner” (Traub, 205).18 Therefore, instead of successively deriving the absolute, Schelling main­ tains, the goal is to see the absolute in its infinite manifestations, that is, grasp the absolute as archetypal unity of universal and particular. The goal, in other words, is not to grasp an indifferent substance or simple identity; rather, the aim is to grasp a differentiated absolute, where the differences are inherent to the absolute, without, however, losing sight of the abso­ lute—of the archetypal unity that underlies all things. Unlike the successive method, the goal of the identity philosophy is not to deduce a system through explicating conditions of possibility. Instead, as Schelling puts it in his “Vorlesungen über die Methode des akademischen Studiums” (Lectures on the Method of Academic Study) (1803), the goal is to “demonstrate” and “exhibit” “the universal and the particular in unity” (SW 1/5, 252). The goal of the system or totality of knowledge, then, is to perceive and exhibit the particular in the universal and the universal in the particular. Thus, instead of constructing a system of accumulated conditions, the identity philosophy constructs a “science of ideas,” which grasps—and in this way explains—the place of the part within the whole and the whole as it manifests itself in the parts (SW 1/5, 255).19 This has several consequences. First, in terms of identity philosophy, to grasp something does not mean to explain it through something else—



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through its condition or cause. Rather, it means to grasp its place within the whole, to see it as “an organic member of the whole, in its necessary connec­ tion with it, and thus as a reflection of absolute unity” (SW 1/4, 390). This means, in turn, that there is no need to explain or justify a transition from the finite and conditioned to the absolute and unconditioned, because, in this case, the insight is of the absolute itself—as it is manifest in the potencies. Finally, it means that intellectual intuition is not the sole arbiter of truth and insight into the absolute. Rather, the internal coherence of the system— achieved through determining the necessity in the relation between particular and universal—and its adequacy to experience also offer significant insights into truth.20 Thus, Schelling remarks, “should not the coincidence of that which is given in experience with that which is constructed not be the surest investigation of the accuracy of the construction?” (HKA 1/10, 99–100). As Schelling saw it, the key problem with the “Darstellung”—the prob­ lem that Fichte had so acutely noted and criticized—had to do with the relation between form and essence in the absolute. The empty night of the absolute, he claims, can only be transformed into light and thus positive knowledge through, on the one hand, integrating form into essence and, on the other, rehabilitating intellectual intuition. The integration of form and essence, however, must not lead to the loss of the absolute self-identity of the absolute or the indifference of the two. This can only be achieved if form and essence are absolutely interdepen­ dent and necessary, in other words, if the form is only possible through the essence and vice versa. Through the notion of the archetype as a living unity, Schelling was able to explicate how particular and universal, form and essence, reciprocally determine one another within the absolute. In turn, Schelling’s reintroduction of intellectual intuition and his claim that philosophy must see the absolute rather than deduce it, attempts to over­ come the problem of evidence and objectification.

12.7 A Place for Art? Having thus established the significance of intellectual intuition, in con­ trast to aesthetic intuition, the question remains as to the place of the work of art and beauty in the identity philosophy. From the preceding, it appears that Schelling’s stance on the role of art and beauty in granting insight into the absolute radically alters in the years between 1800 and 1803. However, Schelling does not cease to think about or discuss beauty. In 1802–1803 he gives lectures on the philosophy of art, in which he once again grants significance to beauty and places it on an equal level with truth. Bruno,

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which is for the most part dedicated to discussing the nature of the abso­ lute, commences with an exploration of the relationship between truth and beauty. In fact, it is in this discussion that the notion of archetype becomes central. The two interlocutors, Anselm and Alexander, introduce the idea of archetype in order to explain perfection—something which, they conclude, both truth and beauty possess. Beauty, they claim, is the “outward expression of living perfection,” which means that beauty is what a thing really is “without reference to anything external” (SW 1/4, 224). For this reason, beauty must be eternal and exist outside of the sequence of time. In turn, beauty must be distin­ guished from the shining forth of beauty into existence—from a beautiful object which participates in and presents beauty. Thus, Anselm maintains, “if you call an artwork or an object beautiful, it is just this work or this object that has come into being, not beauty, which is eternal by its nature, even in the midst of time” (225–26). While beauty and truth are eternal and, as such, immediate manifestations of the absolute, the work of art which exhibits beauty exists in time and thus cannot exhibit the absolute immediately. For this reason, their dialogue continues, “the eternal is not essentially manifested in the created artwork. It indeed appears, but only insofar as it is related to one single thing or to the concept of such a thing” (229). In other words, beauty in the work of art is only “translated beauty,” which, insofar as it exists in an object, is “mere concrete beauty” and not the eternal archetype of beauty (230). Although brief, these remarks are suggestive and provide an important clue for Schelling’s transformed understanding of the work of art and its relation to philosophy after 1800. In drawing a distinction between beauty and the artwork, Schelling continues to grant significance to beauty, while criticizing the notion that an object (i.e., the work of art) can provide im­ mediate insight into the absolute. In Bruno, Schelling adds that the creator of the work of art—the indi­ vidual artist—fails to grasp beauty fully. This is because beauty can fully ex­ ist in the individual artist only “elsewhere,” in other words, unconsciously. Beauty exists fully for the artist only in an unconscious rather than im­ mediately conscious way: “The artists most fit to produce beautiful works are often those least in possession of the idea of absolute truth and beauty. They lack the idea precisely because they are possessed by it” (SW 1/4, 231). By contrast, the philosopher, through intellectual intuition, grasps the abso­ lute (beauty and truth) immediately and consciously. These insights are reiterated in Schelling’s Vorlesungen über die Philosophie der Kunst (Lectures on the Philosophy of Art) from 1802–1803.



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His concern, Schelling explains, is not art as such or the study of art (Kunstlehre), but the philosophy of art. There are two reasons for this. First, he maintains that it is only through philosophy that the true sense of art— its “original sources”—can once again be enlivened and brought into reflec­ tion (SW 1/5, 361). Thus, in contrast to the System, in which art is conceived as the “key” to philosophical speculation—as granting the philosopher the “holy of holies”—in the Philosophie der Kunst, it is philosophy that pro­ vides insight into art. However, it is not simply the case that the sources of art have “for the most part dried up” and thus are in need of philosophical rescue (SW 1/5, 361). In addition, Schelling claims that philosophy is es­ sential to all forms of knowledge—including art—because it alone is able to grasp the absolute immediately and present it fully. It is therefore only through philosophy that one “attains to the highest” (SW 1/5, 364). This is not to say that art and beauty lose their place or significance en­ tirely. Rather, the claim is that art, like history and nature, must be under­ stood through philosophy, that is, through a philosophical explication and a philosophical system. In the “Fernere Darstellung,” Schelling maintains that art and nature are two potencies of the absolute. He reiterates in the Philosophie der Kunst that there is only “one philosophy,” which appears in different forms or potencies. Art is one potency of the absolute, while the philosophy of art is one manifestation of reason (SW 1/5, 365–66). The relationship between philosophy and its particular manifestations parallels the relation between the artwork and its parts, or the natural or­ ganism and its parts. Schelling writes: “This is precisely the joining of the particular and universal which we find in every organic being and in every poetic work, in which, for example, different forms each of which is a serv­ ing member of the whole and nevertheless, in the complete formation of the work, [is] absolute in itself” (SW 1/5, 367). Thus, the philosophy of art must be understood as a “science of the all in the form or potency of art,” and the philosophy of nature as the universe or absolute presented through the potency of nature (SW 1/5, 368). Furthermore, the philosophy of art and the philosophy of nature are sig­ nificant because the aim of philosophy is not to grasp the absolute in its generality, but to grasp it as it presents itself in its different potencies: in art and in nature (SW 1/5, 367). Philosophy is a whole, whose potencies present the absolute in themselves. We should, therefore, be just as concerned with the philosophy of art and nature, as we are with philosophy in general. It is in the juxtaposition of nature and art—and the philosophy of na­ ture and that of art—that we see the real divergence in Schelling’s view of the place and role of art. In his earlier writings, Schelling had ascribed

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to nature and the philosophy of nature the role of the “real,” as opposed to the “ideal.” Standing opposite to the philosophy of nature, of course, was transcendental philosophy—the philosophy of the ideal. The difference between the two, he explains in the introduction to the System, has to do with self-awareness: the real does not attain to self-consciousness, while the ideal does.21 In contrast to this earlier configuration of nature as real and reason as ideal, in the Philosophie der Kunst, we see nature as real, and art as ideal. Thus, the two potencies of the absolute manifest themselves through nature and art, and not through nature and reason. Reason, instead, is the point of identity of nature and art, the ideal and real. In many ways, Schelling maintains the fundamental ideas outlined in the System. He distinguishes the ideal and the real in terms of conscious­ ness, explaining that while “the organic being of nature presents the ab­ solute as yet unseparated, the artwork presents it after the separation, but again as indifferent” (SW 1/5, 384). In other words, in the natural organism, the absolute unity has not yet become conscious (separated), and thus is presented as unified. This presentation, however, lacks consciousness. In the work of art, by contrast, the unity is presented after the separation. Furthermore, he elaborates that in the artwork we find the resolution of the difference between conscious and unconscious, freedom and necessity, thought and action. He writes that art is “neither a mere action nor mere knowledge but an action that is completely interpenetrated by knowledge, and vice versa, a knowledge that has become action . . . [it] is the indiffer­ ence of the two” (SW 1/5, 380; see also 384). The work of art, Schelling continues, is the joining of the particular with its concept, and the concrete presentation of this joining (SW 1/5, 382). Finally, art is the ideal presenta­ tion of reason in the world—just as nature is the real presentation—such that it presents the unity of the particular and universal, ideal and real, through an infinite (ideal) appearance (SW 1/5, 383). It is here, however, in the nature and significance of this ideal appearance, that the difference between the work of art and reason becomes apparent. Like philosophy in general, the particular philosophies of art and of na­ ture are not concerned with actual things (wirkliche Dinge), but with ar­ chetypes or ideas (Urbilder, Ideen). While in philosophy these archetypes are concepts (being, for instance), in art they are the gods of mythology. The archetypes, Schelling emphasizes, are the same in both philosophy and mythology, such that the notion of the absolute in philosophy is the same as the idea of God.22 The difference, however, arises in the manner in which the archetypes are perceived and presented.



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In the case of philosophy, the archetypes are grasped immediately through reason. In the work of art, by contrast, the archetypes take on a particular form and are thus intuited through real shapes. Schelling writes, “While philosophy looks at the ideas as they are in themselves, art looks at them as real. The ideas, therefore, insofar as they are looked at as real, are the stuff and, so to speak, the general and absolute material of art, from which all particular artworks first arise” (SW 1/5, 370). To perceive the ar­ chetypes immediately, Schelling elaborates, means to perceive them as ar­ chetypes (Urbilder). By contrast, art perceives the archetypes “objectively,” as counterimages (or copies; Gegenbilder). In fact, he continues, it is the essential character of beauty to transform the original archetype (Urbild) (i.e., the absolute) into a counterimage (Gegenbild): “the divine becomes beautiful in the counterimage, just as the ideas of reason, perceived in the counterimage, become beauty” (SW 1/5, 386). Thus, while reason and philosophy are concerned with an immediate presentation of the archetype, art’s concern is with presenting the arche­ type through a counterimage. In fact, both nature and art (as potencies of the absolute) are counterimages. Nature is the real counterimage, while art is the ideal. However, precisely because it is a counterimage, and an ideal counterimage that is opposed to the real, art remains—as one of two pos­ sible presentations of the absolute—incomplete. This means that only a presentation that reconciles ideal and real—and is therefore neither—can present the absolute completely. This presentation is reason. “Reason,” Schelling writes, “is precisely the resolution of all particular forms, as it is the all or God. Reason belongs, however, neither to the real nor to the ideal world exclusively and neither the ideal nor the real can reach higher than indifference, to absolute identity” (SW 1/5, 379–80). In other words, unlike both nature and art, which are two potencies of the absolute and, as such, only reflect the absolute from one perspective, reason is both real and ideal and is therefore the positive identity of the two (SW 1/5, 385). Although in the Philosophie der Kunst, Schelling elaborates his con­ ception of art as counterimage and thus indifference, and distinguishes indifference from positive identity—something he had not yet explicitly done—his basic point with regard to the nature of art and its relation to phi­ losophy remains the same. Artistic presentation is an objectification of the absolute—in this case through an indifferent counterimage—that remains incapable of achieving absolute presentation on account of its objective (counterimagistic) nature. Schelling does, however, add a further distinc­ tion between the work of art and reason. While art is concerned with the

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archetype of beauty, philosophy’s concern encompasses beauty, goodness, and truth (SW 1/5, 383).23 In spite of these points of difference and the ultimate superiority of rea­ son and philosophy over art, Schelling grants significance to art and to the power of imagination operative in creating the artwork. Indeed, some of his statements seem to grant more significance to the imagination than to rea­ son. Thus, he explains that “the excellent German word Einbildungskraft (the power of imagination) in fact means the capacity to in-form (or form into) [ineinbilden], upon which the act of creation rests” (SW 1/5, 386). That is to say, the power of imagination most completely realizes the act of cre­ ation and thus participates most fully in the work of the absolute. From this it would seem that the imagination, and not reason, is identical with the absolute. Schelling does not draw this conclusion, however, but sequesters the imagination in the realm of mythological presentation (SW 1/5, 395). Nevertheless, the significance which he grants to the imagination and mythological representation in the Philosophie der Kunst does point to later developments in his thought. In the 1840s, Schelling gave a series of lectures on the philosophy of mythology, the goal of which was to uncover the origins of human consciousness. As he saw it, an understanding of con­ sciousness can only be achieved through an examination of its first arche­ types, the gods, which the human beings imagined.24 Furthermore, the methodology of this examination advances from “be­ low upward.” Thus, he concludes his 1842 Historisch-kritische Einleitung in die Philosophie der Mythologie (Historical Critical Introduction to the Philosophy of Mythology): “We have not advanced our concept from above to below, dictatorially as it were, but rather substantiated from the bot­ tom up—which alone is universally convincing” (SW 1/11, 219). Not only does this methodology recall the successive construction employed in the Ideen and the System, but it also signals a dissatisfaction with the work of reason. If human consciousness must be grasped through the imaginal figures of the gods, then it is the imagination and the plastic work of the imagination—which transforms itself through the successive development of its insights—that can uncover the origins of human consciousness and its relation to the absolute.

Conclusion to Part 3

A

lthough both Schelling’s methodology and his understanding of the absolute underwent several fundamental transformations, these transformations were the outcome of a persevering and rigorous mind, unhindered by the difficulties of thinking or articulating the absolute. At every point in which he became aware of contradiction, Schelling refused to overlook the problem or to give up. And, although he often arrived at very different conclusions from ones he had reached previously, he was not afraid of contradicting himself in his effort to formulate a coherent notion of the absolute. However, it would be wrong to exaggerate the extent to which his views altered. His entire career, it could be said, was shaped and motivated by the desire to articulate the absolute. From his first philosophical writings to his last, Schelling sought to understand and present the unity that underlies and determines both nature and mind. Whether he called it the I, reason, nature or the absolute, at every instant Schelling had the same goal before him. Furthermore, from his earliest work to his last, Schelling was clear about the nonobjective nature of the absolute, and each of his writings evidences another attempt to articulate the absolute as absolute. Thus, at every point in the development of his thought, Schelling sought to move away from abstraction and dogmatism. And while it is safe to say that Schelling was never satisfied with any of his attempts, an examination of both his methodology and his premises offers invaluable insights into romanticism and idealism. In each of Schelling’s attempts to elaborate a consistent and true notion of the absolute, we witness the intricacies of the romantic questions, we see both their urgency and significance, and we also become intimately aware of their complexity and difficulty. We thereby gain a deeper understanding of the formidable task of thinking the absolute critically. 257

Conclusion: The Romantic Absolute

O

ne of the central questions that inspired philosophical romanticism and motivated its development is the question concerning the nature of the absolute. Although after Hegel the absolute was no longer a focal point of philosophical discussion, for the romantics, understanding the absolute was both the most pressing and most significant concern. It was pressing in light of the larger questions which dominated philosophical debate at the time: questions concerning the possibility of philosophical knowledge and moral action. Romanticism was born in the wake of Kantian philosophy and the problems that emerged out of Kant’s system. Kant’s Newtonian picture of the world necessitated that he explain human freedom as in some sense transcending empirical reality. His conception of two worlds entailed difficulties—particularly with regard to the possibility of realizing moral acts— which he acknowledges in the introduction to the third Kritik. However, rather than elaborating a solution to his dualistic conception of the human being (as, on the one hand, conditioned by natural necessity and, on the other, free), Kant merely makes suggestive claims regarding an underlying supersensible substrate and points to the experiences of beauty and of natural organisms as offering indirect insight into this substrate. Ultimately, Kant does not offer a solution to the dualism that haunts his system and thus fails to explain the possibility of human moral action within nature. While the romantic absolute cannot be identified with Kant’s substrate, it does provide a solution to the Kantian problem. As I have tried to show, the romantics insisted that the absolute cannot be reduced to either being or knowing because, as absolute, it must underlie both. For this reason, they argued in different but related ways that the absolute cannot be an object or a subject, an amorphous substance, a thing-in-itself, or an abstract concept. 258



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In turn, precisely because the absolute is the ground of being and knowing, the romantics concluded that it must be inherently relational. This relational conception of the absolute—of the absolute as the mediation of being and knowing or as the realization of the infinite in the finite—is the most complex and innovative aspect of early romantic philosophy. Although in some instances, the notion of a relational absolute may appear paradoxical, its underlying claim is consistent: nature and mind or being and knowing are not ultimately divided, nor can they be reduced to one another. For the romantics, the goal was to formulate a conception of the absolute that challenges rigid distinctions between nature and mind, without resulting in a reductive account that fails to make sense of experience or to explain intentionality and human creativity. In significant ways, my interpretation of romantic philosophy and of the romantic absolute departs from the widespread view of romanticism as a skeptical movement that anticipates poststructuralism and postmodernism. The majority of contemporary interpretations argue that Novalis and Schlegel were subjective ironists, who challenge the Hegelian claim to absolute knowledge and the idealist goal of constructing an absolute system. These interpretations tend to distinguish Schelling’s absolute idealism sharply from the philosophical views of Novalis and Schlegel. As I have tried to show, these interpretations misunderstand Novalis’s and Schlegel’s concepts, methods, and aims. Novalis and Schlegel were not fundamentally opposed to systematization, nor did they reject the attempt to formulate a coherent conception of the absolute. They were, in fact, very close to Schelling in this regard. Beginning in 1795, with his Fichte-Studien, Novalis challenged both Fichte’s notion of an unconditioned ground of knowledge and the idea of an unknowable and unpresentable absolute. He argued that the absolute must be absolute mediation or presentation and, in his later writings, explicated the absolute in terms of the transformation or cultivation (Bildung) of the world. Novalis’s metaphor of the absolute as a whole that “rests more or less like persons playing, who without a chair, merely sit one on the knee of another and form a circle” succinctly captures his view of the absolute as a groundless ground that is realized in the harmonious interactions between the parts, while not being reducible to any one part (NS 2, 242, no. 445). Schlegel’s notion of Wechselerweis, articulated first in his review of Jacobi’s novel Woldemar, also disputes the idea of an unconditioned first principle, but offers a solution that is different from—albeit related to—Novalis’s. Schlegel’s claim is that transcendental philosophy leads not to one, but two necessary principles: the infinite and consciousness. Their necessity, he

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argues, is not based on a higher third, from which they are derived. Rather, the two principles are absolutely necessary because the one cannot exist without the other. That is, necessity emerges out of reciprocal conditioning or determination. Schlegel develops a hermeneutic idealism, in which reality, truth, and meaning are the result of this determination. In turn, precisely because Schlegel rejected the notion of a first principle, so also he rejected the transcendental method that it implies, arguing that a different kind of thinking is necessary—a historical mode of knowledge that can grasp the individual in its context, and through its dynamic and transforming relations. While Schelling was much closer to Fichte than either Novalis or Schlegel (in that he postulated the unconditioned as the necessary ground of systematic philosophy), from the start he disagreed with Fichte’s subjective understanding of the absolute I. Throughout his various and often conflicting attempts to articulate the absolute, Schelling maintained that the absolute is the original identity of mind and nature, the conscious and the unconscious. Thus, despite methodological differences between his 1800 System des transcendentalen Idealismus and his identity philosophy, in both cases Schelling insisted that the absolute is an original unity that cannot be reduced to either the knowing subject or the known object. In spite of their differences—whether methodological or conceptual— the three romantics agreed on the most fundamental level. First, they argued that the absolute is the ground of all that is, but is not reducible to any one thing (whether nature or the mind). This does not mean, however, that the absolute is a blueprint that precedes reality; rather, the absolute emerges only in and through its various manifestations. The absolute is thus a living unity, in which the members do not simply reflect an already established reality but actively participate in its creation. Furthermore, the romantics argued that the absolute is an inherently differentiated unity, in which the distinctive parts reciprocally determine or produce one another, such that they exist only through and for each other. Novalis, Schlegel, and Schelling were careful, however, to acknowledge differences between natural and human productivity. All three agreed that while nature acts unconsciously, the distinctive character of human creativity is that it is conscious. Thus, they sought to determine the relation between the products of human creativity and natural products, and offer an account of the role and meaning of human intentionality within the natural world. While in some ways Hegel’s project is deeply rooted in the romantic project, romanticism evidences a unique moment in the history of philosophy, in which the debate regarding the nature of the absolute was most in-



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tense and alive. In the work of the romantics, we find a formidable attempt to grasp and present the relation between mind and nature in a coherent but nonreductive way. Although the struggle to elaborate a cogent conception of the absolute is most evident in Schelling’s relentless efforts, an examination of the similarities and differences between Novalis’s, Schlegel’s, and Schelling’s views offers an exceptionally vivid account of the meaning and significance of the idea of the absolute in German philosophy. While the notion of the absolute is no longer at the center of philosophical discussion, the questions and concerns that motivated the romantic project—dualism, skepticism, nihilism, and the possibility of knowledge— remain fundamental philosophical questions. An investigation of the romantic conception of the absolute not only sheds light on the vibrant period of philosophy between Kant and Hegel, but it also reveals one of the most rigorous attempts to resolve philosophical problems that are still with us today.

notes

introduction 1. Dieter Henrich’s work pioneered the investigations into philosophy between Kant and Hegel. See for instance, Konstellationen. Probleme und Debatten am Ursprung der idealistischen Philosophie (1789–1795) (Stuttgart: Klett-Cotta, 1991) and Between Kant and Hegel: Lectures on German Idealism, ed. David S. Pacini (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2003). Manfred Frank has been the foremost expositor of romantic philosophers and the preromantic critics of idealism. See especially Einführung in die frühromantische Ästhetik (Frankfurt: Suhrkamp, 1987) and “Unendliche Annäherung.” Die Anfänge der philosophischen Frühromantik (Frankfurt: Suhrkamp, 1997). Frederick Beiser has been the primary interpreter of romanticism within the Anglophone context. See German Idealism: The Struggle against Subjectivism 1795–1805 (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2002) and The Romantic Imperative (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2003). For an account of the recent rise of interest in romanticism, especially within the English-language context, see Elizabeth Millán-Zaibert, “The Revival of Frühromantik in the Anglophone World,” Philosophy Today (Spring 2005): 96–117. 2. There are two main schools of thought that fall within this category. The first originates with Hegel, who argued that the romantics were subjective ironists, and considered romanticism to be nothing more than an aestheticization of Fichte. See G. W. F. Hegel, Vorlesungen über die Aesthetik Band 1, Sämtliche Werke (Stuttgart: Frommann, 1953), vol. 12. See also Rudolf Haym, Die Romantische Schule (Berlin: Gaertner, 1870). Hegel’s interpretation continued to be influential until recently. The second originates with Manfred Frank’s reading of the romantics, which challenges Hegel’s interpretation, but nonetheless maintains that, for the romantics, the most significant questions were those concerning self-consciousness and self-knowledge. Frank’s influence on the Anglophone reception of philosophical romanticism is quite profound. Thus, authors like Andrew Bowie, Jane Kneller, and Elizabeth Millán-Zaibert consider their work to be in line with Frank’s premises and conclusions. See part 1, n. 7, and part 2, n. 17. In what follows, I am primarily concerned with Frank’s take on romanticism, rather than Hegel’s. 3. This view is most clearly expressed by Frederick Beiser. Beiser’s influence is less clearly identifiable than Frank’s, mainly because he seeks to offer a historical

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reconstruction of the romantics—a goal with which most historians of philosophy would agree. Nonetheless, an emerging cadre of scholars take Beiser’s emphasis on romantic metaphysics and his holistic interpretation as their starting point. See for instance, Da­ vid W. Wood, introduction to Notes for a Romantic Encyclopaedia: Das Allgemeine Brouillon, by Novalis, trans. David W. Wood (Albany, NY: SUNY Press, 2007), esp. xxiv; Alison Stone, “Being, Knowledge, and Nature in Novalis,” Journal of the History of Philosophy 46 (2008): 141–63; and Alison Stone, “Friedrich Schlegel, Romanticism, and the Re-enchantment of Nature,” Inquiry 48 (2005): 3–25. More recently, at the conference, “Relevance of Romanticism,” held at Villanova University, Villanova, Pennsylvania, in April 2010 (where Beiser and Frank met for the first time), John H. Smith, Bruce Matthews, David W. Wood, Keren Gorodeisky, Laure Cahen-Maurel, and Brady Bowman presented work that sought to work with (and against) Beiser’s contributions. 4. Friedrich Heinrich Jacobi, Werke, ed. F. Roth and F. Köppen (Hamburg: Meiner, 1998), vol. 4, 255. 5. Indeed, this seems to be Kant’s solution to the problem as he presents it in sec­ tions 76 and 77 of the Kritik der Urteilskraft (Critique of Judgment), both of which come after the “Antinomy to Teleological Judgment” and thus appear to offer a “resolution” to the Antinomy. In these sections, and as quoted above, Kant distinguishes the discursive and intuitive intellects, explaining that although we are discursive rather than intuitive, we must be able to think such an intuitive intellect, because it grants us the possibility of grasping “an agreement of the things of nature with the power of judgment” (AA 5:407). Although Kant is not directly dealing with the question of grounding a system on a first principle, his statement directly relates to the question of employing an intuitive capacity in order to justify nonintuitive (discursive) knowledge. See Eckart Förster, Die 25 Jahre der Philosophie: eine systematische Rekonstruktion (Frankfurt: Klostermann, 2011), chap. 6, esp. 153–54. 6. Much of Frederick Beiser’s explication of the romantics seeks to explain the metaphysical foundations of the relation between mind and nature. The act of knowledge, he writes, is not undertaken by an isolated subject, but “must be placed within the context of nature as a whole” (Beiser, German Idealism, 371). Or, put differently, “The subject’s knowledge of the object is . . . nothing less than the object knowing itself through the subject” (372). However, Beiser does not offer a detailed analysis of the role of intellectual intuition in the mind-nature relation, nor does he consider the cognitive and metaphysical implications of this view. 7. There have been few comprehensive studies of the notion of intellectual intuition in German philosophy after Fichte. Xavier Tilliette has offered several accounts of the idea of intellectual intuition, although he has altered his views in his most recent work on the theme. While in his earliest writings, Tilliette emphasized Fichte’s significance for the romantic notion of intellectual intuition, in his recent work, he considers Spinoza’s intellectual love of God to be equally, if not more, significant for the romantics. See Til­ liette, L’intuition intellectuelle de Kant à Hegel (Paris: Vrin, 1995). Although I agree that Spinoza plays a significant role in the development of the romantic conception of intellectual intuition, I disagree with Tilliette’s take on the matter. Tilliette considers the romantics to have inherited the Spinozist conception of “quiet bliss” and contemplation

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(Tilliette, L’intuition intellectuelle, 58). I propose, in contrast, that the romantics learned from Spinoza’s view that the part is a manifestation of the whole, and the whole can be perceived in each of the parts. As such, the romantics sought to perceive unity in difference, and thus develop a way of thinking and seeing that allowed for a unified diversity. For a detailed account of the romantic inheritance of Spinoza’s third kind of knowledge, see chapter 9 below. For an account of Goethe’s influence on the romantic conception of knowledge, see chapters 3 and 8. 8. See notes 2 and 3 above. 9. Beiser, German Idealism, 9–11. 10. Frank is primarily interested in engaging romantic theories of consciousness or self-consciousness with contemporary philosophy of mind, theories of individuality and postmodern conceptions of the self. See especially Das individuelle Allgemeine (Frankfurt: Suhrkamp, 1977); Das Sagbare und das Unsagbare (Frankfurt: Suhrkamp, 1989); Selbstgefühl: eine historisch-theoretische Erkundung (Frankfurt: Suhrkamp, 2002). Beiser’s interests, although primarily historical, nonetheless affirm the relevance of romanticism. See especially, “Introduction: Romanticism Now and Then,” in Romantic Imperative, 1–5. 11. Thus, Frank maintains that “one can best do justice to a historic achievement if, instead of consigning it to the archives, one demonstrates its continuing relevance, focusing not on the historic contribution itself but on what has followed from it.” See Manfred Frank, The Subject and the Text: Essays on Literary Theory and Philosophy, trans. Andrew Bowie (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997), 25. 12. Frank, Einführung, 248. Frank argues for the relevance of Novalis’s critique of a certain understanding of self-consciousness for contemporary philosophy of mind. See Frank, Selbstgefühl, 8–9 and 244–59. 13. Beiser, Romantic Imperative, xi. 14. Ibid., 2–5. 15. The meaning of the romantic movement, and the relation between “romanticism” and “idealism” have long been contested topics. Frank has forcefully argued against the conflation of the two movements, maintaining that romanticism is a skep­ tical movement. Beiser contends that the romantics were working out of the same im­ pulses as the objective or absolute idealists (in particular Schelling). See my “Reality through Illusion: Presenting the Absolute in Novalis,” Idealistic Studies 37 (Spring 2006); and see chapter 1 below, where I criticize the way in which Frank interprets Novalis’s Fichte-Studien and illustrate how a different, idealist interpretation of Novalis can be found in these early notes. 16. See Manfred Frank, The Philosophical Foundations of Early German Roman­ ticism, trans. Elizabeth Millán-Zaibert (Albany, NY: SUNY Press, 2004), esp. 24–33; and Frank, “Unendliche Annäherung,” 662–89. In “Unendliche Annäherung,” Frank argues that the romantics displace the notion of a first principle or absolute foundation with a Kantian regulative idea. “Even Novalis,” he writes, “moves the ground of consciousness from a unity of being [Seins-Einigkeit] to an ought [Sollen] (‘I should always be I’). From this results the claim that ‘the I [better said: the absolute] [is] absolutely an idea’” (852).

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17. Frank, Einführung, 128. 18. Frank, “Unendliche Annäherung,” 662–89. 19. Ibid., 851–57. In “Unendliche Annäherung,” he writes that “the notion of something unconditioned which was expressed by Jacobi as ‘original being’ and which he had shown could not be reduced to a relation with self-consciousness impacted the romantic generation which followed him. . . . Being is not simply the name of a higher principle, like Reinhold’s principle of consciousness or Fichte’s absolute I. The expression, ‘Being,’ stands much more for the experience that a consciousness independent of reality must be presupposed if one wants to make certain relations of our consciousness, especially, the elementary factum of self-consciousness, comprehensible” (665). The problem here has to do with the juxtaposition of, on the one hand, the notion of experience and, on the other, presupposition. While, in the first instance, the idea that being is something to be experienced implies that it is an ontological reality, in the second, as a presupposition, being seems to mean a heuristic principle or regulative ideal that enables the coherence of thought. See also Frank, Einführung, 289. 20. Beiser, German Idealism, 349. 21. Ibid., 352. 22. Ibid., 10. Beiser elaborates that “no less than Schelling and his romantic forebears, Hegel too saw the absolute as the idea—the infinite formal-final cause—that manifests itself in the realm of both nature and spirit” (ibid.). 23. Ibid., 467. 24. Schelling asks Fichte to read his forthcoming dialogue because he thinks that it may offer the best presentation of his thought up until that point (Traub, 209–10). Both Novalis and Schlegel engage with the dialogue form in their various writings. Schlegel’s Gespräch über die Poesie (Dialogue on Poetry) (1800) and his novel Lucinde (1800) are based on the form of the conversation—Lucinde can even be said to be performing an internal dialogue between forms of expression—and Novalis’s unfinished novel, Lehrlinge zu Saïs (Novices at Sais) (1798–1799), instantiates a dialogue between a multiplicity of voices regarding the human relation to the natural world. 25. Beiser, German Idealism, 353–55. 26. See Beiser, German Idealism, 359; and Beiser, “The Paradox of Romantic Metaphysics,” in Romantic Imperative, 131–52, esp. 141–52. See also chapter 2 below, where I discuss Novalis’s distinction between mind and body, wherein he describes the body as a “variation” of the universe, and the mind as its “symbol.” By this, Novalis seems to mean that the mind, or the act of knowledge, involves a transformation of the physical world. This transformative or creative aspect of thought is completely ignored by Beiser. For Schlegel’s distinction between mind and nature, see chapter 8. For Schelling’s relation to Spinoza, see part 3, esp. chapters 9 and 12. In the latter, I show that even during his identity philosophy phase—at which time Schelling was most sympathetic to Spinoza and even appropriated Spinoza’s geometrical method—Schelling remained critical of the fact that Spinoza ignored the constructive, active self. 27. Beiser, German Idealism, 13. 28. Frank’s interpretation of the romantics stresses their conception of the self, or I, in contrast to the vanishing self of postmodernism. See Manfred Frank, Die Unhinterbar-

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keit von Individualität: Reflexionen über Subjekt, Person und Individuum aus Anlaß ihrer ‘postmodernen’ Toterklärung (Frankfurt: Suhrkamp, 1986). 29. Beiser notes that for the romantics, “The mental and the physical are not simply different properties or perspectives on substance but different degrees of organization and development of living force” (Romantic Imperative, 143). He further explains that “ultimately, there is only one living force behind all of nature, which manifests itself in different forms and levels, but which ultimately remains one and the same” (84). 30. Novalis thus writes, “Idealism is nothing but genuine empiricism” (NS 3, 316, no. 402).

part 1 1. Theodor Haering, Novalis als Philosoph (Stuttgart: Kohlhammer, 1954). 2. The most important contribution of the critical edition has been to show that Novalis was very familiar and engaged with transcendental philosophy, as well as the philosophical tradition in general (Spinoza, Plotinus, etc.). In addition, by correctly dating Novalis’s manuscripts, the critical edition has enabled insight into Novalis’s development, most significantly into his early (critical) encounter with Fichtean philosophy. Notes which Novalis took while reading Fichte in 1795–1796, titled the Fichte-Studien by the editors of the critical edition, are at the center of the recent philosophical interest in Novalis. See chapter 1 below for further detail. 3. The philosophers Novalis studied included Johann Gottlieb Fichte (1762–1814), Immanuel Kant (1724–1804), Franz Hemsterhuis (1721–1790), Friedrich Wilhem Joseph von Schelling (1775–1854), Plotinus (ca. 204/5–270 CE), and Adam Karl August von Eschenmayer (1768–1852), among others. 4. For a history of Novalis interpretation as well as an account of the contemporary reception of Novalis as philosopher, see Herbert Uerlings, Friedrich von Hardenberg, genannt Novalis (Stuttgart: Metzler, 1991). 5. Géza von Molnár, Novalis’ “Fichte Studies”: The Foundations of His Aesthetics (The Hague: Mouton, 1970); and Romantic Vision, Ethical Context: Novalis and Artistic Autonomy (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1987). Bernward Loheide, Fichte und Novalis: Transcendentalphilosophisches Denken im romantisierenden Diksurs (Am­ sterdam: Rodopi, 2000). 6. Frank, Einführung and “Unendliche Annäherung.” 7. Andrew Bowie, Aesthetics and Subjectivity from Kant to Nietzsche (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2003). Jane Kneller, Kant and the Power of Imagination (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007). Frank’s interpretation is also accepted without question by Herbert Uerlings in his tome Friedrich von Hardenberg, genannt Novalis. 8. Mähl, one of the editors of the critical edition, has emphasized the neo-Platonic influences on Novalis—namely, Plotinus and Hemsterhuis. See Hans-Joachim Mähl, “Novalis und Plotin,” Jahrbuch des freien Deutschen Hochstifts, 1963, 139–250. See also Mähl’s Die Idee des goldenen Zeitalters im Werk des Novalis. Studien zur Wesensbestimmung der frühromantischen Utopie und zu ihren ideengeschichtlichen

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Voraussetzungen (Heidelberg: Winter, 1965). Beiser has emphasized Spinoza. For another interpretation in which Spinoza plays a key role, see John Neubauer, “Intellektuelle, intellektuale und ästhetische Anschauung. Zur Entstehung der romantischen Kunstauffassung,” Deutsche Vierteljahrsschrift für Literaturwissenschaft und Geistesgeschichte 46 (1972): 294–319. 9. In addition, there are interpretations of Novalis as a proto-postmodernist. See, for example, John Neubauer, “Novalis und der Postmodernismus,” in Geschichtlichkeit und Aktualität. Studien zur deutschen Literatur seit der Romantik, ed. Klaus-Detlef Müller (Niemeyer: Tübingen, 1988); and Ernst Behler, Frühromantik (Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 1992). Older interpretations often concern Novalis’s religiosity, more recently put forth by Florian Roder in Novalis: Die Verwandlung des Menschen: Leben und Werk Friedrich von Hardenbergs (Stuttgart: Urachhaus, 1992). 10. The emphasis on this question has also left many of Novalis’s interpreters uncertain as to how to relate this earlier phase in Novalis’s thought with his later writings. While some have attempted to show that the question of self-consciousness remains central for Novalis throughout (Uerlings), others have simply chosen not to consider the later Novalis (Frank).

chapter one 1. Frank, Einführung, 248. 2. Theodor Haering’s Novalis als Philosoph argues that Novalis was a proto-Hegelian. Hans-Joachim Mähl argued for the signficiance of Plotinus in Novalis’s thought. See es­ pecially his article “Novalis und Plotin,” as well as his monograph study in which he con­ siders the idea of a “golden age” in Novalis, Die Idee des goldenen Zeitalters im Werk des Novalis. 3. Frank, Einführung, 222, 259. See also Frank, “Unendliche Annäherung,” 859. Compare with his essay from 1987 in which he explains that if we are to speak of a “break (Überbietung)” from Fichtean philosophy, then we must, on the one hand, think of it in terms of an “intensification” of the meaning of the term identity, which was already central in Fichte’s philosophy, and, on the other hand, see it as a “radicalization” of the critique of a reflection model that was already present in Fichte’s thought. Thus, in 1987, Frank understands early romanticism as in some significant ways continuing in the Fichtean tradition by intensifying and radicalizing it. See Manfred Frank, “Intellektuale Anschauung,” in Die Aktualität der Frühromantik, ed. Ernst Behler and Jochen Hörisch (Paderborn: Schöningh, 1987), 115. 4. “Discoveries” made in Henrich’s work Konstellationen. See Frank, “Unendliche Annäherung,” 29–30. 5. The Fichte-Studien have been divided into six groups by the editors of the critical edition. The first group is supposed to have been written in the fall and early winter of 1795, while the last group was composed in the summer and fall of 1796. See HansJoachim Mähl, “Einleitung,” NS 2, 87–90. 6. See Manfred Frank and Gerhard Kurz, “Ordo Inversus. Zu einer Reflexionsfigur bei Novalis, Hölderlin, Kleist und Kafka,” in Geist und Zeichen, ed. Herbert Anton (Heidelberg: Winter, 1977), 75–97.

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7. Ibid., 76. 8. Frank, Einführung, 258. 9. Manfred Frank, “Die Philosophie des Sogenannten ‘magischen Idealismus,’ ” Euphorion (1969): 88–116. 10. Frank’s reading of Novalis and the romantics as good Kantians leads to an ambiguity in his understanding of the meaning of the absolute. This is especially apparent in Einführung in die frühromantische Ästhetik and “Unendliche Annäherung.” For more on this theme with regard to Novalis, see my “Reality through Illusion.” 11. For an account of the older interpretations of Novalis as a Fichtean, see Loheide, Fichte und Novalis, 164–67. 12. Molnár, Novalis’ “Fichte Studies,” 49; see also 59–60. 13. Ibid., 69. In a later book he explains that “Novalis found Fichtes’s choice of A = A unconvincing because it fails to emphasize the empirical aspect of identity that furnishes the basis for postulating the primary necessity of the Ego’s absolute agency” (Molnár, Romantic Vision, Ethical Context, 33). 14. This interpretation of Novalis takes to task not only Frank but also those interpreters who have argued that Fichte was an important influence on the early Novalis but played no role in Novalis’s later development. Along with Loheide, Friedrich Strack also argues that Fichte continued to play an important role throughout Novalis’s development. See Strack, “Novalis und Fichte,” in Novalis und die Wissenschaften, ed. Herbert Uerlings (Tübingen: Niemeyer, 1997), 193–206, esp. 198. 15. Molnár does not make any mention of Frank in either of his books. 16. Loheide’s criticism of Frank’s interpretation is thus based on what he sees as a “superficial” understanding of Fichte and of Fichte’s development. Thus, he describes Frank’s interpretation of Fichte as merely “cursory” and for the most part a “relatively superficial” account that does not take into consideration Fichte’s later writings, especially the Grundlage. Loheide additionally criticizes that Frank only considers Novalis’s philosophical writings, overlooks his emphasis on morality, and underestimates the significance of the idea of a “golden time (goldenes Zeitalter)” in Novalis’s thought. See Loheide, Fichte und Novalis, 173. 17. Loheide, Fichte und Novalis, esp. 253ff. 18. In this way, Loheide’s main opponents are religious interpretations of Novalis that claim that Novalis experienced a transformation at the grave of his fiancée, Sophie von Kuhn, which enabled him to experience nonsensible realities. In contrast, Loheide argues that Novalis was, and remained, true to Fichtean (and Kantian) principles and that no such transformation can be witnessed in Novalis’s philosophical writings—where Fichte’s influence is present up until Novalis’s death in 1801. 19. Thus, Loheide follows Frank’s interpretation of the “ordo inversus” in the FichteStudien. See Loheide, Fichte und Novalis, 198–209. 20. Frank only speaks of presentation (Darstellung) in terms of self-presentation. See Das Problem “Zeit” in der deutschen Romantik (Munich: Schöningh, 1990), 203–222, esp. 219. 21. It is telling that in his account of Novalis’s writings on nature and science (Naturwissenschaft), Loheide skips over many of Novalis’s most important insights, focusing instead on the sparse notes on self-consciousness. Generally, Loheide’s interpretation of Novalis’s conception of being (nature, reality) is vague. On the one hand, he follows

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Frank’s understanding of being as something that is always already there, that is not con­­ structed by the self in its self-intuition. On the other, he argues that for Novalis, nature is nothing but a “construction” of the self (Loheide, Fichte und Novalis, 308). This could mean that being and nature are two different things—being is prior to nature, and nature is the construct of the self. However, this difference is neither thematized nor explained by Loheide. Herbert Uerlings argues that Novalis’s conception of nature and his Natur­ philosophie remained within the limits of transcendental philosophy and thus cannot be considered as a return to “dogmatic,” i.e., pre-Kantian, philosophy. This means, in other words, that for Novalis, an understanding of nature is only secondary to our selfunderstanding, such that our knowledge of nature is always determined by our examination of our capacities to know nature (i.e., epistemology remains first philosophy) (Uerlings, Friedrich von Hardenberg, 152–63). The problem with this reading is that it does not consider the fact that Novalis was critical of Kant and Kantian methodology. Such a critical encounter with Kant need not be viewed as “dogmatic.” Rather, it can be read as an attempt to be “more critical” than Kant himself. As I will show in the following, Novalis’s criticism of Kant’s conception of the self (the soul) is made on sound ground. Similarly, Novalis’s critique of Kant as not critical enough rests on what he saw as an unjustified assumption of a first principle or a simple yet unknown substance (the thing-initself). For an interpretation of Novalis as a Kantian who nevertheless goes beyond Kant, see Kneller, Kant and the Power of Imagination, chaps. 5 and 6. 22. See Wood, introduction to Notes for a Romantic Encyclopaedia, xi. 23. While Frank does not account for any influences other than those that led Novalis to develop his critique of Fichte (i.e., Reinhold), Loheide interprets Novalis’s interest in these various thinkers as an attempt to explain their philosophies in Fichtean terms. See Frank, “Unendliche Annäherung”; and Loheide, Fichte und Novalis, 320ff. Novalis’s more mature philosophical concerns can be interpreted as an attempt to unite Fichtean transcendental idealism with neo-Platonism. See, for example, in the Encyclopedia Brouillon (1798–1799), where Novalis associates Fichte’s method of construction with Plotinus (NS 3, 443, no. 908) and goes so far as to say that “Plotinus was already a critical idealist and realist” (NS 3, 445, no. 924). On Novalis’s interest in Plotinus, see Mähl, “No­ valis und Plotin.” With regard to Novalis’s continuing interest in and affinity to Fichte, see Loheide, Fichte und Novalis, 183ff. 24. This claim has already been made by Hans-Joachim Mähl in the Einleitung to the critical edition of the Fichte-Studien (NS 2). Mähl thus writes, “In the Fichte-Studien there is not . . . a sign of the snub critique which Novalis later practices,” and adds, “Novalis characterized the Fichte-Studien most adequately when he described them as ‘necessary exercises for my thinking,’ that is, they do not present either fragments or a systematically planned and advancing investigation, rather [they] show, with Fichte’s Wissenschaftslehre as their basis, an always renewed attempt, a repeated mention of the same problems, which are independently thought through, investigated from changing perspectives and often experimentally pursued. Thus the change in the character of the notes cannot be mistaken” (Mähl, “Einleitung,” in NS 2, 90). 25. Loheide’s analysis of the Fichte-Studien shows in detail correspondences and parallels between Novalis and Fichte, emphasizing only one difference between Novalis

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and the early Fichte, namely, that Novalis had understood consciousness as an “image of original being [Urseyns].” Fichte came to this realization only fifteen years later in the Umriss (Loheide, Fichte und Novalis, 191). For a complete analysis of the proximity of Novalis’s thought in the Fichte-Studien to Fichte, see Loheide, Fichte und Novalis, 191–209. 26. A significant example concerns Novalis’s understanding of the relation of truth, illusion, and the positing of identity. In the first part of the Fichte-Studien, Novalis claims that reality comes out of or is born through poetic illusion. Toward the middle of the Fichte-Studien, in contrast, he identifies nonbeing (Nichtseyn) and negation with illusion (Schein) and distinguishes illusion from truth (Wahrheit) and reality (Realität) (NS 2, 181, no. 234). He follows this statement with one that seems to contradict the premise with which he began the Fichte-Studien—the premise that has been hailed as his most important and biting critique of Fichtean idealism. Thus, in contrast to his earlier claim that the positing of identity implies the negation of that identity, Novalis writes that “the principle of identity is the principle of truth—reality. The principle of contradiction—the principle of seeming—of negation” (NS 2, 182, no. 234). 27. Loheide also recognizes the ambiguity of Novalis’s use of the term. See Loheide, Fichte und Novalis, 191. 28. There are other ways in which the Fichte-Studien reveal a tension between two mutually exclusive perspectives. As Frederick Beiser points out, “While Novalis criticizes the very possibility of a system of philosophy, he also searches for one of his own” (German Idealism, 411). 29. See, for example: “I—is probably, as all ideas of reason, a merely regulative idea” (NS 2, 258, no. 502), or “all search for the first principle is nonsense—it is a regulative idea” (NS 2, 254, no. 472). 30. Thus, he writes, “The romantic absolute and Heidegger’s being [Sein] have strong parallel effects: both are the ground of the revelation of a world” (Einführung, 128). And again in “Unendliche Annäherung,” he claims that the position of early romanticism begins with “Ur-Seyn,” emphasizing that it has an “existential meaning,” or “reality” (“Unendliche Annäherung,” 662–89). Yet he also claims that for the romantics, and Novalis in particular, being is a regulative idea, stating that “pure being” is an “unattainable idea in the Kantian sense” (851–57). See also Frank, Philosophical Foundations, 30, 44, 51, 149. 31. Beiser, German Idealism, 417. Beiser writes, “If we claim that the absolute is only a regulative idea, that it is indeed only a ‘fiction,’ then it cannot also be made into an object of feeling and faith. For this is to imply that there is nothing for us to feel or to believe in; to assume that there is something in existence corresponding to the idea is just the fallacy of hypostasis all over again.” 32. Although I am primarily offering an alternative reading to Frank’s interpretation of the meaning of “mere being” and “being” in the Fichte-Studien, my reading also differs from Molnár’s Fichtean interpretation, in which being is identified with the self. As I will show, in the Fichte-Studien being is described as a self-determining, free activity and is, therefore, not a determination of the self’s activity. Novalis speaks of the relation between being and the self as one of “correspondence,” so as to imply that although the

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self does not absolutely determine being, it is also not absolutely beyond or other than being. The exact relation between being and the self (world and I), however, remains unclear in the Fichte-Studien. 33. See also: “Only through activity can something arise for me—thus comes something [etwas] in my sphere—something arises between me and me. Only through my activity is being for me possible [Nur durch meine Thätigkeit ist Seyn für mich möglich]” (NS 2, 293f, no. 654). 34. In Das Problem “Zeit,” Frank distinguishes between two senses of being in the Fichte-Studien. On the one hand, being is designated as form, i.e., as that which simply says that something “is” without saying anything about its content. It is a “determination which says nothing about the content of the thing” (Das Problem “Zeit,” 173). On the other hand, being is an “oscillation,” which he identifies with the positing and the being posited of being (173–74). This distinction, however, is not between “pure being” and “being,” but between two senses of being, neither of which implies a notion of being as beyond or outside of determination. Yet, already in this early work, Frank insists on the reality of such a metaphysical substance when he claims that “the original being [das ‘Urseyn’], the unknown [das ‘Unbekannte’], the unconscious [das ‘Unbewußte’], immediately and without drawing conclusions about its own ground, without becoming known as the absolute [ohne als Absolutes gewußt zu werden], reveals itself in feeling, because it is not posited as thetic, that is, cannot be reflected upon as an object” (145). One of the key statements that Frank often cites in order to substantiate his interpretation is Novalis’s claim that “what reflection finds, appears already to be there” (NS 2, 112, no. 14). However, what follows this statement shows that Novalis does not mean by the “already there” an intractable, unknowable thing-in-itself. Rather, Novalis writes, “It [reflection] finds the categories, which appear to be there already—whose possibility (form) and necessity (form) is in the I and through the I,—whose actuality (stuff) is in reflection” (ibid.). In other words, that ground that is “already there” is nothing other than the categories of knowledge given through the I (formally) and through reflection (materially). This seems to be nothing less than an elaboration of the Kantian theory of knowledge. In addition, Frank’s search for the ground of being or reality seems to stand in contradiction to his claim that the romantics gave up such a search for first principles. See Frank, “Unendliche Annäherung,” 854. 35. Novalis also writes that “being expresses a permanence of positing, of alternation, of activity, of productive action—and it is a mere concept of presence. In the world of time [Zeitwelt] being is a rhythmical relation. Being verbally expresses the active and passive character of the reciprocal action between the positing and the posited [dem Setzenden und dem Setzbaren], the sphere and the content” (NS 2, 247, no. 456). 36. He also contrasts “mere essence,” which “is not recognizable [Das bloße Wesen ist nicht erkennbar],” with the “active essence [das thätige Wesen]” (NS 2, 240, no. 440). 37. Novalis identifies reality with “activity [Thätigkeit],” and a few pages later writes that activity “consists of change—in being through positing and in positing through being. Where it effects, there is the substance—Substance is the sphere of its being. Accident the sphere of its positing. Where it is, there is reality—position [besteht im Wechseln—im Seyn durch Setzen und Setzen durch Seyn. Wo sie wirckt, da ist die Substanz—Substanz

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ist Sfäre Ihres Seyns. Accidens Sfäre ihres Setzens. Wo sie ist, da ist Realität—Position]” (NS 2, 214, no. 303; NS 2, 218, no. 306). 38. See “The concept of identity must contain the concept of activity—the transformation [Wechseln] in itself” (NS 2, 214, no. 303), and “The power of the identical—or the essence of activity consists of transformation [Wechseln]—in being through positing and positing through being . . . it alternates [wechselt] eternally between situation [Zustand] and object [Gegenstand]” (NS 2, 219, no. 310). 39. Novalis makes this point in different terms in later notes (1799–1800): “philosophy, to demonstrate something a priori means to derive it—a posteriori—the same—there is only a progression—here a regression. The true philosopher has a synthetic method— not merely a priori, not merely a posteriori—both together, and through that both are infinitely strengthened and increased—formed and broadened” (NS 3, 330, no. 449). 40. In this way, I am interpreting the famous passage in which Novalis speaks about the ground of philosophy in a significantly different manner from the currently widespread interpretation. The passage reads as follows: What do I do when I philosophize? I think about a ground. The striving after thinking of a ground is the ground of philosophy. Ground however is not a cause in the actual sense—rather it is an inner constitution [Beschaffenheit]—a connection [Zusammenhang] with the whole [Ganze]. All philosophizing must therefore end with an absolute ground. If this were not given, if this concept contains something impossible—then the striving of philosophy would be an infinite activity—and thus without end, because an infinite need for an absolute ground would be present, which however can only be relatively fulfilled—and thus can never cease. Through the voluntary renunciation of the absolute arises the infinite free activity in us—the only possible absolute, that can be given to us and which we find only through our incapacity to reach and know an absolute. This given absolute can only be known negatively, in that we act and find, that through activity that which we seek cannot be attained. (NS 2, 269–70, no. 565) While this passage emphasizes the infinitely elusive character of the absolute, and a reading of it in those terms would not be inappropriate, I want to underscore the conditionality of the sentence. He says, after all, “If this were not given,” without claiming with certainty that it is in fact not given. Furthermore, the interpretation of this passage in Kantian terms—i.e., Novalis is speaking of our striving after a ground in the same way that Kant speaks of the ideas of reason, and concluding that the ground is an idea of reason which can never be attained but which serves as a guide for knowledge—does not adequately explain the relation of this ground and “mere being,” which as ontological reality implies more than a merely negative, or limiting, concept in the sense of a Kantian idea of reason. 41. For Novalis’s critique of the unconditioned first principle in relation to Kant and Fichte, see chapter 4 below. 42. See also Novalis’s remark that the concept of a first “cause” is “only a regulative concept, an idea of reason (NS 2, 255, no. 476). 43. Novalis writes: “The beginning of the I is merely ideal. If it would have already begun, then it must have had to begin. The beginning is already a later concept. The beginning arises later than the I, thus the I cannot have begun” (NS 3, 253, no. 76).

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44. Novalis writes: “Should there not be a yet higher sphere, then it would be be­ tween being and not-being—the oscillation between the two—an inexpressible, and here we have the concept of life” (NS 2, 106, no. 3). In the Allgemeine Brouillon, Novalis speaks of life as the “highest substance” (NS 3, 317, no. 596). 45. See also NS 2, 271, no. 567: “The species . . . is nothing outside of the individual.” My interpretation appears to contradict one of Novalis’s most cited passages, in which he supposedly eliminates the possibility of knowing the whole through the parts. Such knowledge, it is claimed, is what Novalis calls “illusion.” “Illusion [Schein] in our knowledge,” he writes, “arises in the raising of the half to the whole [entsteht aus dem Erheben des Halben zum Ganzen]—or from the halving of the indivisible [aus dem Halbiren des Untheilbaren], whose essence merely [Wesen blos] consists in co-positing [Zusammensetzung]” (NS 2, 180, no. 234). (Frank cites this passage as proof that Novalis develops a skeptical theory of knowledge. See Frank, Philosophical Foundations, 241.) On the basis of these lines, it seems that the act of seeing the whole in the part or of understanding the part in relation to the whole—the act which I have identified as philosophy—is a source of illusion. This interpretation, however, errs by overlooking the context of this passage. The passage comes after an explication of what Novalis identifies as a “thing.” He writes, “every thing is a whole, which consists of intuition and representation—one of the two alone is half of the reality of things.” In other words, the whole and the half in this passage do not refer to the whole and the part in the ontological sense I have elaborated. Rather, the whole refers to the joining of representation and intuition; the half is the separation of the two. Illusion thus results when intuition and representation are separated. This is confirmed by the fact that the first sentence in the same paragraph reads as follows: “Representation without intuition is illusion and vice versa.” In other words, in this passage, Novalis is speaking of an entirely different whole-part relation than the one concerned with grasping the part in and through the whole, and the whole in and through the part. He appears to be simply reciting Kant’s definition of experience, and on that basis concluding what illusion in knowledge involves. As I will show, for Novalis the epistemological move from the whole to the part and back again seems to be an entirely appropriate—even necessary—method for gaining knowledge. 46. In the Fichte-Studien, passages 234 and 237 are the main passages in which Novalis discusses the relation between truth and illusion. However, the fragmentary and contradictory nature of Novalis’s claims makes it very difficult to rely on them. Most significantly, they contradict Novalis’s claim that “a = a” is an illusory statement (Scheinsatz), because it involves negation, difference. In these passages, Novalis speaks of illusion as “the original form of truth, the original stuff,” and identifies illusion (Schein) with the necessary form of reality (NS 2, 181, no. 234). In other words, he appears to be changing his definition of illusion. Nevertheless, these passages are often cited by scholars as sources for Novalis’s view of illusion. See Loheide, Fichte und Novalis, 208, 234; Frank, Philosophical Foundations, 241–42. 47. See also NS 2, 266, no. 557. 48. He writes, for instance, that “the inner and the outer are in themselves opposed” (NS 2, 286, no. 645). 49. It would, therefore, be mistaken to assume that in the Fichte-Studien Novalis puts forth a conception of the self as acting freely and realizing itself without consid-

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eration of, or in relation to, the world. It would be similarly inaccurate to represent Novalis’s conception of the self as active and opposed to a passive, suffering being that is simply determined by the activity of the self. For, as Novalis writes, “all being, being in general, is nothing other than free-being” (NS 2, 266, no. 555). Cf. Friedrich Strack, “Fichte und Novalis,” 193–206. 50. The theme of the “golden time [goldene Zeit],” a neo-Platonic idea to which Novalis often refers, is thoroughly discussed by Mähl in Die Idee des goldenen Zeitalters im Werk des Novalis. Manfred Frank contests Mähl’s emphasis on the idea of a golden time in Novalis. He argues that for Novalis, everything is in time and the notion of a golden time is a fiction. However, in substantiating his reading, Frank quotes only the part of the passage that suits his argument (“the goal of humanity is not the golden time”) and overlooks the preceding sentence, in which Novalis writes, “golden times could appear.” There are many instances in which Frank chooses to overlook some of Novalis’s claims with regard to temporality and eternality in order to justify his reading. See Frank, Das Problem “Zeit,” 222. Frank’s ideas have been adopted by Uerlings, who similarly argues that for Novalis, the idea of a golden time—i.e., a utopia on earth—is not a reality. See Uerlings, Friedrich von Hardenberg, 142ff. 51. While at this early stage Novalis’s understanding of the work of art follows Fichte’s very closely, in his later writings, he moves away from emphasizing the work of art as a presentation of the I’s free activity to a conception of the artwork as a presentation of harmony. He also criticizes Fichte for not having enough poetry or poetic spirit in his philosophy. See NS 2, 524 and NS 3, 445. On Novalis’s and Fichte’s understandings of the work of art and its relation to the self, see David W. Wood, “From ‘Fichticizing’ to ‘Romanticizing’: Novalis on the Activities of Philosophy and Art,” Fichte-Studien 42 (2013): 249–80. 52. See Über Geist und Buchstab in der Philosophie (GA 1/6, 341), where Fichte defines the aesthetic impulse as the “presentation for the sake of presentation.” Although this work was written in 1795 and sent for publication to Schiller’s Die Hören, it was rejected by Schiller and not published until 1800. However, much of the work stems from lectures that Fichte gave in Jena in 1794–1795, and it is likely that Novalis was familiar with the content of these lectures. See Loheide, Fichte und Novalis, 77n202. That Novalis’s understanding of the work of art is influenced by Fichte has not been highlighted in the secondary literature—especially in those interpretations that wish to distance Novalis from Fichte. Rather, as I noted above, Novalis’s turn to art has been interpreted as a critique of Fichte and a move to skepticism. This is, however, not at all the case, given that Novalis is, at this point at least, simply appropriating Fichte’s definition of artwork. Even Loheide, who carefully demonstrates Fichtean impulses and influences in the FichteStudien, does not consider the fact that Novalis’s definition of art mirrors Fichte’s. 53. See the second edition of Über Geist und Buchstab in der Philosophie in J. G. Fichte, Von den Pflichten der Gelehrten (Hamburg: Meiner, 1971), 136, where Fichte speaks of the act of imagination as an absolutely original act, without any preceding representations: It is “the capacity . . . to draft images without any previous education [das Vermögen . . . ohne alle vorhergegange Bildung Bilder zu entwerfen].” 54. Loheide, Fichte und Novalis, 237; see also 284: “Romantic art presents this seemingly strange spiritual being [Geistige] as familiar, sensible and self-evident, in order to self-reflexively unmask the ordo inversus.”

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55. Uerlings, Friedrich von Hardenberg, 229ff. For Uerlings, the idea of “presentation (Darstellung)” necessarily implies illusion (Schein) and should be distinguished from reality or being (230). He defines “narrative construction” as a “conscious positing” that knows itself as fictional, or, as he puts it, “This means that the positing makes no claim to verifiability and/or complete realizability. Such ‘narrative constructions’ are in poetry; one could also speak here plainly of ‘fictional positing’ ” (230). 56. Loheide, Fichte und Novalis, 297. 57. Frank, Einführung, 255. 58. Ibid., 260–61. Similarly, Charles Larmore makes two seemingly contradictory claims when he states, on the one hand, that “poetry is able to show the elusiveness of the Absolute,” i.e., the ordo inversus, and, on the other, that “like Hölderlin, Novalis found in poetry a deeper expressive capacity than philosophy can muster,” Charles Larmore, “Hölderlin and Novalis,” in The Cambridge Companion to German Idealism, ed. Karl Ameriks (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000), 155. 59. This is one of the most prominent readings of the Fichte-Studien and can be found in Molnár, Novalis’ “Fichte Studies”; Uerlings, Friedrich von Hardenberg; and Larmore, “Hölderlin and Novalis,” among others. 60. It is precisely in light of this point that Novalis goes on to criticize Kant and Fichte as “absolutely unpoetic” (NS 3, 445, no. 924). In contrast to their systems, Novalis writes to F. Schlegel that he wants to create a “living scientific organon” (NS 4, 263). The capacity to perceive and capture the living character of nature, Novalis elsewhere maintains, is nothing other than genius (NS 3, 41). 61. The roots of this interest are already present in the Hemsterhuis-Studien, in which he begins to consider the way in which knowledge must be organized (NS 2, 370, no. 30). 62. This becomes clear in the Kant-Studien, in which Novalis considers and challenges Kant’s response to Sömmering’s question regarding the “seat of the soul.” For, as Novalis sees it, the moral self must affect and be affected by others in the world, such that the “seat of the soul” cannot exist outside of the empirical world (NS 2, 390, no. 46). That Novalis continued to be interested in this question is clear from the fact that he returns to the idea of the “seat of the soul” in “Blüthenstaub.” He writes, “The seat of the soul is there, where the inner world and the outer world touch. Where they penetrate one another, it is the penetration at every point” (NS 2, 419, no. 19).

chapter two 1. On Novalis’s reception of Hemsterhuis’s ideas of love, the moral organ, and the moral world, see Mähl, “Einleitung,” NS 2, 314. While these ideas are less immediately evident in Novalis’s reading of Kant (in his Kant-Studien, Novalis is concerned not only with moral questions but also with epistemological ones), there are two good reasons to think that he is nevertheless led to rereading Kant on account of moral concerns. First, some of his notes are on the Metaphysics of Morals. Second, even when discussing epistemological questions, Novalis emphasizes the essentially active character of the self, going so far as to claim that “we know only insofar as we realize” (NS 2, 386, no. 44). This idea, already present in his Hemsterhuis-Studien, becomes central for Novalis’s understanding of the methods of the natural sciences. In addition, as I will argue, Novalis’s understanding

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of morality transforms following his reading of Hemsterhuis. What Hemsterhuis teaches Novalis is that morality does not simply involve self-activity but also activity with others and coexistence. For this reason, love comes to play a significant role in Novalis’s conception of the moral sphere. That Novalis was concerned with questions of affection, sensibility, and the way in which humans relate to and affect one another may have thus led Novalis to take a look at Kant’s reply to Sömmering’s question on the “seat of the soul.” Ultimately, Novalis may have been seeking to understand how the soul can affect and be affected by others. For Novalis’s reception of Kant, see Kneller, Kant and the Power of Imagination, 143ff. 2. Hemsterhuis was a member of what was known as the “Münster Circle,” a group of theologians and thelogically minded philosophers that included Johann Georg Hamann (1730–1788), Herder’s friend and mentor. In fact, Herder and Goethe seem to have been regular visitors (WA 1/3, 230–45). However, it was Jacobi who was most positive about Hemsterhuis and sought to publicize his work in Germany. Jacobi met Hemsterhuis in February 1781, composed a letter to him in 1784 that was later incorporated into the Briefe über die Lehre Spinozas, and translated one of his Platonic-style dialogues, Alexis, in 1787. 3. See Mähl, “Einleitung,” NS 2, 321–29. 4. Novalis’s interpretation of the passage from Hemsterhuis has little if anything to do with the passage itself. See Mähl, “Einleitung,” NS 2, 324; and Loheide, Fichte und Novalis, 246. 5. Novalis read Hemsterhuis through the lens of Herder’s commentary on Hemsterhuis’s Lettre. Herder criticizes Hemsterhuis’s conception of love, as passive and selfdestructive. See Uerlings, Friedrich von Hardenberg, 120; Loheide, Fichte und Novalis, 243. 6. Already in June 1796 Novalis complains to F. Schlegel about the lack of “love” in Fichte’s philosophy. “Spinoza and Zinzendorf have grasped the infinite idea of love and have divined the method of realizing themselves. . . . I am sorry that I have not yet been able to see anything of this vision in Fichte, felt nothing of this breath of creativity” (NS 4, 188). Kneller rightly recognizes the significance of Hemsterhuis’s emphasis on feeling for Novalis and the way in which Novalis uses this idea to criticize Kant as a “scholastic.” She does not, however, note that, for Novalis, Hemsterhuis also provides a more adequate conception of the moral realm in general and, as such, a more complete conception of the self’s freedom and its activity. See Kneller, Kant and the Power of Imagination, 146. This is to be contrasted with Loheide’s claim that Novalis does not ultimately gain anything from Hemsterhuis but simply tries to appropriate him for a Fichtean agenda. See Loheide, Fichte und Novalis, 240–48. 7. The move from a Fichtean understanding of our relation to others and the world in general to a Hemsterhuis-inspired conception is also chronicled in Novalis’s unfinished novel, the Lehrlinge zu Saïs. In the second part of the novel, Novalis elaborates various ways by which the human being can relate to nature, concluding with what appears to be a Fichtean position, which emphasizes infinite striving toward reason. “The meaning of the world is reason: for the sake of reason the world exists. . . . Therefore let him who would gain knowledge of nature, practice his ethical sense, let him act and mould according to the noble core of his inwardness and nature will freely reveal herself to him. Ethical action is the one great experiment by which all the mysteries of the most manifold

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phenomena are solved” (NS 1, 90). However, following this account, the novice finds himself confused and is then addressed by a “merry youth,” who matter of factly tells the novice that he is “ ‘on the wrong track and will get nowhere,’ ” for, he continues, “ ‘Is nature morose? You are still young. Do you not feel the commandments of youth in every vein? Do not love and yearning fill your breast? How then can you sit alone? Does nature sit alone?’ ” (NS 1, 91). This is then followed by the telling of a fairytale. What is of interest, however, is that Novalis’s account of the various perspectives on nature does not conclude with the Fichtean approach, but with an approach that emphasizes feeling and the need to act like or in accordance with nature in order to understand nature (see also NS 1, 95–96). On the importance of acting like nature, see section 3.4 below. 8. Novalis’s claim that organization goes hand in hand with living or vital forces (and that both are connected to harmony) seems to echo Leibniz’s Monadology. However, while Novalis was interested in Leibniz’s mathematics and calculus, he makes no references to the Monadology. For Novalis on Leibniz’s calculus, see Allgemeine Brouillon, NS 3, 360, no. 547. The more likely influence on Novalis would be Herder, with whom Novalis was clearly familiar and to whom he was sympathetic. 9. This passage can be found with only slight alteration in later notes. See NS 2, 533, no. 31. 10. As Novalis will write later on, it is only genius that can grasp the idea. See NS 2, 425, no. 27. 11. See Mähl, “Einleitung,” NS 2, 331. 12. See ibid., 330f. 13. Quoted in Kneller, Kant and the Power of Imagination, 143. 14. See, for example, Frank, Einführung, 261; Loheide, Fichte und Novalis, 321; Kneller, Kant and the Power of Imagination, 145. 15. See also NS 2, 414, no. 10. 16. See also Allgemeine Brouillon: “The method of Fichte and Kant is not yet com­ plete or presented precisely enough. Both still do not know how to experiment with fa­ cility and diversity—absolutely unpoetic—Everything is still so awkward, so tentative” (NS 3, 445, no. 924). 17. See also Allgemeine Brouillon: “The scholastics transformed all things into abstractions—It’s a pity they didn’t attempt the opposite operation—and reflect on this problem, or draw inferences from it” (NS 3, 442, no. 905). 18. In the Kant-Studien, Novalis acutely distinguishes between the two, writing that while in the organic being a process of reciprocation takes place (“wo ein Wechselproceß stattfindet”), the “aggregate achieves its growth externally . . . without bringing something from itself into it” (NS 2, 389, no. 45).

chapter three 1. Novalis explains what he means by his “bible project” in several fragments in the Allgemeine Brouillon, see NS 3, 325, no. 443; NS 3, 363 no. 557; NS 3, 365-6, no. 571. See also Wood, introduction to Notes for a Romantic Encyclopaedia. For Schlegel’s own “bible project,” see chapter 8 below.

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2. It is important to point out that Novalis is here using the German word Bildung, for which there is no adequate English translation. Bildung could mean physical formation of any kind as well as transformation and thus education, such that in speaking of “die Bildung der Erde [the education of the earth],” Novalis means the transformation of the earth. Given Novalis’s studies in geology and mineralogy, the meaning could be further extended to imply the actual physical formation and transformation of the earth. (Interestingly for this chapter, in which I discuss Novalis’s interest in Goethe, one of Goethe’s brief essays on geology is titled “Die Bildung der Erde.”) 3. See also: “It is immaterial whether I posit the universe within myself, or outside myself in the universe. Spinoza posited everything outside—Fichte everything within” (NS 3, 382, no. 633). 4. See also, “Every human being is to some small degree already an artist” (NS 2, 574, no. 226). 5. In a letter to Friedrich Schlegel from May 3, 1797, Novalis relates that he had been reading Schelling’s philosophy of nature, and writes that “Schelling’s philosophy of nature finds in me a very curious reader” (NS 4, 226). 6. For a complete list of the classes offered during Novalis’s tenure at the mining acad­ emy, see Gerhard Schulz, “Einleitung,” NS 3, 4. 7. These claims are based on Novalis’s careful notes on and citations of Werner’s 1785 Von der äußerlichen Kennzeichen der Foßilien, which Novalis wrote in the fall of 1798 and which can be found in NS 3, 135–61. 8. Novalis’s view that the distinction between the organic and inorganic is made on false premises is not limited to the fact that Werner does not account for the chemical make-up of things. This, however, is the view that Ulrich Stadler has regarding Novalis’s point. See Ulrich Stadler, “Zur Anthropologie Friedrich von Hardenbergs,” in Novalis und die Wissenschaften, ed. Herbert Uerlings (Tübingen: Niemeyer, 1997). It appears to me, by contrast, that Novalis is putting forth a stronger claim when he makes the remark cited here, namely, that all natural things are internally connected to one another and form a continuum or integral whole. Novalis’s claim thus mirrors Goethe’s in the latter’s essay “On Granite,” in which he claims that all things in nature, including rocks and stones, “have a clear relationship to one another” (MA 2/2, 488). 9. See also Novalis’s claim in the Allgemeine Brouillon, “time is the basis of everything” (NS 3, 428, no. 809). On this point, see Stadler, “Zur Anthropologie Friedrich von Hardenbergs,” 89, 100. 10. Hans-Joachim Mähl, “Goethes Urteil über Novalis,” Jahrbuch des freien deutschen Hochstifts (1967): 163 and 166, respectively. 11. Although Goethe was a great admirer of Werner’s work, he was critical of Werner for the same reasons as Novalis. Thus, he remarks that while no one has the right to criticize such a great man, it would not be entirely wrong to say that Werner “forgot the goal in the means” (HA 10, 44). 12. Novalis began these works directly after his trip to the Dresden Art Gallery with fellow romantics Friedrich and August Wilhelm Schlegel, Dorothea and Caroline Schlegel, as well as Friedrich Schelling. In the autumn of 1798 Novalis was also reading Schelling’s Von der Weltseele (1798) and critically engaging with Schelling’s conception

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of an original duality of nature (NS 3, 102–14). Thus, Henrik Steffens reports to Schelling that Novalis “is a brilliant person, but recently he has convinced me that even brilliant people of our times have little sense for strict scientific consequences. —He does not want to have an original duplicity but rather an original infinitude of nature [er ist ein geistvoller Mensch; aber er hat mich von neuem davon überzeugt, daß selbst geistvolleren Menschen unseres Zeitalters wenig Sinn haben für wissenschaftliche strenge Consequence. —Er will nicht eine Urduplicität sondern einen Urinfinitismus der Natur haben]” (NS 4, 637; emphasis added). Novalis makes this point in the Allgemeine Brouillon: “Science does not begin with antom-binom, but rather with an infinitum” (NS 3, 432, no. 837). See also Novalis’s letter to Caroline Schlegel from September 1798 (NS 4, 261). 13. Although Goethe had known of Novalis (Friedrich von Hardenberg) as early as 1796, when he visited Novalis’s sick fiancée, Sophie von Kuhn, in September of that year, they did not meet until almost three years later, on March 29, 1798 (NS 4, 616, no. 56). Novalis had eagerly sought out Goethe’s acquaintance, and it was on account of this that August Wilhelm Schlegel arranged both that meeting and another, which took place on July 23, 1799 (NS 4, 631, no. 84b). (See NS 4, 608, no. 47, and 631, no. 84a, for August Wilhelm’s letters to Goethe informing him of Novalis’s visits to Jena and entreating him to meet the young poet.) These meetings, however, took place in the context of the romantic circle (A. W. Schlegel was present at both meetings; Tieck attended the second meeting) and did not measure up to Novalis’s expectations of an intimate acquaintance. (Novalis’s letter from July 23, 1798, to Schiller relates a slight disappointment regarding his visit with Goethe earlier that year [NS 4, 256f]. Goethe, in turn, speaks only of Tieck when he mentions the second meeting [NS 4, 631, no. 84b].) The most direct encounter between Goethe and Novalis took place when Goethe was asked by August Wilhelm Schlegel to make the final decision regarding the publication of Novalis’s essay “Christenheit oder Europe” (Christianity or Europe) and Schelling’s satirical poem (“Widerporst”) in the Athenäum. Goethe advised that, for political reasons, neither should be published. See NS 4, 648, nos. 100a and 100b. For an account of Goethe’s decision not to publish the essay and the poem, see Nicholas Boyle, Goethe, the Poet and the Age (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000), 2:646ff. 14. See previous note (chap. 3, n. 13). For a detailed account of Goethe’s relationship to the romantics in general, see Hartmut Fröschle, Goethes Verhältnis zur Romantik (Würzburg: Königshausen und Neumann, 2002). For a good summary of the relationship, see Robert J. Richards, The Romantic Conception of Life: Science and Philosophy in the Age of Goethe (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2002), 459–63. 15. For a comprehensive analysis of Goethe’s influence on Schelling, see chapter 10 in this volume. 16. Although Novalis’s last comments on Wilhelm Meister were critical, his reception of the novel was, until 1799, positive. In “Blüthenstaub,” he describes Goethe as “the true governor of the poetic spirit on earth” (NS 2, 459, no. 106). Throughout this collection of fragments, positive remarks are made with regard to Goethe’s literary works and his style. Thus, Novalis takes Goethe’s style as exemplary when he exclaims that “the presenter [der Darsteller] must be able and want to present everything. In this way the great style of presentation arises, the style which one has rightly admired in Goethe” (NS 2, 423, no. 25). And again, he describes Goethe’s ability to make connections in nar-

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rative form to be the marks of his genius (NS 2, 425, no. 27). This is in great contrast to Novalis’s later critical remarks on Goethe’s poetry and on Wilhelm Meister in particular, as evidenced, for example, in his essay on Goethe from the autumn of 1798 and in a letter to Tieck from February 23, 1800 (NS 2, 640ff, and NS 4, 323, respectively). For an analy­ sis of Novalis’s early reception of Wilhelm Meister, see Hans-Joachim Mähl, “Novalis’ Wilhelm-Meister-Studien des Jahres 1797,” Neophilologus 47 (1963): 286–305. 17. For a comprehensive account of Goethe’s estimation of Novalis, see Mähl, “Goethes Urteil über Novalis.” Mähl’s well-researched article reveals that Goethe’s negative judgment of Novalis was in great part due to the fact that the Schlegel-Tieck edition of the Novalis Schriften (1802) contained only Novalis’s negative remarks on Goethe’s Wilhelm Meister and completely excluded Novalis’s essay on Goethe, as well as other positive remarks on Goethe’s study of nature. The Schlegel-Tieck edition did not even include Novalis’s previously published positive estimation of Wilhelm Meister in “Blüthenstaub” (1798). The revised editions of the Novalis Schriften (revisions were undertaken mostly by Tieck) continued to exclude Novalis’s affirmative estimations of Goethe’s work and his interest in Goethe’s natural science. The essay on Goethe was first included in the 1846 Novalis Schriften, edited by Eduard von Bülows. See Mähl, “Goethes Urteil über Novalis,” 176ff. 18. This is the view put forth by John Neubauer, whose essay on Novalis and Goethe is unique in that it considers not their literary similarities and differences, but focuses on their scientific works. See John Neubauer, “Das Verständnis der Naturwissenschaften bei Novalis und Goethe,” in Novalis und die Wissenschaften, ed. Herbert Uerlings (Tübingen: Niemeyer, 1997), 49–63. As noted above, Neubauer’s starting point in this essay is what he sees as fundamental differences between Goethe and Novalis. He maintains that while Goethe was directly engaged in scientific practice and undertaking empirical experiments, Novalis was more influenced by philosophy and concerned with theoretical questions (“Das Verständnis der Naturwissenschaften,” 51). Similarly, while Goethe’s work was much more “intuitive” and “feeling” based, Novalis was concerned with nature as a nonsensible philosophical idea (52f). And again, Neubauer emphasizes that, while Goethe rejected the mathematical, Newtonian model of physics, Novalis was much more comfortable with the constructive methodologies of mathematics (54). In many ways I disagree with Neubauer’s interpretation. For one, I don’t think that Goethe was as naïve as Neubauer makes him out to be—working entirely out of a “feeling” for the wholeness or unity of nature. Furthermore, Neubauer’s reading of Novalis’s concept of the “idea” of nature and his emphasis on the constructive element undermines Novalis’s realistic tendency. Novalis was not a “constructivist” who was putting forth a system of transcendental idealism based entirely on concepts, or whose understanding of the idea of nature was that of a social or mathematical construct. Rather, Novalis’s idealism was heavily influenced by realist thinkers like Spinoza and, as I will show, Goethe. Novalis’s theory of knowledge is close to Goethe’s conception of an intuitive judgment. This is not to undermine the important differences between Novalis and Goethe. Nevertheless, I think that Neubauer’s distinctions do not adequately account for the significant role that Goethe’s practices played in the development of Novalis’s thought, especially with regard to his epistemology and his understanding of a system of knowledge. One important difference between the two, which we will not consider in detail, concerns the fact that

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Novalis had a deep interest in mathematics, while Goethe was, for the most part, critical of the mathematical tendency of the natural sciences. John Neubauer makes this point in his article “Das Verständnis der Naturwissenschaften.” 19. See n. 17 above. 20. Much of the comparative work on Novalis and Goethe has been focused on their novels (Heinrich von Ofterdingen and Wilhelm Meister, respectively), with the exception of John Neubauer (see n. 18 above). Hartmut Fröschle’s book on the relationship between Goethe and the romantics pays little attention to the way in which Goethe influenced Novalis’s understanding of nature, the project of science, and the work of a scientist. Fröschle instead enters the debate concerning Novalis’s estimation of Wilhelm Meister and contests Mähl’s claim that Novalis’s final judgment on the matter was “ambivalent.” Rather, Fröschle argues, Novalis’s final judgment, as put forth in 1800, was decisively negative. See Fröschle, Goethes Verhältnis zur Romantik, 239–56. Recently, Jonas Maatsch’s work on Novalis’s encyclopedia has pointed to significant parallels between Novalis’s research program and Goethe’s methodology, noting that just as Goethe’s goal was to explain the whole in the part and see natural series in relation to one another, Novalis’s goal in the encyclopedia was to understand the sciences and arts as various moments of development, and thus as moments of transformation within one whole. See Jonas Maatsch, “Enzyklopädie als Darstellung der Philosophie: Novalis’ Morphologie des Wissens,” in Darstellung und Erkenntnis, ed. Brady Bowman (Paderborn: Mentis, 2007), 181–94, esp. 186–89. Maatsch, however, does not provide a detailed and comprehensive analysis of the way in which Goethe’s methodology came to influence Novalis’s conception of science. 21. The extent to which Novalis was familiar with Goethe’s scientific writings is not entirely clear. However, it is certain that he was familiar with Goethe’s conception of metamorphosis, as put forth in the Versuch über die Metamorphose der Pflanzen (Essay on the Metamorphosis of Plants) (1790) and with Goethe’s color theory and work on light, Beiträge zur Optik (Contributions to Optics) (1791). Furthermore, although Goethe did not publish any of his works on geology until after Novalis’s death, there is evidence that Novalis was familiar with some of his views on geology (see Mähl, “Goethes Urteil über Novalis,” 163ff). Novalis’s notes on his meetings with Goethe reveal that their conversations were concerned with scientific questions, possibly with questions regarding geology. See n. 13 above. 22. Ulrich Stadler argues that Novalis’s encyclopedia project is based on a conception of analogy and homology that is fundamentally different from Goethe’s understanding of analogy. See Stadler, “ ‘Ich lehre nicht, ich erzähle.’ Über den Analogiengebrauch im Ukreis der Romantik,” Athenäum: Jahrbuch für Romantik 3 (1993): 95. 23. For a comprehensive, balanced account of the meaning of romantic science, see Kristian Köchy, “Das naturwissenschaftliche Forschungsprogramm der Romantik,” in Das neue Licht der Frühromantik, ed. Bärbel Frischmann and Elizabeth Millán-Zaibert (Paderborn: Schöningh, 2009), 153–69. 24. See also: “Our body is a part of the world—member is better said: it surely expresses self-dependence, the analogy with the whole, in brief, the concept of a microcosm. This member must correspond to the whole” (NS 2, 650–51, no. 485).

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25. While in many ways I agree with Frederick Beiser’s interpretation of Novalis, I think he overemphasizes the influence of Spinoza’s version of monism on Novalis’s understanding of the self’s relation to the world. For this reason, he does not consider the difference that Novalis draws between the body as a “variation” and the mind or knowledge as a “symbol” of the whole. Rather, he takes Novalis’s conception of the self to be in line with Spinoza’s, simply concluding that the self is a “variation” of the whole. This, however, overlooks the fact that Novalis develops a different theory of knowledge from Spinoza’s, in which knowledge is a “raising” or transforming of the world and of the self. The active, transformative, character of Novalis’s theory of knowledge remains unexplored in Beiser’s account. See German Idealism, 418ff. 26. See also: “The first step is the view inward. . . . The second must be a view outward, self-active, held observation of the outer world” (NS 2, 423, no. 24). 27. This is what Novalis calls “magical idealism,” which he identifies as the capacity to “wonderfully refract the higher light” (NS 3, 385, no. 638) by changing “thoughts into things and things into thoughts” (NS 3, 301, no. 338). 28. This same passage is written in Novalis’s letter to Caroline Schlegel from January 20, 1799. In the paragraph that precedes this passage in the letter, Novalis mentions (Johann Wilhelm) Ritter, Schelling, and Tieck, leading the reader to assume that in the passage which follows, when Novalis speaks of “these men,” he is referring to the three whom he had just mentioned. See NS 4, 275. 29. For further mention of Goethe, see NS 3, 248, no. 52; NS 3, 406, no. 717; NS 2, 640–42. For reflections on Goethe’s novel Wilhelm Meister, see NS 3, 312, no. 390; NS 3, 326, no. 445. 30. Novalis repeats the idea that nature must be observed like antiquity at the beginning of the Allgemeine Brouillon, where he remarks that “Goethe contemplates nature like antiquity” (NS 3, 248, no. 52). 31. Although Goethe’s essay was not published until well after Novalis’s death, Novalis was aware of Goethe’s intuitive practice and called it “active empiricism.” I will examine Novalis’s characterization of Goethe’s perception in the following. 32. In his famous letter to Herz, Kant distinguishes between intuitive and discursive thinking, explaining that while intuitive thinking is the source of its own objects, discursive thinking receives objects from an external source. “Our understanding,” he writes, “through its representations is neither the cause of the object (save in the case of moral ends), nor is the object the cause of our intellectual representation in the real sense” (AA 10, 130). In the “Critique of Teleological Judgment,” Kant establishes the regulative role of reason in the same way that he did in the letter to Herz. Understanding restricts the validity of the ideas of reason to the subject because of “the nature of our (human) cognitive ability, or . . . any concept we can form of the ability of a finite rational being as such.” This is because human cognition requires “two quite heterogeneous components,” namely, “understanding to provide concepts and sensible intuition to provide objects corresponding to these,” and if this were not the case, he goes on, “our understanding would be intuitive rather than discursive, i.e., conceptual” (AA 5, 401). Eckart Förster has persuasively argued that Kant puts forth two conceptions of intuition—intellectual intuition, in which the mind produces its object of knowledge (as evidenced in the

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letter to Herz and the Kritik der reinen Vernunft [Critique of Pure Reason]) and intuitive understanding, wherein the process of knowledge proceeds from the whole to the parts rather than discursively from the parts to the whole. (This is the conception of intuition that Kant develops in the Kritik der Urteilskraft, section 77.) In Kant’s notion of “intuitive understanding,” as Förster calls it, there is no mention of a productive capacity, although Kant continues to employ the same vocabulary (speaking of the intuitive intel­ lect as archetypal and identifying the discursive intellect as ectypal as he had done in the letter to Herz). This nonproductive conception of intuition, Förster maintains, is precisely the one with which Goethe is working. See Eckart Förster, “Die Bedeutung von Paragraphen 76, 77 der Kritik der Urteilskraft für die Entwicklung der nachkantischen Philosophie (Teil 1),” Zeitschrift für philosophische Forschung 56 (2002): 169–90; and, more recently, Förster, Die 25 Jahre der Philosophie, chap. 11. 33. The hard and fast distinction between determinative and reflective judgment is one that Kant draws in the introduction to the Kritik der Urteilskraft. By contrast, in the first Kritik, Kant often employs the terms reflection and reflective to speak of the operations of judgment in general. Some have argued that reflective judgment plays an essential role in determinative judgment—such that Kant’s contrast is not justifiable. See, for instance, Beatrice Longuenesse, Kant and the Capacity to Judge (Princeton: Prince­ ton University Press, 1998), esp. 163ff. See also Joan Steigerwald, “Natural Purposes and the Reflecting Power of Judgment: The Problem of the Organism in Kant’s Critical Philosophy,”European Romantic Review 21, no. 3 (2010): 291–308. 34. Kant explains the formation of empirical concepts as follows: “To make concepts out of representations, one must be able to compare, to reflect, and to abstract, for these three logical operations of the understanding are the essential and universal conditions for the generation of every concept whatsoever” (AA 9, 94–95). 35. See Förster, Die 25 Jahre der Philosophie, chaps. 4 and 11. 36. Eckart Förster elaborates the significance of thinking in Goethe’s perception and the way in which discursive thinking becomes intuitive in his excellent article “Goethe and the ‘Auge des Geistes,’ ” Deutsche Vierteljahrsschrift für Literaturwissenschaft und Geistesgeschichte 75 (2001): 87–101. 37. See ibid., 93. 38. See Förster, Die 25 Jahre der Philosophie, 263. 39. See also FA 1/24, 102. 40. Goethe sees this gap as the most difficult and yet most important which the scientist must overcome. He thus writes in “Bedenken und Ergebung” (“Doubt and Resignation”), “This difficulty of uniting idea and experience presents obstacles in all scientific research: the idea is independent of space and time, while scientific research is bound by space and time. In the idea, then, simultaneous elements are intimately bound up with sequential ones, but our experience always shows them to be separate; we are seemingly plunged into madness by a natural process which we are to conceive of in idea as both simultaneous and sequential” (MA 12, 99–100). 41. Novalis identifies the abstracting tendencies in Kant’s thought with scholasticism, claiming that the scholastic “transformed all things into abstractions,” without attempting “the opposite operation” (NS 3, 442, no. 905).

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42. Novalis was very critical of skeptics, calling them “sophists” and people who have a “pure hate for philosophy”—a point Frank overlooks. See NS 2, 526, no. 14. 43. Setting act in italics is my emphasis; other emphasis is Novalis’s. See also NS 3, 256, no. 89, where Novalis maintains that “the genius alone is the experimenter.” 44. See also: “(Approximation principles. The absolute I belongs here as well.)” (NS 3, 296, no. 314). 45. See also: “Every person who currently lives from God and through God will himself become God” (NS 3, 297, no. 320). 46. See Allgemeine Brouillon, NS 3, 372-3, no. 601; NS 3, 373, no. 603; NS 3, 384-5, no. 638. 47. Novalis writes, “All that is visible adheres to the invisible” (NS 2, 650, no. 481). 48. The passage from “Blüthenstaub” reads as follows: “The most arbitrary prejudice of them all is that man is denied the capacity to get outside himself and to have consciousness beyond the realm of the senses. At any moment man can become a supersensible being. Without this capacity he would not be a cosmopolitan but an animal” (NS 2, 421, no. 22).

chapter four 1. See, for example, NS 3, 557, 669, and 524. 2. On the influence of Fichte’s understanding of philosophy and philosophical system in Novalis’s encyclopedia project, see Wood, introduction to Notes for a Romantic Encyclopedia, xxvi. 3. On Goethe’s understanding of the relation between nature and the work of art as a relation of metamorphosis or evolution, see Luke Fischer, “Goethe contra Hegel: The Question of the End of Art,” Goethe Yearbook 18, no. 1 (2011): 127–58. 4. Novalis writes, “Man has always expressed the symbolic philosophy of his being in his works, his acting, and his forbearance—He proclaims himself and his gospel of nature. He is the messiah of nature” (NS 3, 248, no. 52). 5. Novalis’s criticism of abstraction in philosophy is not limited, however, to critiques of Kant and Fichte. He similarly criticizes Schelling’s philosophy of nature, challenging the claim that we must posit an original duality in nature in order to explain the development of nature. The very idea of “positing” a duality is, for Novalis, as abstract and unphilosophical as the idea of a first principle. He thus writes, “Science does not begin with an antion-binom but with an infinite” (NS 3, 432, no. 837). For further remarks on Schelling, see NS 3, 114 and 666. See also Henrik Steffens’s letter to Schelling on Novalis’s criticism of him in NS 4, 637. For an account of Schelling’s philosophy of nature and his notion of original duplicity, see chapter 10 in this volume. 6. For Friedrich Schlegel’s conception of the fragment, see chapter 8 below. 7. Novalis often compares thought with organic growth, explaining that both must develop out of an inner “seed,” i.e., an internal motivation rather than an external cause. Thus, he writes that “the philosopher and the artist experience organically—if I may say—they freely unify in accordance with a pure idea and separate according to a free idea. Their principle—their unifying idea—is an organic germ [Keim]—which forms itself

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to an infinitely individual, plastic form . . . , an idea rich with ideas” (NS 2, 587, no. 254; see also NS 2, 418, no. 19; NS 2, 526, no. 13; NS 3, 446–47, no. 929; and NS 3, 476, no. 1144). On the future of poetry as “organic poetry,” see NS 2, 535, no. 43. 8. On Novalis’s conception of thinking as free self-activity, see also NS 2, 584, no. 249; NS 2, 271, no. 256; NS 2, 373–74, no. 35. 9. See NS 2, 525–26, nos. 13 and 15. 10. This idea, already indicated in the Hemsterhuis-Studien, wherein Novalis distinguishes between the letter and spirit of philosophy, is repeated in the “Logologische Fragmente,” in which Novalis explains that philosophical thought must be freely undertaken by every individual (NS 2, 522, no. 3). See also NS 2, 523, no. 7. 11. For a detailed account of the difference between a fragment and a principle, see chapter 8 below.

conclusion to part 1 1. See also NS 3, 383–84, no. 634: “The complete concurrence of idealism and realism—with the most complete independence, furnishes the complete proof of the correct methodology of everything. Transformation of the one into the other./(Idealization of realism—and realization of idealism leads to truth. One works for the other—and hence indirectly for itself. In order to work directly for idealism, the idealist must seek to prove realism—and vice versa.—The proof of realism is idealism—and vice versa.”

part 2 1. Thus, Hans Eichner writes in his introduction to volume 18 of the Kritische Frie­ drich Schlegel Ausgabe, “While August Wilhelm Schlegel was devoted primarily to philology, Novalis and Tieck to poetry, and Schleiermacher to theology, Friedrich Schlegel could say that since 1790 metaphysics was the primary occupation of his life” (“Einleitung,” KFSA 18, ix). Similarly, Frederick Beiser writes, “If any single figure could claim to be the leader of the romantic circle, it would indisputably be Friedrich Schlegel. His energy, enthusiasm, and enterprise were the creative forces behind the Athenäum, the journal of the group; and his thinking laid the foundation for the aesthetics of romanticism. It was indeed Schlegel who formulated the concept of romantic poetry, from which the movement took its name and much of its inspiration.” Fredrick Beiser, Enlightenment, Revolution and Romanticism: The Genesis of Modern German Political Thought, 1790–1800 (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1992), 245. 2. One of the earliest critics to recognize the significance of Schlegel’s contribution to the philosophy of history and to Lebensphilosophie is Wilhelm Dilthey. Unlike many contemporary readers of Schlegel, Dilthey understood Schlegel’s epistemology—in which change, development, and contradiction are part of the “system” of knowledge—to be based on Schlegel’s belief that the role of philosophy was to understand the world as a historical, developing reality. In other words, Dilthey considered Schlegel’s philosophy of life or history—a philosophy that is concerned with explaining the phenomena of the world—as significant as his literary theory and epistemology. See Wilhelm Dilthey,

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Leben Schleiermachers, ed. M. Redecker (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1970), 262. More recently, and also much against the trend of the contemporary Schlegel scholarship, Jiro Watanabe argues that already in his 1800–1801 Jena Vorlesungen, Schlegel’s primary concern was Lebensphilosophie, or the philosophy of life. See Jiro Watanabe, “Transzendentalphilosophie und Philosophie des Lebens bei Friedrich Schlegel,” in Leben und Geschichte: Studien zur deutschen Geistesgeschichte des 19. und 20. Jahrhunderts (Würzburg: Königshausen & Neumann, 2008), 43–55. As I will argue in the following, Schlegel’s epistemology must be understood in relation to his conceptions of life and nature. 3. See, for instance, his “Versuch über den Begriff des Republikanismus” (Essay on the Concept of Republicanism) (1795). 4. Schlegel proclaims in the Athenäums-Fragmente that marriage is a form of concubinage (KFSA 2, 170) and in Lucinde argues that true union is not a legal matter (KFSA 5, 11). His essay Über die Philosophie. An Dorothea (On Philosophy: To Dorothea) (1799) is a discussion of the history of philosophy, which strongly encourages his interlocutor (and women in general) to study philosophy (KFSA 8, 41–62). Stylistically the essay seeks to mirror the kind of intimate dialogue that took place at a salon, and so it appears that Schlegel is not only inviting women to participate in philosophy, but also challenging the conventional philosophical style. As he puts it, what he is after is a work that is “for life and from out of life” (KFSA 8, 60). This essay follows an earlier writing on gender relations and the role of women in philosophy, Über Diotima (On Diotima) (1795), in which he argues that his contemporaries have largely misunderstood Greek philosophy because they have disregarded the role of women in it (KFSA 1, 99). 5. Hegel, Vorlesungen über die Aesthetik Band 1, 103. 6. For Goethe’s relationship to the romantics, see Richards, Romantic Conception of Life, 457–63. 7. Manfred Frank’s and Frederick Beiser’s works have been particularly significant in this regard. Unlike earlier scholarship on Schlegel, they both seek to explicate Schlegel primarily as a philosopher rather than as a literary critic. See especially Frank, Einführung and “Unendliche Annäherung”; and Beiser, German Idealism and Romantic Imperative. For the opposing perspective, see Ernst Behler’s Friedrich Schlegel (Hamburg: Rowoht, 1966) and Hans Eichner, Friedrich Schlegel (New York: Twayne, 1970). 8. Beiser, whose interpretation of German romanticism is particularly significant and sympathetic, thus writes that “what was merely fragmentary, inchoate, and suggestive in Hölderlin, Novalis, and Schlegel became systematic, organized, and explicit in Schelling” (German Idealism, 467). 9. Hegel, Vorlesungen über die Aesthetik Band 1, 100. For a comparison of Schlegel‘s and Hegel’s philosophies, as well as a review of literature on that topic, see Ernst Behler’s “Hegel und Friedrich Schlegel,” in Studien zur Romantik und zur idealistischen Philosophie 1 (Paderborn: Schöningh, 1988), 9–45; originally published in Hegel-Studien 2 (1963): 203–50. 10. Hegel, Vorlesungen über die Aesthetik Band 1, 103. 11. Beiser provides a thorough account of the way in which Hegel’s philosophy of history and his interpretation of his contemporaries continues to prevail in contemporary readings of classical German philosophy (German Idealism, 9–11).

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12. Schlegel’s review of Jacobi’s novel Woldemar was interpreted by his contemporaries to be in line with Fichtean philosophy. Thus, Behler writes, “From many contemporaries the review was understood as a judgment following Fichte. At that time Fichte and Schlegel were in close personal contact, and J. F. Reichardt, in whose journal Deutschland the debate appeared, had at first offered the review of Woldemar to Fichte” (“Einleitung,” KFSA 8, xxxiv). Rudolf Haym follows in this tradition, claiming that Schlegel’s philosophy is a continuation of Fichte’s, and even takes Schlegel’s notion of a Wechselerweis to be a Fichtean notion. See Die Romantische Schule, 219–32. In contrast, Manfred Frank argues that the Wechselerweis cannot be identified with Fichte’s notion of an unconditioned principle, and thus provides one of the first critiques of foundationalism in the history of German idealism. Frank writes, “The appearances of the Wechselerweis are indeed many, but unclear. A possible interpretation can be of a fragment in which the self-positing alternating [wechselseitig] statements are presented as follows: ‘The I posits itself’ (or, the absolute positing = Being: ‘I am’) and ‘The I should posit itself.’ If one of them were self-evident, it would not need a Wechselerweis (or ‘Wechselgrundsatz’). That means that Schlegel does not agree with Fichte’s positing of a singular proposition, ‘The I posits itself absolutely;’ for this statement does not hold on its own.” See Manfred Frank, “ ‘Alle Wahrheit ist Relativ, Alles Wissen Symbolisch’—Motive der Grundsatz-Skepsis in der frühen Jenaer Romantik (1796),” in Revue Internationale de Philosophie 50, no. 197 (March 1996): 420. Similarly, Beiser has challenged the subjectivistic interpretation of romanticism in general; see German Idealism, 1–15, and 435ff. I agree with Frank’s interpretation of the Wechselerweis as a critique of Fichte’s Grundsatz. See section 5.1 below. 13. It is safe to say that the majority of the scholarship on Schlegel falls in this category. Behler’s Friedrich Schlegel and Eichner’s Friedrich Schlegel are classic examples. One of Behler’s claims is that Schlegel’s entire philosophy (his philosophy history, his political and moral philosophy) is an outcome of his aesthetic change of mind—from classicist to modern or romantic. See his article “Unendliche Perfektabilität—Goldenes Zeitalter: die Geschichtsphilosophie Friedrich Schlegels im Unterschied zu der von Novalis,” in Geschichte und Aktualität, ed. Klaus-Detlef Müller (Tübingen: Max Nie­ meyer, 1988), 138–58. More recently, Michel Chaouli claims that there is something inherently problematic about philosophical interpretations of Schlegel. He argues that insofar as philosophical interpretations always seek systematicity or regularity, they do not allow for the possibility that Schlegel’s poetry was nothing more than the play of poetry with itself, the “breathtaking experiment in pursuing the internal logic of poetry to its ends.” Thus, rather than accepting poetic experimentation for what it is—with no end, useless, etc.—philosophers, Chaouli maintains, always wish to find something “redemptive” in it. See Michel Chaouli, The Laboratory of Poetics: Chemistry and Poetics in the Work of Friedrich Schlegel (Baltimore: John Hopkins University Press, 2002), 77–78. 14. See Philippe Lacoue-Labarthe and Jean-Luc Nancy, The Literary Absolute: The Theory of Literature in German Romanticism, trans. Philip Barnard and Cheryl Lester (Albany, NY: SUNY Press, 1988), 12. The two authors interpret Schlegel’s project as a literary project. Unlike literary interpretations, however, theirs emphasizes that Schlegel’s move to literature is born out of philosophical frustrations and thus is a response to the

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Kantian “crisis” of presentation (the subject’s self-presentation as well as philosophy’s capacity to present in general). 15. Although Manfred Frank’s interpretation is philosophical, it focuses on Schlegel’s use of literary devices—wit, irony—as a means by which to suggest or point to the absolute. See Frank, “Unendliche Annäherung,” 933–46, which in many ways reiterates his views on Schlegel in Einführung, 291–97. 16. Frank argues that Schlegel’s notion of “relative truth” relies on an “absolute” that retains its integrity outside of or beyond consciousness. In “‘Alle Wahrheit ist Relativ, Alles Wissen Symbolisch,’” Frank contends that for Schlegel (and the romantics in general), philosophy is inherently tied to a longing for a nonrelative absolute, an “independent actuality” (even if the absolute is beyond knowledge), which alone provides the basis for distinguishing truth and falsity. Thus, Frank writes, “If there were no orientation toward a nonrelative one, then the different allusions [Andeutungen] that have appeared in history would not have appeared as contradictions to one another and as such destroyed one another” (“Alle Wahrheit ist Relativ,” 434–35). 17. For a recent philosophical interpretation of Schlegel as an epistemologist, see Elizabeth Millán-Zaibert, Friedrich Schlegel and the Emergence of Romantic Philosophy (Albany, NY: SUNY Press, 2008). There are exceptions to this trend. As I noted in the introduction, Beiser does not forgo discussion of what he calls romantic “metaphysics.” In German Idealism, he calls the romantics “absolute idealists,” elaborating that by “absolute” the romantics meant the “universe,” “the one and all,” and “being” (352). Similarly, in The Romantic Imperative, he devotes much of his effort to uncovering what the romantics meant by infinite substance, its sources, its influences, and its con­ sequences. Beiser’s fundamental view is that for the romantics, “The mental and the physical are not simply different properties or perspectives on substance but different degrees of organization and development of living force” (Romantic Imperative, 143). The romantics, he argues, sought to “wed” Fichte and Spinoza and adapt Kant’s notion of an organic whole to their philosophical program. However, he does not explain the details of this wedding—how the romantics sought to unify a Spinozist conception of knowledge with Fichtean intellectual intuition; how they attempted to formulate a notion of the absolute as an absolute I, that mirrors both Spinoza’s substance and Fichte’s identity of the self with itself; and finally, how they attempted to reconcile Kantian organicism, with Spinozist mechanism and Fichtean idealism. 18. There is a great deal of confusion regarding the meaning of the “infinite” in Schlegel’s work. Frank, for instance, considers it to be a regulative ideal, but also des­ cribes it as a kind of being or existence. (For a detailed elaboration of Frank’s conception of the romantic absolute, see part 1 on Novalis above). Behler, by contrast, interprets Schlegel’s “infinite” as a tool that is used to understand the movement of history and thus—in contrast to Frank—does not attach to it any transcendental philosophical sig­ nificance. See “Zum Verhältnis von Hegel und Friedrich Schlegel in der Theorie des Unendlichen,” in Studien zur Romantik und zur idealistischen Philosophie 2 (Paderborn: Schöningh, 1994), 139–40. Behler also identifies Schlegel’s “infinite” with what Hegel terms the “bad infinite” (see ibid., 146 and 151; and chap. 7, n. 7 below). 19. It is telling that in his examination of these lectures, Behler overlooks the centrality of this question and instead focuses, on the one hand, on the origin and authenticity

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of the lectures and, on the other, on Schlegel’s notion of reflection. While these are both worthwhile topics for study, it is curious that Behler’s consideration of the content completely ignores the metaphysical questions which Schlegel addresses. See Ernst Behler, “Schlegels Vorlesungen über Transzendentalphilosophie” in Transzendentalphilosophie und Spekulation. Der Streit um die Gestalt einer Ersten Philosophie (1799–1807), ed. Walter Jaeschke (Hamburg: Meiner, 1993), 52–71. 20. One of the key questions in this regard is the question that Schelling brings up in his letter to Fichte (quoted above). If Schlegel is as critical of systematic philosophy as he repeatedly claims he is, then how can he seek to develop his own version of transcendental philosophy (as evidenced in his Jena lectures)? A second question concerns Schlegel’s relationship to the Kantian version of transcendental philosophy. As I have indicated, Frank often interprets Schlegel’s notion of the infinite as a regulative ideal along Kantian lines. This contrasts deeply with Beiser’s reading of Schlegel. (See the introduction for an account of their differences.) 21. The first of these two interpretations has been the more popular and prevalent in secondary literature on Schlegel, primarily because interest in Schlegel has been—until recently—limited to his literary contributions. See Ernst Behler, “Die Wirkung Goethes und Schillers auf die Brüder Schlegel,” in Studien zur Romantik und zur idealistischen Philosophie 1 (Paderborn: Schöningh, 1988); and Eichner, Friedrich Schlegel. The second interpretation, which takes into account Fichte’s influence on Schlegel, Schlegel’s relation to Novalis, and his move to Jena in the fall of 1796 (and hence the philosophical influences he may have encountered in that milieu), is more recent. It argues that Schlegel’s change from classicism to romanticism must be traced back to his philosophical transformation from a follower to a critic of Fichte and Reinhold’s first principles. Beiser writes, “In the course of his reflections on Fichte’s philosophy in the winter of 1796–1797, Schlegel sketched the outlines of an antifoundationalist epistemology that would ultimately transform his aesthetic doctrines” (Romantic Imperative, 123). Regarding Schlegel’s position on first principles and his antifoundationalist epistemology in general (i.e., not in relation to his aesthetics), see Ernst Behler, “Friedrich Schlegel’s Theory of an Alternating Principle prior to His Arrival in Jena (6 August 1796),” in Revue Internationale de Philosophie 50, no. 197 (March 1996): 383–402; Frank, “Alle Wahrheit ist Relativ”; Frank, “Unendliche Annäherung,” 190–200; and Beiser, German Idealism, 442–43. 22. For a comprehensive examination of the shifts in Schlegel’s views, and the implicit romanticism or the romantic tendencies in his early writings, see Beiser, “Friedrich Schlegel: The Mysterious Romantic,” in Romantic Imperative, 106–30. 23. This is the generally accepted view of the end of the romantic period. As Philippe Lacoue-Labarthe and Jean-Luc Nancy put it, the “romantic period” can only be identified by a place—Jena—and a journal—the Athenäum (Literary Absolute, 12). 24. For a thorough comparison of Schlegel’s earlier position and the one following (or leading up to) his conversion, see Ernst Behler, “Einleitung,” KFSA 8, esp. xxi–lxix. 25. As these lectures present Schlegel’s most comprehensive, clear, and detailed philosophical views at the time—and were very much ready for publication—there was speculation as to whether Schlegel would publish them. On the reasons why they were not published until after his death, see Jean-Jacques Anstett, “Einleitung,” in KFSA 12, xxii–xxiv.

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26. Manfred Frank thus claims that the Kölner Vorlesungen are “attestations” of Schlegel’s growing interest in Catholicism. Nonetheless, he continually quotes from these lectures to make claims about Schlegel’s “romanticism” (see “Unendliche Annäherung,” 930). This trend can be found in other recent philosophical interpretations of Schlegel. Thus, Elizabeth Millán-Zaibert’s hesitant attitude toward the lectures is coupled with her use of them to identify Schlegel’s romantic critique of first principles (Friedrich Schlegel, 17, 49–50). Similarly Michel Chaouli—who is also aware of Frank’s arbitrary uses of the text—maintains that he does not rely on these lectures, but in fact cites several passages from them to support key aspects of his reading (Laboratory of Poetics, 120–24). 27. Frank claims that there is a difference between Schlegel’s conception of the work of art in the Kölner Vorlesungen and his Jena Vorlesungen: “In the Jena period art is not merely a means of making sensible [versinnlichen] a certainty that is gained through other means (through revelation). Rather it supplements the absolute unpresentability of the absolute which is not religious (Schlegel was at that time a valiant atheist) or conceptualizable or sensible by ‘pointing’ [andeuten] to it” (Frank, “Unendliche Annäherung,” 931). Frank is right in pointing to Schlegel’s emphasis on revelation in the Kölner Vorlesungen, which, however, seems to me to be the only clear indication of a shift and thus the main difference between his earlier writings and these lectures. Ernst Behler takes up the theme of the relation between art and religion in Schlegel’s later writings in comparison to his earlier works in “Friedrich Schlegels späte Idealismuskritik und das Thema der ‘Göttlichen Dinge,’ ” in Religion und Spekulative Philosophie: der Streit um die göttlichen Dinge 1799–1812, ed. Walter Jaeschke (Hamburg: Meiner, 1994), 174–94. In the last section of the article, Behler explains that while for Schlegel both nature and art were significant “revelations” of the divine in his earlier writings, in his later work they are made subordinate to a third kind of revelation—the direct revelation of the divine itself. This transformation, according to Behler, begins with Schlegel’s move to Paris in 1802 (see esp. 190–94). In his introduction to KFSA 8, Behler notes that the two characteristics of the early Schlegel are his emphasis on art and his pantheism, both of which disappear in his later writings. Thus, although Schlegel speaks of a “new bible” and writes on religion in the “Ideen” (1800), his religious ideas are grounded in an “artistic pantheistic” worldview, whereby the “God of this religion was humanity” (KFSA 8, xii and cv, respectively). On whether the Kölner Vorlesungen indicate a significant change in Schlegel’s attitude toward religion, see the following note. 28. Schlegel’s explicit critique of pantheism only comes later, in his 1808 Über die Sprache und Weisheit der Indier (On the Language and Wisdom of the Indians) and in an essay from that same year on Fichte, titled “Die Fichtesche Lehre im Verhältnis zum Zeitalter” (KFSA 8, 229 and 70). In contrast, the cosmology (theory of the universe) he elaborates in books 2–5 of the Kölner Vorlesungen appears to come directly from his natural-scientific ruminations of 1799 (KFSA 18, 145–65) and from notes taken in the winter of 1800, at the time of the Jena Vorlesungen (KFSA 18, 165–93). Indeed, many of the key ideas of these sections in the Kölner Vorlesungen can already be found in these two sets of notes. Thus, Schlegel understands the origin of the universe in terms of the four elements, their relations to one another, and their “conscious” manifestations— he speaks of love as the origin of the universe (KFSA 18, 153, no. 361), of fear as the

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manifestation of the inward-turned stone or earth (KFSA 18, 187, no. 725). In these notes, he also argues that the mythological perspective is the most appropriate for understanding the natural world (KFSA 18, 153, no. 361; KFSA 18, 154, no. 378; KFSA 18, 155, no. 392; KFSA 18, 155, no. 379; KFSA 18, 155, no. 401; KFSA 18, 158, no. 421). As early as 1797, Schlegel rhetorically asks, “Is mythology not the idealistic treatment of the real?” (KFSA 18, 103, no. 889). It is precisely this mythological perspective which Schlegel employs in his elaboration of the emergence and development of the universe in the Kölner Vorlesungen. As such, the cosmology of the Kölner Vorlesungen appears to be far from a Christian understanding of creation and much closer to a mythological one, in which the four elements—often associated with human characteristics—come to play essential roles in the emergence and formation of the universe. It would therefore be misleading to say that the religious ideas of the Kölner Vorlesungen significantly differ from earlier ideas or, more importantly, that they exemplify an explicit turn toward Catholicism or Christianity in general. 29. For example, in philosophical fragments from 1797, Schlegel identifies empiricism with criticism and skepticism with mysticism in much the same way that he does in the Kölner Vorlesungen (see KFSA 18, 93, no. 772). Similarly, his understanding of the relation between Kant and Fichte, Descartes and Spinoza in these earlier notes reflects his elaboration of their relation in the later lectures (KFSA 18, 103, no. 891).

chapter five 1. The ideas of striving after truth, and the love of wisdom are central in Schlegel’s understanding of philosophy and knowledge in general. In letters to his brother from 1793, he speaks of the significance of “striving after an ideal” for philosophical knowledge and argues that it is only by having an ideal and striving after it that one can construct a philosophical system (KFSA 23, 141–42). For Schlegel’s understanding of system, see chapter 8 below. In notes from 1796, Schlegel similarly writes that “philosophy is the total concept [Inbegriff ] of all the sciences. The name is exactly appropriate. Without the love of wisdom [Weisheitsliebe], one could not do it [i.e., philosophy]” (KFSA 18, 519, no. 18). 2. See also Schlegel’s letter to August Wilhelm, where he describes philosophy as reason inspired by enthusiasm (KFSA 23, 130). 3. Schlegel criticizes Fichte on the same grounds, stating that the Wissenschaftslehre is a “Fichtean presentation of the Fichtean spirit in Fichtean letters” (KFSA 18, 33, no. 144). 4. In notes from the same year (1796), Schlegel writes, “There must lay in the ground of philosophy not merely a Wechselerweis, but also a Wechselbegriff. In the same way that one can ask for yet another proof [Erweis], one can also ask for yet another concept [Begriff ]. Thus, philosophy must, like an epic poem, begin in the middle. . . . It is a whole and the way to recognize it is not through a straight line but through a circle. The whole of fundamental science [Grundwissenschaft] must be derived from two ideas, two propositions, two concepts, two intuitions [Anschauungen]” (KFSA 18, 518, no. 16). The idea of two mutually conditioning and conditioned principles, in the place of one unconditioned

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principle, is central for Schlegel’s thinking and is present throughout his writings. Thus, in addition to Wechselerweis and Wechselbegriff, Schlegel also invokes “Wechselgrund” (KFSA 18, 7, no. 36), “Wechselwirkung” (KFSA 18, 88, no. 84; KFSA 18, 151, no. 335; KFSA 18, 303, no. 1314; KFSA 18, 374, no. 515; KFSA 18, 507, no. 20; KFSA 12, 5; KFSA 13, 38), “Wechselgrundsatz” (KFSA 18, 36, no. 193), “Wechselspiel” (KFSA 18, 361, no. 489; KFSA 18, 361, no. 495), and “Wechselbegründung” (KFSA 18, 510, no. 51). 5. Already in 1793, Schlegel insists that the notion of striving is an essential aspect of knowledge and, as I discuss in chapter 8, systematicity. See also KFSA 23, 130. 6. See, for instance, Schelling’s essay “Allgemeine Uebersicht der neuesten philosophischen Literatur,” which was published over two years (1796–1797) in Niethammer’s (and, by that point, also Fichte’s) Philosophisches Journal. In the 1809 edition of his works, Schelling republished it under the title “Abhandlung zur Erläuterung des Idealismus der Wissenschaftslehre.” For a detailed account of Fichte’s and Schelling’s notion of construction, see part 3 below, especially chapter 10. 7. In the Kölner Vorlesungen, Schlegel distinguishes, on the one hand, logical and mathematical entities, which he maintains can be treated as atemporal, static things, and, on the other hand, all other entities, which must be recognized as inherently changing and historical (KFSA 12, 307ff). For this reason, he contends that the rules of logic and mathematics must not be applied to any other discipline. 8. Millán-Zaibert makes the same point with regard to Schlegel’s critique of Fichte’s conception of a system (Friedrich Schlegel, 84). 9. Schlegel’s philosophy can be described as “philosophy in the middle.” The middle plays a significant role throughout his writings, and it is a key idea which distinguishes him from his contemporaries. Thus, he writes in the “Ideen,” “Join the extremes and then you have the true middle” (KFSA 2, 262, no. 74). And in the Athenäums-Fragmente, “Subjectively viewed, philosophy always begins in the middle, like a poem” (KFSA 2, 178, no. 84). In the Jena Vorlesungen, he states that “all truth lies in the middle . . . , and this is because all reality lies in the middle” (KFSA 12, 9). As I shall discuss, Schlegel is largely preoccupied with developing a mode of thought and a system of knowledge that are not based on the notion of the unconditioned, but that begin in the middle—in the state of things. 10. In letters to Schlegel from 1796, Novalis evidences an awe of Fichte as well as a caution toward him. Thus, in July of that year, he writes that “I owe my excitement to Fichte; he is the one who woke me up and keeps my intellectual fires burning,” but then adds that he is also reading Spinoza and Zinzendorf, “who have grasped the infinite idea of love and have divined the method of realizing themselves for it as well as realizing it for themselves on this speck of dust. I am sorry that I have not yet been able to see anything of this vision in Fichte” (NS 4, 188). In July of 1797, Novalis’s critique of Fichte becomes more articulate and direct. He writes to Schlegel: “Fichte cannot come out of the Wissenschaftslehre, at least without an internal shift [Selbstversetzung], which appears impossible to me” (NS 4, 230). 11. Schlegel’s radical criticism of all criteria in philosophy other than the “love of knowledge” can also be found in his statement that “applicability is just as little a criterion of true philosophy as communicability. Whoever makes them into a criterion

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presupposes that the philosophical solution of a particular task should serve to achieve a determined intention and thus contradicts himself” (KFSA 18, 9, no. 54). Although after 1797 Schlegel does not continue to maintain that all criteria are dogmatic, the fundamental idea that motivates this claim, namely, that philosophy must not be determined by a final goal or object, remains. See section 8.1 on Schlegel’s idea of a “system of fragments.” 12. In his enthusiastic review of Goethe’s Wilhelm Meister, Schlegel speaks of a deeper kind of systematicity than the one we commonly understand. The higher kind of systematicity, he explains, requires a reader who has “true systematic instinct” and a “sense for the universe.” Only to such a reader will the “personality and living individuality of the work,” the “inner connections and affinities” in it, reveal themselves (KFSA 2, 134). These inner connections and affinities, he elaborates, are based on a repetition of and an expansion on what preceded. Thus, “with every book a new scene and a new world opens up, and every book holds the seed for the one which follows and revises the pure output of the one which precedes with living force in its individual essence” (KFSA 2, 135). 13. The significance of Niethammer’s journal in the development of romantic philosophy has been particularly underscored by Manfred Frank. For the most comprehensive discussion of Niethammer’s influence, see “Unendliche Annäherung,” esp. 439ff., and Philosophical Foundations, 34ff. On the influence of Niethammer on Schlegel in particular, see Millán-Zaibert, Friedrich Schlegel, 95ff. Frank and Millán-Zaibert agree on the essentially skeptical, antifoundationalist goals of the Philosophisches Journal, thereby arguing against the previously held view that Niethammer’s journal was a mouthpiece of transcendental idealism (see Millán-Zaibert, Friedrich Schlegel, 7). 14. Schlegel is at pains to convince Cotta that his writings would sell because—although they are philosophical—they are “thoroughly not of the kind which simply re­ main unsold. I am brash enough to promise you with some certainty, that they would create a sensation for the late public” (KFSA 23, 355, no. 192). For Schlegel, style was a significant theme, particularly because he thought it necessary that philosophy be more accessible to the general public. 15. The review is of the first four volumes (1795–1796) of the Philosophisches Journal einer Gesellschaft teutscher Gelehrten. It appeared in issue no. 90 (March 1797) of the Allgemeine Literatur-Zeitung, and Schlegel republished it in 1801, with only minor changes, in a volume which contains works by him and his brother, titled Charakteristiken und Kritiken. 16. The review offers a comprehensive, though not detailed, account of the essays which appeared in the Journal. These include a number of works by Niethammer himself, an essay by Maimon, Schelling’s Briefe über Dogmatismus und Kriticismus (Letters on Dogmatism and Criticism) (1795–1796), a work by Christian Erhard Schmid on the Wissenschaftslehre, and Fichte’s response to Schmid. 17. See also KFSA 1, 628, where Schlegel similarly claims that, while there is now a natural history of plants and animals, there remains no history of humanity “which can earn the name of a science.” 18. In a letter to Novalis, Schlegel recounts with horror Fichte’s statement that he’d much rather “count peas” than study history (KFSA 23, 333, no. 169). And in notes he

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critically remarks that Fichte “had absolutely no interest in the historical and technical” (KFSA 18, 3, no. 2). He also argues that Kant’s lack of historical knowledge and understanding of history led him to develop both an inadequate theory of art (KFSA 18, 19, no. 10) and a highly problematic political philosophy (KFSA 7, 16–23).

chapter six 1. In many ways, Schlegel’s true predecessor and possibly most significant influence is Herder, who had already argued for the significance of history and historical understanding in philosophy. For an explication of Herder’s influence on Schlegel, see Michael Forster, German Philosophy of Language: From Schlegel to Hegel and Beyond (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011), esp. 12–35. 2. Schlegel’s methodology closely follows Fichte and Schelling’s transcendental methodology. For Fichte and Schelling the very possibility of self-consciousness depends on an original postulation or summons (Aufforderung) to abstraction and reflection. See chapter 10 below. 3. In this way as well, Schlegel is in agreement with both Fichte and Schelling. For the development of their views on intellectual intuition, see chapter 9 below. 4. Spinoza writes, “Someone who has a true idea knows at the same time that he has a true idea, and cannot doubt about the truth of the matter” (Ethics 2, 43). 5. Beiser makes the important distinction between the Protestant understanding of feeling (individual, subjective) and the Platonic rational, but nevertheless inspired, feeling for the infinite. It is this latter to which Schlegel is referring. See Schlegel KFSA 12, 9; and Beiser, German Idealism, 457. Schlegel’s claim that reason is nonsubjective in the sense of nonsolipsistic is echoed by Schelling in his 1800 “Darstellung meines Systems der philosophie” (Presentation of My System of Philosophy) where he describes reason as “the total indifference of subjective and objective” (SW 1/4, 114). Schelling criticizes the common view of reason as subjective, or inherently tied to a particular subject, because “reason’s thought is foreign to everyone” and demands that “one abstract from what does the thinking.” 6. This is what Fichte calls the “pragmatic history of the spirit” and what he considers to be the task of transcendental philosophy (GA 1/2, 364). It is also what Schelling means when he writes in the Ideen that philosophy is “the natural history [Naturlehre] of our mind” (SW 1/2, 39). 7. For this reason, I disagree with interpretations of Schlegel as an anti-idealist who develops a conception of being that is independent of thought. As I have shown, and will show in more detail, the infinite is determined by consciousness, just as consciousness is determined by the infinite—and this is the essence of Schlegel’s notion of Wechselerweis, or two reciprocally conditioning grounds. Importantly, this does not imply that reality is the outcome of self-consciousness (as is the case for Kant and Fichte). Rather, reality is the middle that emerges from the encounter between the infinite and consciousness. Cf. Millán-Zaibert, Friedrich Schlegel, 30–32. 8. In Über den Begriff der Wissenschaftslehre (1794), Fichte maintains that all knowledge is based on an original and immediate relation to the I (GA 1/2, 140). Thus, the necessity

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of knowledge is determined through its self-certainty, its immediate self-evidence, which is based on a self-reflective first-person perspective. See also chapter 9 below. 9. Schelling argues that necessity in science is achieved only when “all the parts are subordinated to one condition (Bedingung), and that one part determines the other only insofar as the one part is determined by the one condition” (HKA 1/1, 269). In other words, necessity is achieved on the basis of “one condition,” which in turn determines all the parts and their relations and must itself be undetermined, or “unconditioned [unbedingt].” 10. It is highly likely that Hegel attended Schlegel’s lectures (see Behler, “Zum Verhältnis von Hegel und Friedrich Schlegel”). The proximity of their thought should not, however, dilute their differences (see Chaouli, Laboratory of Poetics, 67–77). 11. In the same way that philosophy can be understood only through its history, so Schlegel argued, literature can be understood only through its history. Thus, in his “Lectures on the History of European Literature” (1803–1804), he remarks that “the new cannot be understood without the old,” because “literature can only be understood as a whole [ist durchaus nur im ganzen verständlich] (KFSA 11, 5 and 11, respectively). The lectures seek to explain the nature of literature through the history of literature. 12. In a monograph on the notion of “infinite perfectibility” in early German roman­ ticism, Ernst Behler argues that Schlegel’s particular conception of it is directly connected to Condorcet’s notion and maintains that Schlegel’s preference for infinite perfectibility over the idealist conception of “realizing” the infinite has to do with the fact that for Schlegel, “the goal of the movement, if one can speak of such a thing at all, is disconnected and independent from any representation of the goal derived from the education of humanity, from the social and political community life of human beings.” Behler, Unendliche Perfektibilität. Europäische Romantik und Französische Revolution (Paderborn: Schöningh, 1989), 284. In other words, for Schlegel the goal that determines the movement or transformation of thought and history should not be understood as derived from contemporary social-political ideas or representations. Furthermore, Behler maintains that while Kant’s and Fichte’s theories of the infinite were bound to an understanding of progress as “systematic, structural and metaphysical,” Schlegel’s is inherently tied to history and change. See “Zum Verhältnis von Hegel und Friedrich Schlegel,” 132–33. As historical progress, however, Schlegel’s infinite is distant from the “absolutization (Ver­absolutierung) of the past as a golden age and of the future as utopia” (134). Rather, Schlegel’s understanding was of a “decentered movement, which cannot be reduced to an already given model of history” (139). 13. For the skeptical interpretation of these two claims, see Frank, “Alle Wahrheit ist Relativ.” 14. Schlegel likens intellectual intuition to the categorical imperative, maintaining that “intellectual intuition is the categorical imperative of theory” (KFSA 2, 176, no. 76), which is to say that, lacking intellectual intuition, there is no truth, reality, or knowledge. Schlegel’s understanding of intellectual intuition as arising out of an original abstraction, which is brought about willfully, further establishes the proximity of intellectual intuition and Kant’s notion of imperative. Schlegel makes this connection explicit when he writes “intellectual intuition and the categorical imperative are evident acts of the absolute capacity [Acte des absoluten Vermögens]” (KFSA 18, 111, no. 986).

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15. Schlegel’s use of the term Verstand is significantly different from that of his contemporaries, who often employ it to speak derogatorily of reflective knowledge, as opposed to speculative knowledge and reason (Vernunft). For Schlegel, by contrast, Verstand denotes the Greek νου˜ς (KFSA 12, 13n1). 16. Schlegel’s critique of Fichte’s conception of intellectual intuition in 1804 is very much in line with Novalis’s earlier critique, penned in his 1795–1796 notes on Fichte, the Fichte-Studien. See chapter 1 above. 17. In Lucinde, Schlegel similarly emphasizes this kind of difference in identity in terms of an I-You relation. However, in the novel, he maintains that it is realized through love. See section 8.5. 18. See also: “If we do not grasp inner meaning, but only grasp the word of a puzzle, then all intuition is empty, shallow and nothing” (KFSA 12, 354).

chapter seven 1. Schlegel’s distinction between proof and explanation recalls his earlier critique of the methodology of proof. In this case, proof is not necessary because Schlegel is not concerned with proving that there is something—that needs no proof—but with explaining the relation between infinite and finite. 2. See also: “the true phenomenon is representative of the infinite, thus allegory, hieroglyph—thus much more than a fact” (KFSA 18, 155, no. 380). 3. It is important to recall that the relation of infinite to finite is the relation out of which self-consciousness emerges—i.e., it is in the infinite’s self-realization, in its becoming determinate, that self-consciousness arises. As such, it is imperative that the relation between the two be immediate. After all, within self-consciousness there is no distinction between the self and its object. Rather, within self-consciousness, there is an absolute immediacy between consciousness and the phenomenon of which it is conscious (itself). 4. See also: “Nature is the middle member of reality and the divine. Its infinite task is to realize the divine” (KFSA 12, 21). 5. Philosophy, he claims in the Jena Vorlesungen, is concerned with “the universe, with unity.” “All philosophy moves toward unity [Einheit], but the character of this unity differs, and the unity of our philosophy is harmony, or unity in relation to the particular in the whole. This philosophy is based on the concept of the organism of nature” (KFSA 12, 86). 6. Schlegel makes the same accusation of skepticism, which, for this reason, he does not consider to be philosophy. Thus, he writes that “since [skepticism] does not want a connected, constructed system, and hence does not overcome the intimation of the ideal of a general absolute philosophy . . . , it is in fact not philosophy at all” (KFSA 12, 128–29). 7. As I have thus far presented it, Schlegel’s infinite sounds quite close to what Hegel calls the “good infinite.” Usually, however, in Schlegel scholarship, Schlegel’s understanding of the infinite is likened to Hegel’s “bad infinite.” According to Hegel, the bad infinite is the infinite progression from one finite to the next, whereas the good infinite—the highest manifestation of which is the concept (Begriff )—contains the finite within itself. A key aspect of Hegel’s understanding of the infinite is that it does not exist beyond or outside

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of the finite. Further, for Hegel the good infinite is the resolution of the conflict between the infinite and the finite, not merely its expression (which would be the bad infinite). Hegel’s examples of philosophers who only arrived at the bad infinite are Kant and Fichte. Usually, however, Schlegel is placed under this category as well, because most interpreters understand Schlegel’s notion of the infinite to be unending progression. Ernst Behler, for example, writes that, with regard to Hegel’s bad infinite, “Here there is a point of contact with the romantic theory of the infinite, above all the one which Schlegel developed,” and again, “It appears however that the scientific, hermeneutic and semiological aspects of Hegel’s theory of the infinite, in which today the greatest interest lies, is more profitably compared, when one—instead of doing so with Hegel and Fichte as Hegel did—posits it over against Friedrich Schlegel’s developed theory of the infinite, in which it can find its most expressive opposite.” Behler, “Zum Verhältnis von Hegel und Friedrich Schlegel,” 125 and 129, respectively. Certainly there are differences between Hegel’s good infinite and Schlegel’s infinite—most significantly, in the fact that for Schlegel the finite is not overcome or sublated by the infinite so that the system is closed. However, that does not imply an identification of Schlegel’s conception of the infinite with Hegel’s bad infinite.

chapter eight 1. In a letter to Novalis, Schlegel points out that he is particularly concerned with unifying university education and that he considers the encyclopedia to be a contribution to the development of universities. Thus, he writes, “My encyclopedia will be nothing other than an application of these principles onto universities” (KFSA 24, 205). It is evident from numerous notes taken at the time, that Schlegel was preoccupied with the nature of university education. Thus, he remarks that “the theory of the university [is] identical with the philosophy of the encyclopedia. . . . Not only logic, but also the encyclopedia should be good for the universities” (KFSA 18, 202, no. 62). He then goes on to criticize the present state of the university, writing that “until now the universities are only an aggregate” (KFSA 18, 202, no. 63). Only through a unification of the arts and sciences can this aggregate be transformed into a coherent, meaningful whole. 2. In 1802 alone, Schlegel changes his mind several times. First, he associates the encyclopedia with the dialogue form (KFSA 18, 425, no. 2). Then he maintains that it is best presented through letters (“letters on idealism”) (KFSA 18, 438, no. 126). Finally, he recants his previous claim and states that the encyclopedia must not be in the form of letters (KFSA 18, 439, no. 134). 3. Schlegel often identifies poetry and prose, or poetry and the romantic novel, writ­ ing, for instance, “The novel is to be seen as progressive poetry” (KFSA 16, 152, no. 779), and “All poetry should be prose, and all prose should be poetry. All prose should be roman­tic” (KFSA 16, 136, no. 606). 4. See also KFSA 18, 474, nos. 33–35. 5. Schlegel often identifies system with “work,” writing, for instance that “only a system is truly a work. Every other writing cannot conclude, but only cut off or end” (KFSA 16, 162, no. 902). He also states that “system is not so much a kind of form, as the essence of the work itself” (KFSA 16, 164, no. 940).

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6. Schlegel also writes, “The fragment is the actual form of the philosophy of nature” (KFSA 2, 100, no. 859), and “The true form of universal philosophy is fragments” (KFSA 2, 114, no. 204). 7. It would be a mistake, however, to understand Schlegel’s notion of progression as historical movement toward a final, predestined end. Thus, he writes in the Kölner Vorlesungen, “An advancing development and perfectibility is in no way suitable for history, but only for praxis” (KFSA 13, 22). For Schlegel’s view of history, see chapter 7. 8. Chaouli emphasizes the important distinction between a fragment and an aphorism, noting that “if the aphorism attempts to bound the horizon of our understanding by offering a central point of focus, the very generic structure of the Schlegelian fragment aims at breaking such an understanding wide open” (Laboratory of Poetics, 55). Similarly, he distinguishes between the modern and ancient fragment. While the ancient fragment is a remainder of something that was once whole, and is thus a symbol of a historical unity, the modern fragment “is made fragmentary,” i.e., it is a fragment in its very intention and thus disrupts the goal of unity (59). While I agree with Chaouli’s distinctions, I do not agree with his conclusion that fragments “do not foster an ecosystem in which they live in harmony,” but that they exist alongside one another in contradiction (61). Chaouli maintains that, for Schlegel, the contradictions displayed in the fragments are not dissolved in a higher moment, but coexist in a relation of disharmony or disunity (62–3). As I shall discuss, however, Schlegel develops his conception of the fragment in relation to his understanding of natural and musical harmonies and argues that the system of fragments should embody such a harmony. In turn, in the Jena Vorlesungen, Schlegel argues that “all philosophy concerns unity,” adding that “the unity of our philosophy is harmony, or unity in the relation of the particular to the whole. This philosophy is based on the concept of the organism of nature” (KFSA 12, 86). 9. In the Athenäums-Fragmente he similarly explains that individuality implies not only complexity but “real, historical unity” (KFSA 2, 205, no. 242). 10. For an investigation of the way in which Schlegel thematically organized fragments within his collections, see Hans-Joachim Heiner, Das Ganzheitsdenken Friedrich Schlegels (Stuttgart: Metzler, 1971), esp. 30–44. 11. Schlegel also speaks of the collection of fragments as an “overture” (KFSA 24, 44). 12. See also: “To perceive the world as music, is an eternal dance of all beings, a universal song of all living things, and a rhythmic current of spirits” (KFSA 18, 202, no. 60). 13. It seems that Schlegel thought of the plant and music as deeply connected, and even interchangeable. In notes on Lucinde, he alters his statement “Julius observes nature as music (as flower)” to “Julius observes nature as plant (as flower)” (KFSA 16, 244, no. 153; see editor’s note in same volume: 573, no. 153). 14. In a fragment published as part of Novalis’s “Blüthenstaub,” Schlegel remarkably affirms difference within unity by drawing on nature: “If one has loyalty for the universe and cannot escape it, then there remains no way out except to end up with contradiction and to connect the opposed” (KFSA 2, 164). 15. Schlegel writes: “As soon as we no longer remain with the external characteristics, the concept of the thing disappears, like an invisible, dead carrier of characteristics, and only the concept, the picture of life, emerges. We then obtain something thoroughly

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living—moving, where one emerges from out of the other and brings forth another. In short we obtain insight into the history of the thing” (KFSA 12, 307). 16. On Schlegel’s earlier (or preromantic) view of this relation, see Stone, “Friedrich Schlegel, Romanticism,” esp. 3–10. 17. The relation between the work of art and nature in Schlegel is a disputed topic in the literature. Beiser maintains that for the romantics, “the universe is nothing less than a natural work of art, and a work of art is nothing less an artificial organism.” Beiser quotes Schlegel’s claim that “idealism considers nature as a work of art, as a poem,” to support his reading (German Idealism, 373–74). In contrast to this view is Behler’s. In a review of Manfred Frank’s work, he writes, “One could thus say that the natural (unconscious creation) and the artificial (conscious creation) aspects of art are in Kant still not separated from one another, while in Schelling and the early romantics they are set apart [auseinandertreten].” Behler, “Ernst Behler über Manfred Franks Einführung in die frühromantische Ästhetik,” Athenäum 1 (1991): 252. Behler explains that the artificiality of art is most apparent in the work of August Wilhelm Schlegel and repeats this in an article written the following year, where he argues that the roots of the avant garde understanding of “art for art” can be found in A. W. Schlegel’s understanding of art as a wholly conscious act and in his rejection of the unconscious creativity of nature. Behler, “Natur und Kunst in der frühromantischen Theorie,” Athenäum 2 (1992): 21–22. In this piece, however, Behler’s reading is more nuanced in that it distinguishes A. W. Schlegel’s understanding from that of the other romantics and notes that Friedrich Schlegel, Novalis, and Wilhelm Heinrich Wackenroder did not conceive of art as a solely artificial (künstlich) conscious activity (23–24). Yet, in spite of this distinction, and in spite of much evidence to the contrary (which Behler himself cites), Behler insists that, for the romantics, art and nature were never conceived as one. He describes the romantic attitude toward the relation between art and nature as an “oscillation” between “two perspectives”—the perspective of nature and the perspective of art. Thus, he writes, “The noticeable dualism of a free art and of an art that is tied to nature is not brought to synthesis by the early romantics. . . . Rather, [the two elements] are held in an oscillation characteristic of the early romantics. This consists in . . . getting rid of a pure avant garde aesthetic, and vice versa [i.e., getting rid of art’s] . . . relatedness to nature” (25). I think Behler’s reading does not recognize that Schlegel’s views on art and nature shift. In his early writings, Schlegel does put forth a conception of art as free activity. In his later works, however, he considers art to be a continuation of the unconscious activity of nature. 18. That artistic and natural beauty exhibit the same kind of organization and thus elicit the same kind of feeling is the premise of the Kritik der Urteilskraft. However, Kant did not (at least not explicitly) take the next step and state that the activity which underlies the productivity of nature is the same which underlies cultural productivity. Beiser similarly remarks, “The romantics went further than Kant: they sought some model to explain the unity of the noumenal and phenomenal; they did not want only an aesthetic symbol for the mystery of their interaction” (Romantic Imperative, 80). 19. See also: “The most important and highest view of nature is as fragments of a great, subordinated poet. This poet is God” (KFSA 18, 156, no. 402). 20. See also: “The Spinozism of physics actually means the affinity of [physics] with poetry. The methods of the physicist must be historical—his final goal mythology” (KFSA 18, 154–55, no. 378).

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21. See also: “Of nature, one can only speak in images” (KFSA 18, 153, no. 359). 22. In notes from 1799, Schlegel states that “the history of nature remains for the time of the (new) mythology” (KFSA 18, 153, no. 360). 23. Although by 1800 the natural sciences had established themselves as distinct from the “mystical sciences” with which they had previously been identified, and had also distanced themselves from philosophy, Schlegel’s remarks should not be entirely surprising given that until the eighteenth century, philosophers and natural scientists—or more accurately, “natural philosophers”—were indistinguishable, and scientists were more often than not practitioners of alchemy and magic in general. 24. Schlegel often emphasized that the methods and questions of the sciences were more likely to obscure or hinder understanding of nature rather than enable insight into it. Thus, in the Athenäums-Fragmente, he writes that “there are three kinds of science: explanations, which give us light or a hint; explanations which explain nothing, or explanations which obfuscate everything” (KFSA 2, 177, no. 82). The missing link in the natural sciences, he argues throughout his writings, is a poetic way of observing the natural world. After all, if poetry and nature are inspired by the same original productivity, then poetic activity or creativity should be able to offer insights into natural productivity. 25. Schlegel describes the history of poetry in terms of a development out of chaos. He thus writes, “In the growth of Homeric poetry, we also see the emergence of all poetry; however, the roots elude our view, and the blossoms and branches of the plant enter inconceivably out of the night of the ancients. This charming formed chaos is the seed, from which the world of ancient poetry organized itself” (KFSA 2, 291). 26. Johannes Hoffmeister, Goethe und der deutsche Idealismus (Leipzig: Meiner, 1932), 28–29. The ideas of polarity and intensification play a significant role in Schelling’s understanding of natural metamorphosis as well, and become central in his attempt to move beyond transcendental idealism. Schelling, more so than Schlegel, was directly influenced by Goethe’s scientific work and his writings. See chapter 10 below. By contrast, Schlegel’s primary influences may have been Lessing, Baader, and Novalis—the latter, I presume, would have certainly discussed Goethe with Schlegel. On Novalis’s reception of Goethe, see chapter 3 above. 27. Polarity and intensification are, as Goethe puts it, “the two great driving forces of nature.” Polarity, he explains, is “a property of matter insofar as we think of it as material,” while intensification concerns matter “insofar as we think of it as spiritual” (HA 13, 48). Thus, while polarity represents the way in which natural beings are materially formed and materially relate to one another, intensification has to do with the spiritual or ideal reality of matter. That is to say, intensification represents the ideal that an organism works toward, the formative principle that guides its growth and development. This implies, importantly, that the organism displays a distinctive temporal structure, wherein the future (the idea) determines the past and present. 28. Schlegel’s interest in Goethe’s literary writings is evident throughout his career and has been documented in great detail. For a summary of their relationship (both biographical and literary), see Fröschle, Goethes Verhältnis zur Romantik, 199–215, esp. 202–7. 29. He also states to Novalis that “the bible [has] a literary central form and is thus the idea of every book” (KFSA 24, 204).

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30. The highest stage of development can also be understood as the fruit, which is a moment of contraction following the expansion of the flower. This interpretation could also be applied to the last section of the novel, in which Julius discovers that Lucinde and he are about to have a child. 31. “Love,” Schlegel writes in notes from that time, “is the intellectual intuition of life. It sees in her the beauty of the world—she [sees] in him the infinity of humanity” (KFSA 16, 218, no. 191). 32. Once again, we witness a point of affinity between Schlegel and Hegel’s Phenomenology. Like Schlegel, Hegel describes the Phenomenology in terms of plant development, such that every stage in the plant’s metamorphosis mirrors the transformations in the history of spirit. In the opening remarks to the preface, Hegel describes his method as the “progressive unfolding of the truth,” and goes on to explicate this unfolding in terms of plant development: “The bud disappears in the bursting-forth of the blossom, and one might say that the former is refuted by the latter; similarly, when the fruit appears, the blossom is shown up in its turn as a false manifestation of the plant, and the fruit now emerges as the truth of it instead” (Gesammelte Werke, 9:10). For Hegel, the preceding parts are “refuted” by those that succeed them, such that they are revealed as “false,” while the parts that follow are revealed as manifestations of “truth.” Although Schlegel understands the transitions between philosophical perspectives as arising out of a recognition of error, he does not consider this to imply refutation. Rather, he argues that each part offers a distinctive—and irrefutable—disclosure of the whole. Furthermore, he emphasizes that this whole can never be fully achieved but is infinitely perfectible, and thus offers a necessarily incomplete system of knowledge (KFSA 18, 100, no. 857). 33. Schlegel’s views on women were progressive for his time (and to some extent continue to be relevant today). See part 2, n. 4, above. Schlegel maintains that equality in society can only be achieved if women are able to own property (KFSA 18, 200, no. 40) and challenges accepted stereotypes of the feminine and masculine. Thus, in an early essay on Diotima, he famously remarks, “What is uglier than overloaded femininity, what is more repulsive than exaggerated masculinity” (KFSA 1, 92). Furthermore, Schlegel repeatedly asserts the rights of both sexes to free and independent movement, writing to his future wife (Dorothea) that each individual possesses the right to “move freely according to his or her own desire, along the whole spectrum of humanity” (KFSA 8, 45). This in turn connects to his views on sexuality in Lucinde, and the apparent overcoming of the opposition or polarity between masculine and feminine. Without strict categories and distinctions, human beings, Schlegel seems to be saying, should be free in that regard as well. 34. Frederick Beiser is of the view that the romantics were ultimately politically complacent: “The more the romantics saw the divine order everywhere, even in present social and political institutions, and the more they regarded that order as the product of necessity,” he argues, “the less motivation they had to change things, the more resigned they became” (Romantic Imperative, 186). 35. On the nature and role of androgyny in Schlegel’s Lucinde and other writings, see Catriona MacLeod, “The ‘Third Sex’ in an Age of Difference: Androgyny and Homosexuality in Winckelmann, Friedrich Schlegel, and Kleist,” in Outing Goethe and His Age, ed. Alice Kuzniar (Palo Alto, CA: Stanford University Press, 1996), 194–214, esp. 203–8.

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part 3 1. Beiser, German Idealism, 467. 2. He writes in the System des transcendentalen Idealismus (1800) that “only a system that reverts back to its own principle can be regarded as complete” (SW 1/3, 349). Schelling’s conception of a first principle, however, should not be mistaken for Reinhold’s “elementary philosophy.” For Schelling, as it was for Fichte, the first principle is an intuitive “act” rather than a fact of consciousness. See chapter 9 below for differences between Reinhold, Fichte, and Schelling on the notion of a first principle and intellectual intuition. 3. For a detailed account of Schelling’s move from Jena and his final break with Friedrich Schlegel, see Richards, Romantic Conception of Life, 166–75. 4. See below, chap. 9, n. 1. 5. I do not wish to undermine the significant differences between Schelling and Fichte at the time of the publication of the Entwurf and its Einleitung (Introduction) in 1799. These differences are extremely important, and I will discuss them at length in chapter 10. However, my point simply is that while Schelling came to understand nature in a significantly different way from Fichte, he continued to employ a methodology of successive construction, not unlike Fichte’s. On the nature of this methodology, see chaps. 10 and 11 below. 6. Many scholars trace Schelling’s interest in Naturphilosophie back to his “Timaeus Fragment” from his time in Tübingen in 1794, prior to his encounter with Fichte’s work. See Wolfdietrich Schmied-Kowarzik, “Von der wirklichen, von der seyenden Natur.” Schellings Ringen um eine Naturphilosophie in Auseinandersetzung mit Kant, Fichte und Hegel (Stuttgart-Bad Cannstatt: Frommann-Holzboog, 1996), 67; and Manfred Baum, “Die Anfänge der Schellingschen Naturphilosophie,” in Schelling: Zwischen Fichte und Hegel; Schelling: Between Fichte and Hegel, ed. C. Asmuth, A. Denker, and M. Vater (Amsterdam: Grüner, 2000), 95–112. H. Holz interprets Schelling’s interest in nature as related to his Platonist inheritance. See H. Holz, “Das Platonische Syndrom beim jungen Schelling. (Hintergrundtheoreme in der Ausbildung seines Naturbegriffs),” in Die Idee der Philosophie bei Schelling. Metaphysische Motive in seiner Frühphilosophie, ed. H. Holz (Freiburg: Alber, 1977), 19–63. Horst Fuhrmans argues that Schelling’s “turn to the philosophy of nature was in no way sudden.” Its roots go back to his time in Tübingen and reveal the “true Schelling.” Horst Fuhrmans, ed. Schelling: Briefe und Dokumente (Bonn: Bouvier, 1962), 75. For Alfred Denker, it is “the pietistic belief in the connection of everything [which] was the origin of Schelling’s pantheism, and thus one can claim, that he had been working out this problem throughout his life.” See A. Denker, “Freiheit und das höchste Gut des Menschen. Schellings erste Auseinadersetzung mit der Jenaer Wissenschaftslehre Fichtes,” in Sein—Reflexion—Freiheit. Aspekte der Philosophie J.G. Fichtes, ed. C. Asmuth (Amsterdam: Rodopi, 1997), 35–68. Others consider Hölderlin to be the most formative influence on Schelling’s turn to objective idealism. See Manfred Frank, Eine Einführung in Schellings Philosophie (Frankfurt: Suhrkamp, 1985), 108–9; and more recently, Beiser, German Idealism, 476–78. The influence of Spinoza has been traced in detail by Klaus-Jürgen Grün, Das Erwachen der Materie. Studie über die spinozistischen Gehalte der Naturphilosophie Schellings (Hildesheim:

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Olms, 1993). That Schelling developed a conception of nature comparable to Leibniz’s monadology has been argued by Michael Rudolphi, Produktion und Konstruktion. Zur Genese der Naturphilosophie in Schellings Frühwerk (Stuttgart-Bad Cannstatt: Frommann-Holzboog, 2001), 145–54. None of these authors, however, speaks of Goethe. In his discussion of Schelling’s Einleitung, Wilhelm Jacobs (editor of the volume of the Historisch-Kritische-Ausgabe in which the work appears) mentions Goethe only in passing (HKA 1/8, 8ff). 7. While there have been studies of Schelling’s influence on Goethe, these works have only cursorily attended to the significance of Goethe for Schelling. See Richards, Romantic Conception of Life, 463–71; Erwin Jäckle, “Goethes Morphologie und Schellings Weltseele,” Deutsche Vierteljahrsschrift für Literaturwissenschaft und Geistesgeschichte 15 (1937): 295–440; Alfred Schmidt, Goethes herrlich leuchtende Natur. Philosophische Studie zur deutschen Spätaufklärung (Munich: Carl Hanser, 1984), 111–112; Olaf Breidbach, Goethes Metamorphosenlehre (Munich: Wilhelm Fink, 2006), 214–25, esp. 225. Jeremy Adler, in an essay on Goethe and Schelling, takes a more promising approach, writing that he wishes to understand the “dialogue” between the two thinkers. Thus, he is careful to note the influence of Goethe’s theory of metamorphosis on Schelling’s development; he does not, however, detail the significance of this theory for Schelling’s philosophy, nor does he explicate its importance in relation to Schelling’s break with Fichte. Adler’s primary interest lies in a historical investigation of Schelling’s poetic works and Goethe’s influence on those in particular. See Jeremy Adler, “The Aesthetics of Magnetism: Science, Philosophy and Poetry in the Dialogue between Goethe and Schelling,” in The Third Culture: Literature and Science, ed. Elinor S. Shaffer (Berlin: de Gruyter, 1998), 66–102.

chapter nine 1. Although the differences had become apparent already in 1799 with the publication of the Entwurf, it was not until about a year later, following Schelling’s publication of the System des transcendentalen Idealismus, that Fichte became aware of them. This was because Fichte did not read Schelling’s work on the philosophy of nature and was himself embroiled in the atheism controversy, which led to his dismissal from the Uni­versity of Jena. The disagreement is most clear in their letters from that year. Walter Schulz argues that it was only after 1800 that their letters came to have the philosophically rich content from which a difference of opinion can be gleaned. See Schulz, “Einleitung,” in Fichte-Schelling Briefwechsel (Frankfurt: Suhrkamp, 1968). Wilhelm Jacobs writes, “The letters written in the year 1799 reveal no difference at all.” Jacobs, J. G. Fichte (Reinbek bei Hamburg: Rowohlt, 1984), 24. Fuhrmans similarly claims that the letters from 1794 until 1800 suggest a “unity of thought between Fichte and Schelling” and that it was only after 1800 that their correspondence begins to reveal a “break” and gain “substance” (Fuhrmans, Schelling: Briefe und Dokumente, 201–9). Hartmut Traub disagrees, arguing, first, that the pre-1800 letters were philosophically rich and, second, that in these earlier letters, one can see implicit differences. Traub, “Einleitung,” in Schelling-Fichte Briefwechsel (Neuried: Ars Una, 2001), p. 55, n. 79, and p. 23. Traub maintains that the fundamental difference between the two concerns Schelling’s insis-

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tence on idealism and Fichte’s transcendental-philosophical or critical idealism, which puts him on the side of Kant. 2. Hegel may have been one of the first to maintain that Schelling’s early works “were entirely Fichtean.” Hegel, Vorlesungen: Ausgewählte Nachschriften und Manuskripte (Hamburg: Meiner, 1986), 9:179. By contrast, the last twenty years have witnessed a growing consensus that Schelling was never a fully-fledged Fichtean. However, the question remains concerning the proximity of Schelling’s conception of the I to Fichte’s and the extent to which Schelling was appropriating Fichte’s terminology to develop a non-Fichtean system. Additionally, Schelling’s interest in and appropriation of other philosophical sys­ tem has become an increasingly significant theme. By illustrating the significance of both Plato and Jacobi for the early Schelling, Birgit Sandkaulen-Bock argues that Schelling was “at no time only and exclusively a Fichtean.” Sandkaulen-Bock, Ausgang vom Unbedingten: Über den Anfang in der Philosophie Schellings (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1990), 22–23. In his study on Spinoza and Schelling, Klaus-Jürgen Grün similarly maintains that Schelling was not and could not have been, even at this early stage, a mere disciple of Fichte and illustrates, in contrast to Sandkaulen-Bock, that it was Spinoza (and Spinozism) that played a formative role in Schelling’s philosophical development (Grün, Das Erwachen der Materie). This is in contrast to earlier studies on Schelling. See Xavier Tilliette, Schelling: Une Philosophie de Devenir, vol. 1, Le System Vivant (Paris: Vrin, 1970). Tilliette claims that in his early writings, Schelling was, “at least in intention, a Fichtean” (115). Ingtraud Görland similarly argues that “it is actually not possible that Schelling broke through Fichtean philosophy and put forth his own; rather it is only a further development of Fichte’s convoluted philosophy.” Görland, Die Entwicklung der Frühphilosophie Schellings in der Auseinandersetzung mit Fichte (Frankfurt: Klostermann, 1973), 7. Reinhard Lauth polemically disagreed, arguing in 1975 that Schelling was, from the start, a “dogmatist.” See Lauth, Die Entstehung von Schellings Identitätsphilosophie in der Auseinandersetzung mit Fichtes Wissenschaftslehre (Freiburg: Karl Alber, 1975). Perhaps one of the first people to recognize differences between Fichte and Schelling was Friedrich Schlegel. In notes from 1796 he writes, “In Fichte’s reasoning couldn’t it be the case that from out of A = A the Not-I posits itself? That would make Schelling happy” (KFSA 18, no. 51); and again he notes, “In the Wissenschaftslehre there is only the concept of absolute being, not that of actual, possible, necessary [being]. In that regard there are very good suggestions in Schelling” (KFSA 18, 57). 3. Xavier Tilliette, Schelling: Une Philosophie de Devenir, 1:73. 4. The full title of the work is “Aenesidemus oder über die Fundamente der von dem Herrn Professor Reinhold in Jena gelieferten Elementar-philosophie. Nebst einer Vertheidigung des Skepticismus gegen die Anmassungen der Vernunfkritik” (Aenesidemus, or Concerning the Foundations of the Elementary Philosophy Propounded in Jena by Professor Reinhold, including a Defense of Skepticism against the Pretensions of the Critique of Pure Reason). It was later revealed that the author was the professor of philosophy Gottlob Ernst Schulze (1761–1833). 5. For Fichte’s encounter with Aenesidemus and the transformation in Fichte’s attitude toward Kant and Reinhold on account of it, see Daniel Breazeale, “Fichte’s Aenesidemus Review and the Transformation of German Idealism,” Review of Metaphysics 34 (1981): 545–68.

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6. The review also distinctively takes up both the theoretical and the practical philosophies. However, for our purposes, we do not need to consider this particular criticism. See Beiser, German Idealism, 242–47, for a complete account of the contents of the review. 7. In fact, it is to this first-person perspective that Fichte appeals in order to overcome the inevitable circularity of science. The circle, he explains, has to do with the notion of a singular first principle and a singular system of human knowledge. The claim to singularity is based on the first principle; therefore, there is no way by which to demonstrate the truth of this claim without assuming the first principle. In other words, by agreeing that there is only one first principle, we are already assuming the correctness of the first principle. Thus, Fichte concludes, “We are already assuming that the principle in question is the absolute and sole first principle and that it governs human knowledge completely” (GA 1/2, 118). The only way by which to overcome the circularity of our thinking and to achieve self-evidence with regard to the truth of one singular system, Fichte concludes, is through self-reflection. “Whoever so wishes [to overcome the circle],” he writes, “can always ask himself, what he would know if his I were not an I, that is, if he did not exist, and if he could not distinguish something not-I from his I” (GA 1/2, 119). 8. See Sandkaulen-Bock, Ausgang vom Unbedingten, 29. 9. See Grün, Das Erwachen der Materie, 89. Grün correctly notes that “for Schelling, Fichte’s Grundsatz grounds only the form. . . . In order to get the pure Subject-Object, which precedes the Grundsatz [dem Grundsatz vorausgehe] into consciousness, something else besides Fichte’s reflection is necessary.” 10. On the significance of Jacobi—in particular Jacobi’s conception of the unconditioned—for Schelling, see Sandkaulen-Bock, Ausgang vom Unbedingten. 11. In his commentary on the 1809 edition of his philosophical writings (F. W. J. Schellings philosophische Schriften), in which Vom Ich is included, Schelling notes that this text represents idealism “in its freshest appearance, and maybe in a sense, which it later loses. At least the I is still thought of everywhere as absolute, or as absolute identity of subjective and objective, not as something subjective” (HKA 1/4, 58). This remark illustrates, I think, that the commonplace interpretation of Schelling’s philosophical beginnings as Fichtean is not accurate. It is not until 1796–1797 that Schelling’s work takes on a Fichtean, subjective tone and begins to concern itself with the possibility of knowledge from the perspective of the subject. The works from 1795, in contrast, aim to grasp a nonsubjective absolute, and it is precisely in these terms that the I is conceived in Vom Ich. 12. See Manfred Frank and Gerhard Kurz, “Einleitung,” in Materialien zu Schellings Philosophischen Anfangen (Frankfurt: Suhrkamp, 1975), 10. See also W. Schulz’s “Einleitung,” in Fichte-Schelling Briefwechsel, 29. 13. On the Platonist tendencies in Schelling’s early thought, especially his “Timaeus Fragment,” see Sandkaulen-Bock, Ausgang vom Unbedingten. Beiser similarly emphasizes the Platonic heritage of the romantics. See Beiser, Romantic Imperative, chap. 4. 14. Schelling understands “empirical” to mean anything that is or can be made into an object. 15. For a discussion of Reinhold’s theory of intellectual intuition, see Jürgen Stolzenberg, Fichtes Begriff der intellektuellen Anschauung. Die Entwicklung in den Wissenschaftslehren von 1793/94 bis 1801/1802 (Stuttgart: Klett-Cotta, 1986), 40–56.



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16. I want to thank David W. Wood for pointing me to the recently (1996) discovered lecture notes and to Fichte’s mention of intellectual intuition in them. See Zürich Wissenschaftslehre (GA 4/3, 19–41). 17. Xavier Tilliette’s earlier writings on Schelling interpret Vom Ich and the conception of intellectual intuition presented in it as Fichtean. He writes, “The writing Vom Ich does not only tolerate a Fichtean interpretation, it demands it.” Tilliette, “Erste Fichte-Rezeption. Mit besonderer Berücksichtigung der intellektuellen Anschauung,” in Der Transzendentale Gedanke: die gegenwärtige Darstellung der Philosophie Fichtes, ed. Klaus Hammacher (Hamburg: Meiner, 1981), 536. Tilliette’s more recent work on intellectual intuition recognizes fundamental differences in Schelling’s and Fichte’s accounts and notes that if the two had read each other’s works attentively, they would have recognized differences early on. See Tilliette, L’intuition intellectuelle, 57. Thus, Tilliette now considers Spinoza’s notion of intellectual intuition (the third kind of knowledge, the intellectual love of God) as more influential on Vom Ich than he had previously thought. However, Tilliette’s interpretation emphasizes—too much I think—the sense of intellectual intuition as a “quiet bliss [Stille Wonne—Schelling],” a giving over of oneself to the absolute (L’intuition intellectuelle, 58). On Schelling’s reception of Spinoza’s conception of intellectual intuition, see sections 9.4 and 9.5 in this volume. 18. Already at the beginning of the notes, Fichte exhibits a skepticism toward Reinhold’s theory and reframes intellectual intuition in terms of thought, and not in terms of the powers of representation. He writes, “The forms of the powers of representation, about which we are speaking, are intuited purely intellectually. However, this intellectual intuition is in part based on previous expressions of spontaneity, of thought; if it has not been correctly thought out, the intuition is also mistakenly eliminated” (GA 2/3, 24). See also Stolzenberg, Fichtes Begriff der intellektuellen Anschauung, 55–56. According to Stolzenberg, Reinhold’s conception of intellectual intuition amounted to an inherent circularity—Reinhold understood intellectual intuition as the immediate access to the forms of representation; however, he presents these forms of representation as discursive (60–61). See also Dale Snow, Schelling and the End of Idealism (Albany, NY: SUNY Press, 1996), 43–44. 19. Fichte writes, “Explanation. ‘Differentiation’ happens here; but this is by no way understood as a differentiation through concepts, rather only through intuition. An intuition A. —an other Not-I. That that is possible is confirmed through intuition itself. — Furthermore, the Not-I is not differentiated from the I through concepts, but immediately through intuition [Erklärung. Es kommt hier ‘Unterscheiden’ vor: damit wird aber keineswegs ein Unterscheiden durch Begriffe, sondern bloß durch die Anschauung verstanden. Eine Anschauung A. —eine andere Nicht-A. Daß das möglich ist, ist durch die Anschauung selbst zu bestätigen. —Ferner wird Nicht-Ich vom Ich auch nicht durch Begriffe, sondern unmittelbar durch die Anschauung unterschieden]” (GA 2/3, 28). 20. See Stolzenberg, Fichtes Begriff der intellektuellen Anschauung, 154: “This thus shows that Kant’s theory of the consciousness of the moral law as consciousness of freedom is the paradigm for Fichte’s concept of the self and . . . also the paradigm for the previously developed conception of the I.” 21. Schelling’s agreement with Kant that the absolute I cannot be objectified persisted throughout his career. He thus writes in 1805, “In no kind of cognitive insight can God be in the condition of what is known, what is an object; as an objectified entity, he ceases

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to be God. We are never outside of God so that we could set him before us as an object” (SW 1/7, 150, no. 52). Many years later he reiterates this view: “God is, as it were, inflicted on consciousness in its very origin or: God is in our consciousness, in the sense in which we say of a man that a virtue is in him, or more often yet a vice, meaning that it is not objective for him, it is not something he wants, nor even something he knows” (SW 1/11, 186). 22. Goethe and Novalis level this same critique against Kant. See section 3.4 above. 23. Spinoza is here referring to the Fibonacci sequence. I am indebted to Eckart Förster’s reading of Spinoza on this issue. See Eckart Förster, “Goethe as German Idealist,” paper presented at the Eastern Division Conference of the American Philosophical Association, Philadelphia, PA, December 2007. 24. Although Schelling does not explicitly distinguish between imagination (first kind of knowledge), reason (second kind of knowledge), and intuition (third kind of knowledge), and instead focuses on differentiating the imagination from intuition, his critiques of abstraction and universal concepts obtain for the second kind of knowledge as well. For Spinoza, as for Schelling, the second kind of knowledge is unable to yield insight into the connections within reality and the eternal essence of substance. While the first kind of knowledge is based on what is given to the body, and is thus highly subjective and arbitrary (the connections it reveals are based on personal experience), the second kind of knowledge provides insight into nature as lawfully connected. This knowledge, however, remains, like the imagination, on the level of abstraction. In other words, it is concerned with universals (concepts) and not with what is real or actual, i.e., with existence, with substance. This means that reason gains insight via abstract concepts only. Furthermore, reason does not grasp things as manifestations or particular expressions of reality or substance. Finally, reason conceives nature in terms of abstract connections, i.e., connections between parts, not connections within a whole, or substance, in which all the parts and events are immanently involved. It is only through intuition that insight into substance is granted, because it is only intuition that can grasp the indivisible unity and wholeness of substance in and through the parts (in and through the relations between the numbers). Reason, in contrast, divides, conceiving things as parts rather than as manifestations or singular expressions of one unified and indivisible substance. This point is made especially clear in Spinoza’s letter to Ludovicus Meyer (which Schelling cites), where he distinguishes between intellection (i.e., intuition) and other modes of knowledge. It is only in intuition, he maintains, that substance is grasped as “infinite, unique and indivisible.” Ultimately, while intuition is able to grasp the real, singular and unique, reason remains on the level of universals and thus, like the imagination, does not achieve the level of knowledge necessary for comprehending substance and its singular manifestations. For a comprehensive discussion of these differences and their relation to substance and eternity, see Julie R. Klein, “‘By Eternity I Understand’: Eternity According to Spinoza,” Iyyun, The Jerusalem Philosophical Quarterly 51 (July 2002): 295–324, esp. 306–8. 25. It is important to recognize the various uses of the word idea that Schelling is making. On the one hand, he is careful to say that the absolute I is not an idea in the Kantian sense. After all, the I is “absolutely immanent” and thus constitutive (HKA 1/2, 133). On the other hand, Schelling makes use of Spinoza’s ontological understanding of the idea as the manifestation of truth. It is in this second sense that one can understand Schelling’s conception of the absolute I.

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26. At the end of 1794, Schelling sent to his friend Pfister a copy of Über die Möglichkeit with a dedication, in which he quotes and comments upon Spinoza: “ ‘Quid idea vera clarius dari potest, quod norma sit veritatis! Sane sicut lux se ipsam et tenebras manifestat, sic veritas norma sui et falsi est.’ [‘What can be more clear and certain than this idea, as a norm of truth? Indeed, as light makes manifest both itself and darkness, so is truth the norm of itself and of falsehood.’] What can surpass the quiet bliss of these words, the hen kai pan of a better life?” See “Editorischer Bericht,” in HKA 1/1, 254. This same quotation and Schelling’s commentary on it are repeated in a note in Vom Ich (HKA 1/2, 111G). 27. See n. 24 above. 28. Schelling’s reference is HKA 1/2, 175R. 29. The unity of purpose, Kant writes, “cannot be thought unless the natural forms are also contingent; and yet Spinoza has taken this contingency away from them and has also deprived these forms of everything intentional, and has deprived the original basis of natural things of all understanding” (AA 5, 393). By “contingent” Kant means all those natural entities that remain underdetermined on the principles of physical mechanism alone. (See, for instance, his distinction between a “physical-mechanical connection” and “connections to ends,” AA 5, 388.) 30. Schelling writes, “Just as there are no possibility, no necessity, and no contin­gency for the infinite I, so likewise it does not know of any relation of purpose [Zweckverknüpfung] in the world” (HKA 1/2, 174). For Kant as well, contingency and intentionality are ascribed to nature only regulatively, because of the fact that our discursive understanding requires the idea of a “purpose” in nature in order to determine certain entities that are, on the principles of physical mechanism alone, underdetermined. Given that Schelling does not agree with Kant’s conception of the human understanding as merely discursive, but as intuitive, he does not need to think of nature as contingent or intentional, but agrees with Spinoza’s view of nature as necessary. Schelling would add, however, that nature, although not purposive in Kant’s sense, is productive and organized, as Kant had outlined. 31. Schelling continues to maintain this view of nature as containing both mechanism and teleology throughout his writings. Thus, in the System des transcendentalen Idealismus, he writes that it is the peculiar character of nature that although it is “nothing but a blind mechanism, it is nonetheless purposive” (SW 1/3, 608). What Schelling is trying to get at here is that in nature there is an absolute identity of necessity and freedom, such that it is, on the one hand, blind (hence mechanical) and, and on the other, purposive (thus teleological). Thus, to separate the two and speak of them as distinct makes no sense. “In the natural product we still find side by side what in free action has been separated. . . . Every plant is entirely what it should be; what is free therein is necessary, and what is necessary is free” (ibid.). 32. Schelling criticizes the recent theological appropriations of Kantian philosophy precisely because they end up transforming a practical postulate into a theoretical one, thus making something that is active and productive into a passive relation. Schelling writes that with regard to God and immortality, the point is not that we can know them. Rather, we must realize them: “We make immortality reality through the infinitude of our moral persistence. Thus, [these philosophers] ought to admit that the idea of the deity is also the immediate object of our actualization [unmittelbarer Gegenstand unsers

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Realisirens­], that we realize the very idea of the deity only through the infinity of our moral progress (and that it is not merely our—theoretical—belief in a deity which we thus realize). . . . Belief in immortality comes about only through our infinite progress (empirically [empirisch])” (HKA 1/2, 104F–105F). 33. Schelling speaks of section 76 of the third Kritik, in which Kant identifies intellectual intuition as productive, in the following way: “Perhaps there have never been so many deep thoughts on so few pieces of paper as in section 76 of the Kritik der Urteilskraft” (HKA 1/2, 175R). 34. The original title of the “Abhandlung zur Erläuterung des Idealismus der Wissenschaftslehre” (Essay for the Elucidation of the Idealism of the Wissenschaftslehre) is the “Allgemeine Uebersicht der neuesten philosophischen Literatur” (General Overview of the Most Recent Philosophical Literature) which was published over two years (1796– 1797) in Niethammer’s and Fichte’s Philosophisches Journal. (For the complete order in which it was published, see HKA 1/4, 3.) It was not until the 1809 edition of Schelling’s philosophical writings that the work was given the new title. It is significant to note that the original title more accurately depicts the goal of the text: to provide a “general overview of the newest philosophical literature,” which in this case implies Fichte’s Wissenschaftslehre. This sense, however, is not entirely lost in the new title, which describes the essay as an explanation of the idealism of the Wissenschaftslehre—and thus does not seek to give an account of idealism in general. In the year 1796, Niethammer had made some important changes to his journal (among them bringing in Fichte as co-editor), one of which was to include an overview of the present state of philosophy in each of its volumes. Schelling, who had been previously asked by Niethammer to write a review of Fichte’s Wissenschaftslehre, but declined (see above), was asked to undertake this task. In other words, Niethammer had requested that Schelling write on the Wissenschaftslehre in particular (see HKA 1/4, 4–5 and 19–22). It is in this context that Schelling’s “most Fichtean” writing should be understood—as an overview of contemporary philosophy, specifically of Fichtean philosophy. This work, then, should not be taken as fully representing Schelling’s own philosophical standpoint.

chapter ten 1. In the case of Schelling, the primacy of nature does not undermine the primacy of the self. Rather, as he sees it, within the philosophy of nature, i.e., the study of nature as absolute, nature must be conceived as primary. In turn, within transcendental philosophy, the self must be conceived as absolute. From the perspective of the absolute, however, both self and nature are expressions of (or two aspects of) the absolute. The radical claim, therefore, concerns the equality Schelling grants to nature and the self, and his establishment of a philosophy of nature which posits nature as absolute. 2. See introduction to part 3, n. 6. 3. Goethe writes, “From seed to fullest development of stem leaves, we noted first an expansion; thereupon we saw the calyx developing through contraction, the petals through expansion, and the sexual organs again through contraction; and soon we shall become aware of the maximum expansion in the fruit and the maximum contraction in the seed” (MA 12, 51, no. 73).

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4. See Goethe, MA 12, 65, no. 113. 5. Schelling writes, “The growth of all organization is only an advanced individualizing, whose pinnacle is reached in the developed reproductive force [Zeugungskraft] of opposing sexes” (HKA 1/6, 222). 6. There is clear indication that Goethe’s transformed attitude toward Schelling has much to do with Schelling’s sympathetic reception of Goethe’s scientific writings. During their brief meeting at the end of May, Goethe learned that Schelling was familiar with both his work on plants and his optics. Following this meeting, Schelling sent Goethe a copy of the Weltseele, in which Goethe’s influence on his thinking is evident. Goethe was impressed by the work and recommended it to Voigt (MA 6/2, 923). Nevertheless, as is evident from his letter to Voigt, Goethe thought that Schelling still had a bit to learn about the study of nature. 7. Henrik Steffens, who was present at the lecture, writes, “He spoke on the idea of a philosophy of nature, of the necessity to grasp nature in its unity, of the light that would be thrown over all objects if one dared to consider them from the standpoint of the unity of reason” (Xavier Tilliette, ed., Schelling im Spiegel seiner Zeitgenossen [Turin: Bottega d’Erasmo, 1974] , 28). 8. For an explicaiton of how Goethe’s conception of metamorphosis is not merely a structural principle, but the development of nature itself, see Olaf Breidbach, “Transformation statt Reihung - Naturdetail und Naturganzes in Goethes Metamorphosenlehre,” in Naturwissenschaften um 1800, ed. Olaf Breidbach and Paul Ziche (Weimar: Hermann Böhlaus Nachfolger, 2001), 52. 9. Jacobs writes in the “Editorischer Bericht” to the Einleitung that the investigations of Paul Ziche have shown that the word productivity (Produktivität) does not appear in the first published version of the Entwurf, though it does appear in Schelling’s handwritten notes on the text. In the earlier works on the philosophy of nature, this word does not appear at all. However, it is present in later editions of the Entwurf (Jacobs, “Editorischer Bericht,” HKA 1/8, 10). This is not the case with the Einleitung, in which the term is used already in the first edition. Remarkably, it is precisely the Einleitung that Goethe asked Schelling to read and reread, and which he supposedly helped Schelling to edit. See TAG 2, 318–20; and HKA 3/1, 244. 10. Schelling writes that the chief problem of Naturphilosophie is not to explain productivity and movement, but the stable or the permanent (HKA 1/8, 47). 11. The opposition of infinite productivity, Schelling maintains, must be infinite limitation, because only infinite limitation can counter infinite productivity. Opposition to the infinite must, in other words, be infinite. 12. Schelling describes this process in detail in the Entwurf. See, for example, his description of the growth and reproduction processes of plants, butterflies, and bees (HKA 1/7, 43ff). 13. Eckart Förster provides one of the most detailed and careful accounts of Schel­ ling’s understanding of polarity and intensification in nature. See Förster, Die 25 Jahre der Philosophie. Förster explains polarity as follows: “As long as there is nothing besides these two [originally opposing] activities . . . they remain indistinguishable. In order for them to become distinguishable and to appear as two, there has to be a boundary or a point at which they can emerge as opposed, for this is the only way that the directions

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can be distinguished (‘toward the point,’ ‘away from the point’)” (232). The original duality in identity is thus transformed to polar opposition, which, Förster elaborates, “allows the original activity to emerge as an alternation of expansion and retardation or contraction” (233). 14. For both Schelling and Goethe, there was no difference between the idea of metamorphosis and that of evolution. The terms meant for them the capacities for growth and generation—production and reproduction—of the particular organism and the species with the implication that the organism is simultaneously participating in a larger natural evolution. See Richards, Romantic Conception of Life, 299–306, 485f. For an opposing view, see Dietrich von Engelhardt, “Schellings philosophische Grundlegung der Medizin,” in Natur und geschichtlicher Prozess: Studien zur Naturphilosophie F. W. J. Schel­ lings, ed. Hans Jörg Sandkühler (Frankfurt: Suhrkamp, 1984), 305–25. 15. Given Schelling’s immanent ontology—in which nature as productivity and nature as product cannot be separated—it is highly unlikely that Schelling develops his philosophy of nature out of the paradigm of practical philosophy, as, for instance, Michael Rudolphi argues. Rudolphi’s thesis is that Schelling’s understanding of nature as “subject” implies that the philosophy of nature is no longer part of theoretical philosophy, in which the concern is with determined, conditioned objects, but is part of practical philosophy, wherein the subject is absolute and unconditioned. There are several difficulties with this thesis. For one, it does not account for the fact that Schelling is concerned with the knowledge of nature, and thus with theoretical philosophy. Furthermore, it does not consider the difference between the unrealizable character of the ideal of reason in practical philosophy and the absolutely immanent character of the absolute in nature as productivity. In fact, Schelling makes precisely this point in a letter to Fichte from November 19, 1800, when he distinguishes between theoretical and practical philosophy on the basis of their respective relation to the I. While theoretical philosophy is concerned with “the pure (merely objective) subject-object,” practical philosophy is concerned with the I, i.e., “the subject-object of consciousness,” which, Schelling continues, is “the highest potency” of the former. “It is the principle of the idealistic (until now called practical) part of philosophy, which receives its foundations only through the theoretical part” (Traub, 179). 16. For this reason, I disagree with the so-called materialist readings of Schelling. His emphasis on nature or the material reality of nature does not imply that there is no reason or ideal that underlies and constitutes material nature. As is clear from the passages I have quoted and explicated, for Schelling the material form of nature (i.e., nature as product) is not separable from its ideal from (nature as productivity). One of the main readers of Schelling as a materialist is Manfred Frank, who argues that it was only in his later philosophy that Schelling came to develop a nonidealist materialism, which in turn provided Feuerbach with his critique of Hegel. See Frank, Der unendliche Mangel an Sein: Schellings Hegelkritik und die Anfänge der Marxschen Dialektik (Munich: Fink, 1992). There are, however, Marxist-materialist readings of Schelling’s early philosophy, including his philosophy of nature. See, for example, Jirí Cerný, “Von der natura naturans zum ‘unvordenklichen Seyn.’ Eine Linie des Materialismus bei Schelling?” in Natur und geschichtlicher Prozeß. Studien zur Naturphilosophie F. W. J. Schellings, ed. Hans Jörg Sandkühler (Frankfurt: Suhrkamp, 1984), 127–44.

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17. See Richards, Romantic Conception of Life, 141–42. 18. Although the emphasis on experiment and experience in the Einleitung is unpa­ ralleled in Schelling’s later works, the motivation remains the same—namely, the need to verify both the idea of nature which serves as the guiding hypothesis, and the philosophical constructions. In the Einleitung, Schelling remarkably writes that “the absolute hypothesis must carry its necessity within itself. It must however be brought to an empirical test as well. For, inasmuch as all the phenomena of nature cannot be deduced from this hypothesis, so long as there is in the whole system of nature a single phenomenon which is not necessary according to that principle, or which contradicts it, the hypothesis is thereby at once shown to be false, and from that moment ceases to have validity” (HKA 1/9, 35). In “Ueber den wahren Begriff der Naturphilosophie und die richtige Art ihre Probleme auszulösen” (1801), where experience is not as clearly emphasized, Schelling nonetheless writes, “Should not the coincidence of that which is given in experience with that which is constructed not be the surest investigation of the accuracy of the construction?” (HKA 1/10, 99–100).

chapter eleven 1. “Abhandlung,” SW 1/1, 382; System, HKA 1/9.1, 25; SW 1/3, 331. 2. See also HKA 1/8, 298, and 364–65. 3. As Manfred Durer puts it in his “Editorischer Bericht” of the “Allgemeine Deduction,” the System functions as the “pendant” to the philosophy of nature, adding that “if the System had derived ‘why matter must necessarily be intuited as extended in three dimensions,’ so the ‘Allgemeine Deduction’ shows how this three-dimensionality, space, is to be thought as the necessary result of the self-construction of the forces [of nature]” (HKA 1/8, 281). 4. This is often contrasted with the method that Hegel develops in the Phenomenology of Spirit, which—at least allegedly—does not state either its goals or its methods at the outset. In his late Lectures on the History of Philosophy, Schelling argues, however, that although Hegel claims the contrary, in fact he did assume a goal. Thus, Schelling disagrees with Hegel’s self-understanding, noting that “by pretending that thought is driven forward only by a necessity which lies in itself, although it obviously has a goal that it is striving towards . . . this goal, however much the person philosophizing seeks to hide it from himself . . . unconsciously affects the course of philosophizing all the more decisively.” Schelling, On the History of Modern Philosophy, trans. Andrew Bowie (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994), 139. 5. For example, Schelling describes the moment in which the self first achieves intelligence—and thus comes to distinguish itself from an object—as possible “only by elevating itself above any object” (HKA 1/9.1, 222; SW 1/3, 524). It is through this act that the self first comes to recognize itself as intelligence. 6. See for example the inadequacy of transcendental abstraction, which he identifies with Kant’s distinction between an intuition without concept and a concept without intuition: If the categories . . . are determinate intuition-forms of the intelligence, and if they are divested of intuition, pure determinacy alone must remain behind. It is this

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that is designated by the logical concept. Hence, if a philosopher begins by adopting merely the standpoint of reflection or analysis, he will also be able to deduce the categories as no more than purely formal concepts and thus deduce them simply from logic. But apart from the fact that the different functions of judgment in logic are themselves in need of a further derivation, and that so far from transcendental philosophy being abstracted from logic, the latter has to be abstracted from the former, it is in any case a pure deception to believe that the categories, once separated from the schematism of intuition, continue to remain real concepts; for, divested of intuition, they are purely logical concepts, connected with intuition, yet no longer concepts proper, but true forms of intuition. The inadequacy of such a derivation will betray itself still through other deficiencies, e.g., that it cannot uncover the mechanism of the categories, the particular any more than the general, though this is evident enough. (HKA 1/9.1, 211–12; SW 1/3, 513–14) 7. This passage is replaced by the following in Schelling’s own copy: “An absolutely simple and identical cannot be grasped or communicated through description, nor through concepts at all. It can only be intuited. Such an intuition is the organ of all philosophy.— But this intuition, which is an intellectual rather than a sensory one, and has as its object neither the objective nor the subjective, but the absolutely identical, in itself neither subjective nor objective, is itself merely an internal [intuition], which cannot thus become objective for itself: it can become objective only through a second intuition. This second intuition is the aesthetic” (HKA 1/9.1, 325 “Anmerkung”; SW 1/3, 625).

chapter twelve 1. Thus Schelling writes, “All construction starts from relative identity. Absolute identity is not constructed, but is absolutely” (SW 1/4, 140). 2. See above, section 9.1, and HKA 1/1, 274. 3. Interestingly, Schelling goes on to point to the Kritik der Urteilskraft, section 76 for further clarification, thus illustrating continuity between his understanding of the absolute in the “Darstellung” and in Vom Ich, in which he similarly refers to this section to describe his conception of intuition (see chapter 9 above for Schelling’s estimation of section 76 of the third Kritik and its significance for his early work). 4. Schelling thus scornfully writes: “Excuse me if I have already taken this step, and am waiting here without you, if I have taken a risk in order to determine that which, once you will have arrived here, will become inevitable [for you]” (Traub, 204). 5. Fichte outlines this transition in his letter (Traub, 197). 6. Friedrich Schlegel similarly claims in his lectures on transcendental philosophy that there is no possible transition from the finite to the infinite, while there is the possibility of such a transition from the infinite to the finite (KFSA 12, 40). See also chapter 6 above. 7. The method of moving upward is the method that Schelling had employed throughout his transcendental philosophical writings. In the Ideen, for instance, he describes his method as moving “from below” upward (SW 1/2, 56). 8. Schelling here accuses Fichte of contradictory claims. On the one hand, Fichte maintains that we must remain within the sphere of seeing, or (reflective) knowledge. On

notes to pages 237–247



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the other hand, he claims in the Bestimmung des Menschen, that the absolute cannot be found in knowledge. “You explain in that work,” Schelling writes, that “the true, originally real [Ur-Reale], which is in fact the true speculative, cannot be shown anywhere in knowledge. Is this not proof enough, that your knowledge is not absolute, but rather in some way still determined knowledge, which would degrade philosophy into a science like any other[?]” (Traub, 204). 9. Schelling’s conception of the absolute in the identity philosophy period attempts to incorporate the transforming, developing absolute of transcendental philosophy and Naturphilosophie with the insight that the absolute is “eternal and unchanging.” By thinking the absolute as “act”—much in the same way as he had posited it in his earlier writings—that does not “go out of itself,” but is all that is, Schelling provides a notion of the absolute which is at once active, productive, and nontemporal, eternal. See for instance, the introduction to the 1803 edition of the Ideen, where he describes the ab­ solute as “an eternal act of cognition, which is itself matter and form, a producing in which it converts itself in its totality as idea, as sheer identity, into real, into the form, and conversely, in equally eternal fashion, resolves itself as form, and to that extent as object, into the essence or subject” (SW 1/2, 62). Similarly, in “Ueber den wahren Begriff,” Schelling speaks of the absolute as “a living whole” (SW 1/4, 101). 10. He thus writes: “I wanted to make this understandable in an earlier letter, in which I said, the absolute of philosophy, understandably, remains always a seeing” (Traub, 220–21). 11. Here Fichte is responding to Schelling’s claim in the “Darstellung,” that the absolute exists under the form of quantity. See Traub, 203–4; and SW 1/4, 128. See also n. 12 below. 12. Fichte is attempting to draw a distinction between in and under, such that difference is in the absolute, and the absolute is not under any form. Indeed, Schelling uses precisely the term under to describe the absolute. He writes in the “Darstellung” that “absolute identity is only under the form of cognizing its identity itself” (SW 1/4, 122). Fichte’s interpretation of this is that as soon as the absolute is “under” any form, it is no longer absolute but becomes determined or objectified by a form that is outside of it. Put in terms of the problem of transition and difference, Fichte maintains that difference must be located in the absolute and cannot be explained as a form under which the absolute exists. Schelling’s reply to Fichte, in the letter from January 25, 1802, does not fully acknowledge the distinction between in and under (Traub, 226). 13. See his earlier distinction in Über die Möglichkeit, HKA 1/1, 274. 14. He similarly states in Bruno that “the only man capable of unravelling the web of reality woven from the finite and the infinite is the one who comprehends the fact that everything is contained in everything, and who realizes how the abundance of the whole universe is stored in individual beings too” (SW 1/3, 291). 15. For this distinction, I am indebted to Daniel Breazeale’s paper “Men at Work: Philosophical Construction in Fichte and Schelling.” 16. In his 1802–1804 lectures on the philosophy of art (Vorlesungen über die Philosophie der Kunst), Schelling similarly remarks that “the unity . . . in which the infinite is brought into the finite . . . corresponds to the philosophy of nature . . . the unity, in which

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the finite is formed into the infinite . . . corresponds to idealism in the general system of philosophy. The first unity I call the real, the second the ideal, and the one which grasps both, indifference” (SW 1/5, 371). 17. Schelling accuses Fichte of this, writing that so long as his conception of knowledge remains “determined,” i.e., within the causal chain of successive construction, his conception of philosophy is inadequate, and in fact “degrades” philosophy into a science like any other (Traub, 205). 18. Significantly, this point is more in line with Schelling’s earliest conception of the absolute and knowledge of the absolute, especially in Vom Ich, than it is with his writings after 1796. Thus, in Vom Ich he adamantly rejects the notion that the absolute can in any way be demonstrated, explaining that “the very desire to demonstrate the absolute does away with it, and also with all freedom, all absolute identity” (HKA 1/2, 109). He reiterates this in Bruno, writing that “anyone who searches for philosophy in this mode of cognition [i.e., logic], or who attempts to prove the eternal being of the absolute in this way or in any other way whatsoever is on the wrong path” (SW 1/3, 301). 19. In his 1802–1803 lectures on the philosophy of art, Schelling states that “to con­ struct art means to determine its place in the universe” (SW 1/5, 373). He also states that “through construction itself, the objects enter immediately their true place, and this place, which they attain in construction, is at the same time their only true and accurate explanation” (SW 1/5, 418). 20. Frederick Beiser insightfully describes Schelling’s conception of intellectual intuition as “holistic,” in contrast to the mechanical conception (which he identified with Fichte and Kant). This mechanical conception is based on the principle of sufficient reason, he writes, “according to which, events have to be understood by the causes acting on them” (German Idealism, 581). The holistic conception of knowledge enables one to “see the universal in the particular” and construct a system of knowledge “that proves the truth of the intuition, through its internal coherence and adequacy to experience” (582). 21. The meanings of real and ideal are a key point in the controversy between Schel­ ling and Fichte. While Fichte understood the real to be the product of the ideal—and thus could not grasp how there can be a philosophy of nature (as the real, as the product), Schelling maintained that the real is, like the ideal, self-producing and thus absolute. The only difference for him rests on the capacity to gain self-consciousness. See Traub, 175 and 178. 22. The idea of God is the same as that of the absolute, because in both cases it is a being whose existence follows immediately from its essence (SW 1/5, 373). 23. Schelling writes, Philosophy emerges in its complete appearance only in the totality of all the potencies. Thus it should be a true image of the universe. This image, however, is = to the absolute, presented in the totality of all ideal determinations. God and universe are one or only different perspectives of one and the same. God is the universe perceived from the side of identity, God is everything, because God is alone the only real, outside of God there is nothing. The universe is God conceived from the side of totality. In the absolute idea, which is the principle of philosophy, identity and totality are once again one. The complete appearance of philosophy, I maintain, emerges only in the totality of all potencies. In the absolute as such, and consequently also in the

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principle of philosophy, because it grasps all potencies, there is no potency, and, in turn, only insofar as there is no potency in it, then all potencies are contained in it. I call this principle the principle of reason, i.e., because it is not equivalent to any particular potency, and nevertheless grasps all, [it is] the point of absolute identity of philosophy. (SW 1/5, 366) 24. This is not to say that the gods were not real. Rather, for Schelling imagination (as the power of in-forming) discloses reality. He writes in the lectures on mythology, “Mythology has no reality outside of consciousness; but if it only takes its course in the determinations of consciousness, that is, in its representations, then nonetheless this course of events, this succession of representations themselves cannot again be such a one that is merely imagined; it must have actually taken place, must have actually occurred in consciousness” (SW 1/11, 124–25).

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index

absolute, the: as activity, 16, 23, 27, 64, 155, 188–89, 210, 230, 233, 273n40, 315n9; as archetype, 3, 10, 201, 243, 248, 251, 255; and art, work of, 20–21, 34–36, 38, 43, 223–28, 230, 250–56, 291n27; aspects of, 84, 156, 232–33, 310n1; as development, 17, 27, 43, 102, 120–21, 241, 267n29, 289n17; as dynamic, 5, 23, 75, 77, 273n37, 273n38; as epistemological notion, 2, 11, 14, 83–84, 122, 258; essence and form of, 240–43, 248–49, 251; as ground of being and knowing, 11–12, 16, 174, 258–61; as immanent, 29, 85, 119, 182, 184–86, 312n15; and the infinite, 12, 84, 101, 155, 219, 259; as internally differentiated unity, 4–5, 23, 75, 125, 197, 250, 260; as Kantian regulative ideal, 2, 11, 16, 83–84, 170, 265–66n16, 266n19, 271n29, 273n42, 289n18; as living reality, 5, 260, 267n29, 315n9; as mediation (Vermittlung), 16–17, 22, 25, 28–29, 30, 37–38, 69, 77–78, 122, 124, 155, 259; as metaphysical idea, 2, 12, 14, 122; as nonobjective, 8, 29, 77, 175, 182, 185, 188–89, 223, 227, 229, 234, 257; Novalis’s conception of, 16–17, 22–23, 28–29, 31, 36–38, 43, 46, 70, 75, 77–78, 260, 272n36, 272n37, 273n38; objectification of, 5, 93, 108–11, 119, 182, 188, 230, 239, 251, 255; as ontological, 2, 9, 11, 22, 77, 84; potencies of, 233, 247–48, 251, 253–55, 316–17n23; as presentation (Darstellung), 16–17, 22, 25, 28, 31, 78, 116–19, 122, 124, 224, 249, 255, 259; as realized

by human beings, 29, 70; and reason, 10, 158, 226, 228–30, 232, 249, 254–55; as regulative idea, 83, 170, 265–66n16; as relational, 8, 17, 22, 26–27, 29–30, 36–38, 43, 46, 75, 77, 119, 122, 153, 155, 238, 259; Schelling’s conception of, 158, 160, 171, 185, 188, 223, 227, 230, 232–33, 239–43, 247–49, 251, 253, 255, 257, 260–61, 315n9, 315n14; (Friedrich) Schlegel’s conception of, 7, 83–85, 101–2, 112, 119, 155–56, 160, 259–61, 265n16, 289n16, 289n18, 291n27; as selfproducing (self-creating), 7, 185, 316n21; subject, relation to, 2–3, 5, 8, 11–13, 29, 155, 260; and substance, 2, 5, 7, 11, 101, 112, 116, 123, 132, 155, 171–72, 178, 182, 184–85, 197, 210, 236, 250, 258, 272n34, 289n17, 308n24; as unknowable, 20, 83, 92, 259, 272n34; unpresentability of, 35–36, 83, 226, 259 absolute idealism, 1, 10, 259, 289n17 Aenesidemus: as critique of Kant, 162–64; as critique of Reinhold, 163–64, 167–68, 175; Fichte’s response to, 162, 164–65, 167, 175–76; Schelling’s response to, 162, 167–68, 175–76 aesthetic intuition, Schelling’s conception of, 158, 223–26, 228, 251, 314n7 allegory, notion of, 83, 105, 112–13, 116, 143, 297n2 archetypal cognition (archetypal knowledge): as intellectual intuition, 245–46, 248–50, 284n32; in opposition to discursive (conceptual) cognition, 243–44, 284n32

327

328

index

archetypal plant (Urpflanze) (Goethe), 195–97; as principle of development, 196 archetype: the absolute as, 3, 10, 201, 243, 248, 251, 255; in art, 144, 252, 254–55; in beauty, 252, 255–56; in geometry, 243; the human mind or spirit (Geist) as, 190; as living unity, 245–46, 251; in nature, 3, 200–202, 240, 245–47, 255; Schelling’s conception of, 190, 200–202, 240, 243–49, 251–52, 254–56 art: science, relation to, 43, 46, 58–59, 65, 71–73, 126–28, 141–42, 213–14, 282n20; as second nature, 5. See also artistic activity; work of art artistic activity: as contemplative, 85, 129, 150–51; and development of self, 34, 43; as free activity, 35–36; as modifying translation, 73; as moral activity, 34–35, 57; and natural activity, 89, 138, 140, 141, 144, 300n18; as nonrepresentational, 34; and scientific study, 59, 149; as transformation of nature, 51, 141–42 Athenäum, 48, 81, 129, 133, 157, 280n13, 286n1, 290n23 Baader, Franz von, 145, 301n26 beauty, conception of, 139, 252, 255–56 becoming, as opposed to being, 84–85, 118, 120 –22, 125, 158 Behler, Ernst, 288n12, 289n18, 289–90n19, 291n27, 296n12, 298n7, 300n17 being: as absolute relation, 36; as activity, 27, 272n36, 272n37, 273n38; becoming, relation to, 84–85, 120–23, 125, 158; consciousness, in relation to, 9, 19–20, 22–23, 26–29, 31, 36–37, 84 –85, 99, 101, 113–14, 139, 155, 174, 189, 237–41, 243, 258–59; as constructed, 25; in the FichteStudien, 16–17, 19–23, 25–34, 36–38, 46, 77, 271–72n32; as given, 25, 272n34; as groundless ground, 29, 36, 259; as historical, 85, 117–18, 120, 125, 293n7; as immanent, 27, 29; as Kantian regulative ideal, 22, 84, 265n16, 266n19, 271n29, 271n30, 273n40, 289n18; as mediation (Vermittlung), 17, 22, 28–30, 37–38, 77–78, 113; and mere (or pure) being (Nur Seyn), 19–20, 22, 26–28, 30, 36–37, 101, 271–72n32, 272n34; as ontological, 9, 22–23, 28, 77, 84, 266n19, 273n40; as presence, 272n35; Schelling’s conception

of, 158, 174, 181–82, 192, 210, 235–37, 240–41, 305n2, 316n18; and time, 272n35 Beiser, Frederick: critique of Frank, 22, 271n28, 271n31; on Hegel, 8, 266n22; on romanticism and idealism, 8–12, 16, 263n1, 263–64n3, 264n6, 265n15; romantic metaphysics, interpretation of, 266n26, 267n29, 283n25, 289n17, 295n5; romantic politics, interpretation of, 300n17; Schelling, interpretation of, 157–58, 316n20; on (Friedrich) Schlegel, 286n1, 290n21, 302n34 Bildung (education, development, formation), 37, 43–44; of the earth, 48–49, 55–56; and nature, 48–52, 124, 194; as selfdevelopment, 75, 124, 140, 194, 259, 275n53, 279n2, 296n12, 298n1 Bowie, Andrew, 16, 263n2 Chaouli, Michel, 299n8 consciousness. See self-consciousness construction: in experimentation, 203, 206–9; Fichte’s use of, 91, 159, 204 –5; and intellectual intuition, 181, 185, 237, 240; as method, 158–59; and nature, 200, 203; Novalis’s use of, 26–27, 44, 62, 269–70n21; in the philosophy of nature, 205–9, 251; rational construction, 237, 240; Schelling’s use of, 91, 158–59, 181, 185, 202–13, 215–16, 221, 237, 240, 249, 256, 303n5, 314n1, 316n19; (Friedrich) Schlegel’s critique of, 91–92, 134; successive construction, 159, 211, 216–21, 249–51, 256 Cotta, Johann Friedrich, 89, 96, 294n14 critical philosophy, 11–13, 72, 161–63, 165 D’Alembert, Jean-Baptiste le Rond, 72 deductive method, romantic critique of, 4, 94–95, 134–36, 211 Diderot, Denis, 72 Dilthey, Wilhelm, 82, 286–87n2 discursive intellect: in contrast to intuitive intellect, 6, 60–62, 86, 107–8, 113, 135, 178, 181, 202, 222, 224, 264n5, 283–84n32, 309n30; and failure to grasp unconditioned, 6–7, 93–94, 224; and infinite regress, 176, 179 dogmatism, 12, 72, 84, 102, 123, 177–78, 188, 235, 240, 257 dualism, 119, 227, 258, 261



index

Eckermann, Johann Peter, 73–74 education. See Bildung (education, development, formation) empiricism, 53–54, 62–63, 79, 88, 120–21, 267n13, 283n31 Eschenmayer, Adam Karl August, 267n3 experimentation, Schelling’s conception of, 194, 202– 4, 206–9, 313n18 Fichte, Johann Gottlieb —absolute, conception of, 7, 101, 227, 237–39 —art, conception of, 34, 36, 275n51, 275n52, 275n53 —conception of I (self): as absolute, 7, 31, 112, 170–71, 174 –76, 181–82, 184–86, 212, 285n44, 289n17, 307n21, 310n1; as act, 7, 11, 16; freedom of, 12, 34, 36, 39; as Kantian regulative ideal, 170, 174; as moral, 21, 36, 39, 47, 78, 176; nonobjective nature of, 12, 175; and noumenal subject, 164–65; relational character of, 40; as self-positing, 165; as simultaneous positing of I and not-I, 175–76 —as Enlightenment philosopher, 21 —first principle (Grundsatz), conception of, 24, 30, 72, 85, 109, 165–70, 306n7, 235 —geometry, influence of, 204 —identity: as first principle, 24; proposition of, 23–24, 109, 170, 187, 231, 234 —intellectual intuition: conception of, 7, 19–20, 86, 101, 109, 111, 114, 162, 165, 169–70, 176, 237–38, 307n18, 307n19, 315n10; as self-intuition, 7, 109 —Jena period, 162, 204 —and mathematics, 91–92 —and Novalis: critic of Fichte, 15, 21, 30, 39– 40, 45, 72, 74, 78, 85, 93–94, 270n24, 275n51, 277n6, 278n16, 297n16; influence on, 16, 19–21, 30, 32, 40, 47, 58, 72, 74, 78, 275n51, 277n6, 277–78n7, 278n16, 279n3, 293n10 —practical reason, priority of, 21, 162, 307n20 —pragmatic history of the spirit, 205, 295n6 —and Reinhold: correspondence with, 161, 171; critique of, 162, 164–65, 167–68, 175–76 —and romantics: critique of Fichte, 12, 19, 23; influence on, 12, 21



329

—and Schelling: assessment of Fichte, 173, 175, 187, 197, 235–37; break with, 159–60, 186, 193, 227–29, 233– 42, 260, 304n1; correspondence with, 82, 233–35, 237, 239, 248, 250; difference from, 167–70, 176, 187, 198, 233, 235–42, 251, 306n9, 306n1, 315n12, 316n21; proximity to, 157, 161–62, 167, 176, 185–86, 188, 202, 204 –5, 303n5, 310n34 —science, conception of, 165–67, 306n7 —and (Friedrich) Schlegel: assessment of Fichte, 85–87, 91–95, 97–103, 106–7, 109– 14, 155–56, 292n3, 294–95n18, 295n2, 314 –15n8; as disciple of Fichte, 82–83, 85–86 —and Spinoza, 238 —and thing-in-itself (Ding an Sich), elimination of, 162, 164 –65 —and Wissenschaftslehre, as a philosophical program, 24, 234–35, 238 —works: Eigene Meditationen, 175–76; “Erste Einleitung in die Wissenschaftslehre,” 175; Grundlage der gesamten Wissenschaftslehre, 161–62, 174–75, 269n16; Über den Begriff der Wissenschaftslehre, 24, 40, 72, 93–94, 106, 161–62, 165, 167, 172, 174–75, 221, 233, 295n8; Über Geist und Buchstab in der Philosophie, 275n52, 275n53; Die Wissenschaftslehre in ihrem allgemeinen Umriss, 271n25; Zurich lectures (Zürich Wissenschaftslehre), 175 Fichtean (subjective) idealism, 8, 10, 13, 15–16, 21, 82, 157, 159–60, 193, 271n26, 289n17 finite. See infinite, the: and the finite first principle, romantic critique of, 4, 7, 37, 74–75, 77–78, 85–87, 89–95, 113–14, 118, 122, 127, 129, 155–56, 273n43 Förster, Eckart, 283–84n32, 311–12n13 foundationalism, romantic critique of, 290n21 fragment: Novalis’s use of, 17, 59, 75–76; as productive, 75–76, 131–33; (Friedrich) Schlegel’s use of, 4, 75, 81, 86–87, 125–29, 131–35, 137, 145, 156, 292n29, 299n6, 299n8, 299n11. See also system: of fragments Frank, Manfred, 2, 8–12, 15, 17, 19–23, 27, 35–36, 83, 263n1, 265n12, 265n16, 266n19, 268n3, 271n30, 272n34, 274n45, 275n50, 289n15, 289n16, 289n18, 291n27 freedom, conception of, 12, 123–24, 258

330

index

general (universal) and particular, relation between, 30, 36, 62, 76, 244, 247, 253, 255 genius: Novalis’s conception of, 33, 39, 43, 51, 65, 67, 276n60, 278n10, 285n43; Schelling’s conception of, 211, 213, 215, 221, 223; (Friedrich) Schlegel’s conception of, 150, 152 God: as divine intelligence (Schelling), 191–92, 254–56, 307–8n21, 309n32, 316n22, 316n23; Novalis’s conception of, 27, 32, 66–68, 78, 285n45; Schelling’s conception of, 178, 191, 254 –55, 307–8n21, 309n32, 316n22, 316n23; (Friedrich) Schlegel’s conception of, 116–17, 130, 142, 149, 300n19; Spinoza’s conception of, 178–79, 264n7, 307n17 Goethe, Johann Wolfgang von —art, conception of, 58, 73–74, 285n3 —on Bildung, 194, 279n2 —evolution, conception of, 312n14 —and Herder, Johann Gottfried von, 195, 277n2 —imagination, conception of, 55, 62–63 —intuitive understanding (or judgment), 7, 55, 60–61 —Italian journey, 195 —and Kant, 60–62, 284n32 —mathematics, view of, 281–82n18 —metamorphosis, notion of, 59–60, 146, 193–97, 310n3, 311n8, 312n14 —and the Münster circle, 277n2 —nature, conception of, 59, 279n10 —and Novalis, 18, 21, 51, 53–54, 58–59, 72–74, 78, 280n13, 280–81n16, 281n17, 281–82n18, 282n20, 282n21, 282n22 —organism, conception of, 62–63, 284n40 —plant: archetypal plant (Urpflanze), 195–97; nature of, 59–60, 62–63, 195–97, 310n3 —polarity, conception of, 145, 200, 301n27 —romantics, criticism of, 54 —and Schelling, 157–58, 160, 193–95, 200, 203, 214, 252, 304n1, 310–11n6 —and Schiller, 194 —and (Friedrich) Schlegel, 82, 145–47, 301n26, 301n28 —Steigerung (intensification), notion of, 145, 147, 197, 200, 301n27 —Urpflanze. See Goethe, Johann Wolfgang von: plant: archetypal plant (Urpflanze)



—and Voigt, Christian, 194–95, 310n6 —and Werner, Abraham Gottlob, 53, 279n11 —works: “Anschauende Urteilskraft,” 60; Beiträge zur Optik, 282n21; Versuch über die Metamorphose der Pflanzen, 59, 193, 196–97; Vorarbeiten zu einer Physiologie der Pflanzen, 63; Wilhelm Meister, 280–81n16, 282n20, 294n12

Haering, Theodore, 15 Hamann, Johann Georg, 277n2 Hegel, Georg Wilhelm Friedrich: absolute, conception of, 258, 266n22; and absolute idealism, 1; history of philosophy, interpretation of, 10; and Novalis, 19; Phenomenology of Spirit, 1, 102, 297–98n7, 302n32; and romanticism, 8, 258, 260–61, 263n2; and Schelling, 158, 171, 313n4; and (Friedrich) Schlegel, 81–83, 86, 102, 297–98n7, 302n32 Hegelian legacy, 8 Hegelian school, 10 Heidegger, Martin, 9, 271n30 Hemsterhuis, Franz (François): and Herder, Johann Gottfried von, 40; Lettre sur l’homme et ses rapports, 39; moral organ, notion of, 39–40; Novalis, influence on, 16–17, 39– 44, 46, 49, 57–58, 77–78, 276–77n1, 277n4, 277n6; and (Friedrich) Schlegel, 89; self, conception of, 40 Henrich, Dieter, 19, 263n1, 268n4 Herder, Johann Gottfried von, 40, 89, 145, 195, 277n5, 278n8, 295n1 Hölderlin, Johann Christian Friedrich, 10, 19, 157, 193, 276n58, 303n6 I (self), the: as absolute, 171, 174, 176–77, 182, 186, 198, 212, 260, 307–8n21; in relation to you (Du), 112–13, 148, 297n17 idealism: and empiricism, 53, 63, 79; as hermeneutic, 13, 104–5, 113–14, 156; and romanticism, 8–11, 12–14, 79, 157, 160, 257; Schelling’s notion of, 157, 159–60, 193, 216, 228–29, 257, 259, 301n26, 305–6n1, 315–16n16; (Friedrich) Schlegel and, 9–10, 13, 82, 112–13, 295n7 identity: logical form of, 129, 168, 230–31, 234, 241; philosophy of (Schelling), 159, 212–14, 224–32, 235–37, 242, 249–51, 254, 314n1, 315n9, 316n19



index

imagination (Einbildungskraft): as active passivity, 150; as divine information (göttliche Ineinsbildung) (Schelling), 246–47, 317n24; in knowledge, 23–24, 43, 62–65, 136–37, 156, 178, 205, 256, 308n24, 317n24; as original act, 275n53; as productive, 32, 43, 69–70; and wit, 152 infinite, the: and the absolute, 155, 219; and the finite, 2, 5, 7, 12–13, 66–68, 115–22, 124, 152–53, 155, 182, 188, 199, 243–45, 247– 48, 259, 297n2, 297n3, 314n6, 315n14, 315–16n15; the unconditioned, in contrast to, 91–93, 113 intellectual intuition (intellektualle Anschauung): absolute, as grasp of, 5, 7, 158, 178, 181–82, 184–85, 188–89, 245–46, 248– 49, 251–52; and absolute I, 7, 112, 170, 176–77, 181–82, 184; and aesthetic intuition, 223–24, 251–52; and construction, 181, 185, 214, 237, 240; as nondiscursive, 5, 6; and self-consciousness, 20, 100, 110, 214; sensible intuition, as distinct from, 6; and unconditioned first principle, 7, 101, 169; whole, grasp of, 6–7, 181, 202, 244–46 irony, 82–83, 289n15 Jacobi, Friedrich Heinrich: discursive intellect, critique of, 6; first principle, critique of, 90–91; and Hemsterhuis, 90, 277n2; and Schelling, 170, 172, 178, 305n2, 306n10; and (Friedrich) Schlegel, 85, 89–91, 259, 266n19, 288n12; and Spinoza, 178; transcendental philosophy, critique of, 9; Woldemar, 85, 89, 91, 93, 259, 288n12 Kant, Immanuel —and Berkeleyan idealism, 163 —and critical idealism, 1 —determinative judgment, conception of, 61, 284n33 —discursive intellect, conception of, 6, 60–61, 86, 113, 264n5, 283–84n32, 309n30 —and Fichte, 176, 204 —and Goethe, 60–61 —and Herz, Markus, correspondence with, 283–84n32 —imagination, conception of, 24

331



—intellectual intuition: conception of, 6, 60, 175, 264n5; denial of, 61, 177 —intuitive intellect (intuitive understanding): conception of, 61–62, 264n5; as distinct from intellectual intuition, 283–84n32 —mechanical unity, conception of, 61–62 —nature, conception of, 2, 60–61, 258 —and Novalis, 16, 30, 39, 44, 46, 78; Novalis’s assessment of, 46, 56, 60–61, 74, 277n6, 278n16 —organism, conception of, 61–62 —presentation, concept of, 24 —purpose: as causality, 62; conception of, 309n29, 309n30 —reason, conception of, 283n32 —reflective judgment, conception of, 284n33 —and romanticism, 258, 261 —and Schelling, 157, 174–77, 184–85, 201, 309n30, 313–14n6, 314n3 —and (Friedrich) Schlegel, 89, 97, 103, 109, 112–14, 155–56, 294–95n18 —and skepticism, 163 —Sömmering, Samuel Thomas, reply to, 44–45, 276n62, 277n1 —and Spinoza, 184 —and thing-in-itself (Ding an sich), 163 —work of art, conception of, 294–95n18, 300n1 —works: Kritik der reinen Vernunft, 24, 44, 61; Kritik der Urteilskraft, 6, 61–62, 184, 258, 264n5; Die Metaphysik der Sitten, 44, 276n1; Metaphysische Anfangsgründe der Naturwissenschaft, 44 Kneller, Jane, 16, 263n2 knowledge, act of: and the absolute, 5, 11–14, 16, 157, 185, 237–38, 258–60; and being, 17, 25, 84 –85, 174, 210; as creative, 3, 11–13, 44, 183, 203; and nature, 57, 73–74, 232 Lacoue-Labarthe, Phillippe, 83, 288n14, 290n23 Larmore, Charles, 276n58 Lebensphilosophie, 81, 286–87n2 Leibniz, Gottfried Wilhelm, 278n8, 304n6 Lessing, Gotthold Ephraim, 145, 301n26 Loheide, Bernward, 15, 17, 20–21, 35, 269n16, 269n18, 269–70n21, 270–71n25 Luther, Martin, 68–69

332

index

Mähl, Hans-Joachim, 16, 40, 54 mathematical construction: Fichte’s use of, 91, 92; Kant’s rejection of, 91, 204; Novalis’s use of, 44, 281–82n18; Schelling and, 91, 204; (Friedrich) Schlegel’s critique of, 91–92. See also construction mechanism, critique of, 70, 110, 123–24; in contrast to teleology, 309n29, 309n30 metamorphosis, conception of, 58–60, 74, 147, 160, 193–94, 196–97, 200–201, 210, 240, 282n21, 301n26, 302n32, 304n7, 311n8, 312n14 mind, in relation to nature, 2–5, 11–13, 32–33, 36–37, 50, 56, 67, 70, 78, 85, 102, 139, 155–56, 159–60, 190, 211, 213, 222, 247–48, 259–60 Molnár, Géza von, 15, 17, 20 monism, 84–85, 283n25 moral (“higher”) self, 49, 51, 66, 68, 176, 276n62 morality: and affectivity, 38, 41, 45, 49–51, 55–56, 276–77n1; and art, 42, 44; becoming, in relation to, 120–22; as conscious passivity, 85, 129, 149; as highest philosophy, 39, 44, 77–78; and nonempirical self, 176; and self-activity, 17, 32–34, 51, 56, 66–67 mysticism, 87, 120–21, 292n29 mythology, 127, 141–42, 254, 256, 292n28, 300n20, 301n22, 301n25, 317n24 Nancy, Jean-Luc, 83, 288n14, 290n23 nature: and art, 137–39, 141–42, 260, 300n17, 300n19, 300n20, 300n21, 301n24; as aspect of absolute, 2, 7, 186, 188, 207, 227, 232–33, 247, 253, 257; and Bildung, 48–52, 55–56, 124, 194; and culture, 59, 125, 137–38, 300n18; and genius (artist), 65, 73, 138, 211, 213, 215, 221; Goethe’s conception of, 59, 279n10; as historical, 120, 125; as integral whole (unity), 3, 7, 55, 59, 61, 71–72, 123–25, 186, 201, 208; and intellectual intuition, 202; Kant’s conception of, 2, 60–61, 258; mind, in relation to, 2–5, 11–13, 32–33, 36, 50, 56, 67, 70, 78, 85, 102, 139, 155–56,159–60, 190, 211, 213, 222, 247–48, 259–60;  Novalis’s conception of, 47, 51–52, 54–55, 59, 62–65, 74, 283n30; as productivity (natura naturans), 3, 59, 64–65, 69, 73,

76, 125, 198–201, 203, 207; as product of self-intuition, 2, 106; as a realization of the infinite, 120, 297n4; Schelling’s conception of, 159–60, 186–87, 191–93, 198–99, 200–203, 206–11, 213–16, 226, 233, 241, 247, 253–54, 257, 260, 303– 4n6, 309n31, 310n1, 311n10, 312n15, 315n9, 315–16n16; (Friedrich) Schlegel’s conception of, 120, 122, 125, 137–39, 141– 42, 260, 297n4, 300n17, 300n19, 300n20, 300n21, 301n24; as self-producing (selfcreating), 2, 3, 7, 107, 122–23, 160, 186, 190–92; study of, 18, 55, 58–60, 122, 193, 195, 198, 203, 208; substance, in contrast to, 3, 210; as system, 52, 75, 131, 135, 208, 210; as unconscious, 2, 139; and work of art, 65, 73–74, 123, 125, 137– 42, 145, 149, 191–92, 211, 221, 253–55, 300n17 Niethammer, Friedrich Immanuel, 96, 161–62, 294n13; Philosophisches Journal, 9, 96, 294n13; Schelling, correspondence with, 161–62; and (Friedrich) Schlegel, 96 nihilism, 261 Novalis (Friedrich Leopold von Hardenberg) —absolute, conception of, 16–17, 22–23, 27–29, 43, 46, 70, 75, 77–78, 272n36, 272n37, 273n38 —affectivity, conception of, 17, 41, 56, 276–77n1 —and ancient Greece, 59 —artistic activity, conception of, 34–36, 38, 43, 51, 57 —“beautiful society,” notion of, 41–42, 57, 67 —being, conception of, 22–23, 25, 26–29, 37–38, 78, 259, 271n29, 272n34, 272n35, 272n36, 272n37, 273n38, 273n40 —and bible project, 48, 71 —body, conception of, 56, 282n24 —community, notion of, 41– 42 —critique of idealism, 19–20, 31 —Dresden art gallery, visit to, 279–80n12 —education (Bildung), conception of, 37, 43–44, 48–49, 68, 259, 279n2 —“education of the earth” (Bildung der Erde), notion of, 48–49, 55–56, 259, 285n4 —“empirical idealism,” conception of, 13 —empirical observation, use of, 31, 54, 60, 63–65











index —and empiricism, 53–54, 63, 79 —encyclopedia project, 12, 16–17, 21, 37, 47, 49, 53, 55, 71–72, 75, 77. See also Novalis (Friedrich Leopold von Hardenberg): works: Das Allgemeine Brouillon —evil, conception of, 32 —and Fichte: critique of, 20, 23, 39, 72, 74, 78, 93, 259, 268n3, 270n24, 276n60, 277n6, 277–78n7, 278n16, 285n5, 293n10; relation to, 16, 21, 30, 32, 34, 36, 38, 40, 46, 49, 58, 66, 72, 74, 78, 259, 267n2, 269n13, 275n51, 275n52, 275n53, 277n6, 277–78n7, 279n3 —first principle: conception of, 30, 37, 72, 273n40; critique of, 74–75, 77–78, 273n43 —fragment, use of, 75–76 —freedom, conception of, 33–34, 39 —Freiburg Mining Academy, study at, 52–53 —genius, conception of, 33, 39, 43, 51, 65, 279n4 —goal of humanity, conception of, 33–34 —God, conception of, 32, 66–68, 78 —and Goethe, 18, 21, 51, 53–55, 58–64, 72–74, 78, 279n8, 280n13, 280–81n16, 281n17, 281–82n18, 282n20, 282n21, 282n22, 283n30 —“golden time” (goldenes Zeitalter), notion of, 269n16, 275n50 —ground, conception of, 20, 25, 273n40 —harmony, conception of, 33, 37, 42– 43, 46–47, 56, 68, 70, 78 —and Hegel, 19 —and Hemsterhuis, 16–17, 39–44, 46–47, 49, 57–58, 77–78, 276–77n1, 277n4, 277n5 —and Herder, 277n5 —and the I (I-being, Ichseyn), 39; as free activity, 33–34, 41, 55–56, 66, 69, 78, 272n33; as infinite, 33, 66. See also Novalis (Friedrich Leopold von Hardenberg): self, conception of —and idealism, 9, 10, 20, 79, 286n1 —idealism as empiricism, 79 —identity: being, relation to, 27–28, 271n26; statement of, 23–24 —illusion, conception of, 28, 31–33, 271n26, 274n45, 274n46, 276n55 —imagination, conception of, 13, 23, 32, 43, 62–65, 69–70 —individual and state, relation of, 41 —inorganic, conception of, 40











333 —intellectual intuition, conception of, 19–20, 60–61, 285n48 —and Isis, myth of, 49 —and Kant: critique of, 45–46, 56, 60, 72, 74, 78, 276n60, 278n16, 285n5; relation to, 16–17, 21, 30, 39, 44– 46, 56, 60–61, 67, 72, 78, 276–77n1 —knowledge, conception of: as overcoming of duality, 33; as realization of nature, 73, 77, 79, 285n4; as symbol of the whole, 56–57, 73; as transformation, 33, 56–58, 60, 65, 67–68, 70, 73, 77–79, 259, 283n25, 285n4 —life, conception of, 274n44 —living thoughts, conception of, 65, 77 —magical idealism, conception of, 283n27 —and mathematics, 44, 278n8, 281–82n18 —mechanism, critique of, 68–70 —mere being (Nur Seyn), notion of, 22, 25, 27–28, 36, 37, 101 —metamorphosis, interest in, 58–59, 282n21; and work of art, 74 —on moral activity, 34–35, 37, 41, 43, 47, 57, 66–69, 78 —morality, conception of, 17, 32–34, 38– 40, 42– 44, 49–51, 55–56, 66–67, 77–78, 276–77n1 —nature, conception of: as “living antiquity,” 59, 283n30; presentation of, 74; study of, 47, 51–52, 54–55, 62–65 —and neo-Platonism, 19, 21, 270n23 —novels, writing of, 47, 49, 77 —ordo inversus, notion of, 35, 37 —organic whole, notion of, 17, 42, 46, 60, 62, 278n18 —organism, conception of, 62–63, 278n18, 285–86n7 —paths, inward and outward, 49–50, 66–67, 78 —as philosopher, 15 —and Plato, 16, 58 —and Plotinus, 21, 58, 270n23 —poetry, conception of, 43– 44 —poetry and philosophy, conception of, 74, 76, 273n39, 276n58, 276n60 —politics, conception of, 37, 41–42 —postmodernist interpretations of, 268n9 —presentation, conception of, 23–25, 34–35, 38, 276n55 —Protestantism, critique of, 68–69 —reason, conception of, 277n7

334

index

Novalis (cont.) —reflection, conception of, 13, 31, 53, 57, 63–65 —relation between self and world, conception of, 37, 56 —representation, conception of, 274n45 —and Ritter, 58, 283n28 —romanticization, notion of, 37, 48, 51, 60, 67–68, 78–79 —salt mines, administration of, 54 —and skepticism, 20, 285n42 —and Schelling, 51, 53, 58, 157–58, 260, 279n5, 283n28, 285n5 —and (Friedrich) Schlegel: correspondence with, 40, 43, 48, 57, 71, 94, 96, 126, 127; relation to, 49, 53, 81, 83, 85, 93, 101, 106, 126–28, 131, 133, 137–38, 145, 301n26 —scientific organon, 46, 71, 74 —as scientist, 13, 16, 54–55 —self, conception of: as active, 40, 47, 78, 272n33, 274–75n49; as eternal, 33; everyday self, 39; as free, 39, 66, 69; goal of, 32; and higher self, 39, 49, 66, 68; as infinite, 33; as moral, 39, 49, 51, 66; and nature, 32–33, 51; presentation of, 57; as realization of being, 32; as relational, 77 —self-consciousness: conception of, 57; as image of being, 26, 28, 37; problem of, 21 —self-feeling, notion of, 20, 41 —soul, conception of, 44–46, 56–57, 276n62, 271–77n1 —and Spinoza, 16, 21, 32, 58, 277n6, 279n3, 283n25 —Steffens, Henrik, assessment of Novalis, 280n12 —supersensible knowledge, notion of, 45, 285n48 —system of knowledge, conception of, 17, 42, 57, 65, 72, 78, 271n28 —and Tieck, Johann Ludwig, 283n28 —thing-in-itself (Ding an sich), critique of, 74, 77, 272n34 —transcendental idealism, critique of, 63 —and transcendental philosophy, 38 —and Werner, Abraham Gottlob, 52–53, 71, 279n8 —and Wissenschaftslehre, 40, 72, 93–94 —work of art: and the absolute, 35; conception of, 34–38, 43, 275n52, 275n53, 276n55; as expanding nature, 73; as





manifestation of free activity, 34–35, 275n51; as product of the I, 34; and romanticization, 38, 73 —works: Das Allgemeine Brouillon, 21, 31, 37, 40, 47– 48, 53–55, 57–58, 71–72, 128; Blüthenstaub, 48, 55, 57, 280n16; “Christenheit oder Europa,” 68, 280n13; FichteStudien, 16–17, 19–41, 46, 56, 66, 69, 74–75, 77, 259, 270–71n25, 274–75n49; Großes physikalisches Studienheft, 75; Heinrich von Ofterdingen, 49–50; Hemsterhuis-Studien, 17, 37, 39– 42, 44, 52, 56, 85; Kant-Studien, 17, 40, 42, 44– 46, 85; Lehrlinge zu Saïs, 49–50, 65, 128, 277–78n7; Logologische Fragmente, 46, 56; Medizinische Bermerckungen (i.e., scientific notes), 59; Novalis Schriften, Schlegel-Tieck edition, 54, 281n17 —world-all (Weltall), idea of, 41

one and many, relation between, 2–4, 7 organic unity: aggregate, in contrast to, 40, 134, 184, 278n18; and art, 139, 191–92, 226; conception of, 4, 60–62, 134, 184, 190, 193, 200, 207; and discursive intellect, 61–62; grasp of, 62–63, 97, 135; and inorganic, 52, 279n8; in knowledge (system of knowledge), 40, 42, 52, 71, 83, 95, 128, 133, 144; mechanical unity, in contrast to, 61, 122–25, 242; in nature, 52, 60–62, 124, 134, 198, 222, 242, 254 philosophical methodology: conception of, 95–99, 103, 129, 135–36, 156, 158, 211, 228, 232, 240, 249–50, 256, 316n18; geometry in, 158, 204–6, 208–9, 212, 223, 225, 228, 240, 243, 247; as historical, 95–97, 103, 135–36, 156, 299–300n15 philosophy: historicity of, 86, 92, 97, 102–3, 114–15, 125, 297n18; history of, 87, 97, 99, 101–3; of identity, 159, 212–14, 224–29, 236–37, 242, 249–51, 254, 314n1, 315n9, 316n19; of nature, (Naturphilosophie), 160, 187, 198–99, 201–2, 206–11, 213–16, 226, 233, 241, 247, 253–54, 257, 260, 303–4n6, 310n1, 311n10, 312n15, 315n9; and poetry, 30, 36, 74; political, 83; possibility of, 30; and sophistry, 90; as striving after ground, 30–31, 273n40; transcendental, 1, 7, 9, 38, 53, 63, 86, 98, 100, 103, 106, 113–14, 216–17, 226, 232–33, 236, 253



index

Plato, 16, 58, 89, 120–21, 305n2 Platonism, 174, 228, 303–4n6, 305n2 Plotinus, 21, 58, 267n2, 268n2, 270n23 poetry, 30, 36, 74, 81, 94, 128, 131, 138– 40, 298n3, 300n20, 301n25; and philosophy, 30, 36, 74; romantic, conception of, 81, 128, 131 positing, act of, 3, 101, 165, 168–69 post-Kantian idealism, 1, 11, 16 presentation (Darstellung), 2, 8, 16–17, 20, 22–26, 34; absolute presentation (presentation of the absolute), 25, 224, 226, 237, 247, 249–50, 255; and art, 34–36, 38, 223, 254–56; as epistemological, 25; and illusion, 28, 35, 276n55; as negation of identity, 23–26, 28; as ontological, 25, 116–19, 122, 124; and self-consciousness, 21–22, 24, 31, 219–22, 230, 233, 254 realism, 20, 100, 114, 139–40, 229, 286n1 reason: and the absolute, 158, 225–30, 232, 235, 237, 245, 249, 253–57, 295n5, 297n15; and art, 253–55; in contrast to understanding, 107, 283n32; and intellectual intuition, 100, 109, 228, 249 reciprocal determination, conception of, 7, 90–91, 95, 101–2, 113, 119, 124, 155, 260 Reinhold, Karl Leonhard, 87, 160, 171–73, 175–76, 307n18 Ritter, Johann Wilhelm, 58, 283n28 romanticism: contemporary relevance of, 8–9, 14, 263–64n3, 265n10; and critical philosophy, 12–13, 258; as epistemological, 1–2, 12, 14; and Hegelian legacy, 10; Hegel’s view of, 260–61; and idealism, 9–10, 12, 77–79, 160, 259, 265n15; and Kant, 258, 261; as metaphysics, 1, 11–12, 289n17; and politics, 302n34; and post-Kantian idealism, 11; and postmodernism, 83, 259; Schelling’s relation to, 157–60, 257; and self-contradiction, 31–32; as a skeptical movement, 9, 259; and Spinoza, 2, 7, 11; systematicity, conception of, 12; and systematic knowledge, 4, 17, 160, 221, 245, 303n2 Rousseau, Jean-Jacques, 81











Schelling, Friedrich Wilhelm Joseph von —and absolute, 158, 160, 171, 185, 188, 223, 228–36, 239– 44, 247– 49, 257,

335 260–61, 315n9, 315n14; as causa sui (selfcausing or self-productive), 170, 172, 185; essence and form of, 240–43, 249, 251, 315n14; as I (self), 171–72, 174–77, 181–82, 184–85; as nonobjective, 185, 188–89, 223, 227, 257; potencies of, 233, 247–48, 251, 253, 255; as quantity, form of, 231, 238, 315n11; and reason, 158, 225–30, 237, 245, 249, 254–56; selfproductivity of, 185 —and absolute idealism, 10, 259 —Aenesidemus, response to, 162, 167–68, 175–76 —aesthetic intuition, conception of, 158, 223–28, 251, 314n7 —archetypal cognition, conception of, 243– 46 —archetype (Urbild): conception of, 243–52, 254–56; in nature, 200–202, 240, 246, 249; the self as, 190 —art: conception of, 158, 191–92, 217, 221, 223–28, 230, 249, 251–56, 260; and nature, 191–92, 201, 211, 213–14, 254; and philosophy, 224–26, 253–56, 316–17n23; and science, 213–14 —Athenäum, relation to, 157, 280n13 —beauty, conception of, 252, 255–56 —becoming, conception of, 158 —being, conception of, 158, 174, 181–82, 210, 235–41, 254, 259, 305n2 —Beiser, Frederick, 157–58, 316n19 —biological reproduction, conception of, 311n5 —construction, conception of, 185, 202–6, 208–12, 221, 237, 240, 314n1, 316n19 —counterimage (Abbild; Gegenbild), conception of, 243, 255 —Einbildungskraft. See Schelling, Friedrich Wilhelm Joseph von: imagination (Einbildungskraft), conception of —“empirical,” understanding of, 306n14 —and empiricism, 206 —evolution, conception of, 312n14 —experimentation, conception of, 194, 202– 4, 206–9, 313n18 —and Fichte, 157, 159–62, 167–76, 185–89, 193, 197, 202, 204–5, 221, 228–29, 233–42, 248, 250–51, 260, 303n5, 304n1, 305n2, 306n9, 306n11, 310n34, 315n12;

336

index

Schelling, Friedrich Wilhelm Joseph von (cont.) break with, 159–60, 193, 227–28, 260; correspondence with, 198, 233–35, 237–40, 250, 304n1, 312n15, 315n12 —genius, conception of, 211, 213, 215, 221, 223 —and geometry, 158, 205–6, 208–9, 212, 223, 225, 228, 240, 243, 247 —God, conception of, 191, 254 –55, 307–8n21, 316n22 —the gods, conception of, 317n24 —and Goethe, 157–58, 160, 193–95, 200, 203, 214, 301n36, 304n7, 310–11n6 —growth, conception, 311n5 —Grundsatz (first principle): form and content of, 167–70, 189; notion of, 158, 162, 167–70, 172–73, 207, 249, 303n2, 306n9 —and Hegel, 158, 171, 313n4 —and Hölderlin, Johann Christian Friedrich, 193, 303n6 —hypothesis (absolute hypothesis), notion of, 206–9, 215, 313n18 —on the I, 161, 173, 176–77, 183, 190, 192–93; as absolute, 171, 174, 176–77, 182, 186, 198, 212, 260, 307–8n21; as causa sui, 170; as self-positing, 168–69 —and idealism, 157, 160, 187–88, 228–29, 257, 259, 304–5n1 —identity: conception of, 230–32, 235–36, 248, 250, 314n1, 315n9; logical form of, 129, 168–70, 230–31, 234, 241; ontology of, 211, 213–19, 221–22, 233, 260; philosophy of, 159, 212–14, 224–29, 236–37, 242, 249–51, 254, 314n1, 315n9, 316n19. See also Schelling, Friedrich Wilhelm Joseph von: and principle (proposition) of identity —imagination (Einbildungskraft), conception of, 205, 211–12, 246, 256, 317n24 —indifference point (Indifferenzpunkt), conception of, 228–29, 234–35, 237–39, 242–43, 245, 247, 254–55, 316n16 —individual being, conception of, 232 —infinite productivity and infinite limitation, notions of, 199–201, 207, 210, 311n11 —intellectual intuition, conception of, 6, 158–59, 169–70, 175–86, 188–89, 202–5, 211, 222–24, 226, 228, 235, 238, 240, 245–46, 248–49, 251–52, 308n24, 314n7, 316n18, 316n20 —and Jacobi, 170, 172, 178, 305n2, 306n10

















—Jena, tenure in, 53–54, 157–59, 161 —and Kant, 157, 162, 174–77, 184–85, 201, 307–8n21, 309n30, 310n33, 313–14n6, 314n3; critique of theological interpretations of, 309–10n32 —knowledge: conception of, 173, 183–84, 186, 189, 203–7, 209, 211, 215–17, 241, 244; contradiction in, 217, 225; system of, 160, 173, 217, 221, 245, 250, 303n2; as transformative, 211 —and Leibniz, 304n6 —materialist interpretations of, 312n16 —and mathematics, 91, 204. See also Schelling, Friedrich Wilhelm Joseph von: construction, conception of —matter, conception of, 186, 189–92, 202, 213, 215, 220 —metamorphosis, conception of, 160, 193–94, 200–201, 312n14 —methodology: developmentalproductive, conception of, 228, 316n18; and geometrical construction, 228, 232, 240; as successive construction, 158, 211, 249–50, 256, 316n18. See also Schelling, Friedrich Wilhelm Joseph von: construction, conception of —and morphology, 241–42, 245–46 —and mythology, 256, 317n24 —natura naturans and natura naturata distinction, 198, 203 —nature: conception of, 157, 159–60, 186–93, 197–202, 207–8; duplicity in, 200–201, 207; and intelligible world, 315–16n16; mechanism and teleology in, 309n31; philosophy of (Naturphilosophie), 160, 187, 198–99, 201–2, 206–11, 213–16, 226, 233, 241, 247, 253–54, 257, 260, 303–4n6, 310n1, 311n10, 312n15, 315n9; as self-producing, 160, 186, 193, 198–202 —necessity, conception of, 191, 207–8, 210, 217, 220–21, 247, 296n9, 309n30, 313n18 —and Niethammer, Friedrich Immanuel, 161–62 —and Novalis (Friedrich Leopold von Hardenberg), 51, 53, 58, 157–58, 260, 279n5, 283n28, 285n5 —organic (organism), conception of, 193, 198, 201, 222, 226, 241–42, 244–46, 253–54 —and Pfister, 181, 309n26 —pietism, influence of, 303–4n6

















index —plant, conception of, 241, 245–46, 249 —and Platonism, 174, 228, 303–4n6, 305n2 —polarity, conception of, 200, 311–12n13 —presentation, conception of, 219, 221, 224, 226, 230, 233, 237, 249–50, 254–56 —and principle (proposition) of identity, 169–70, 187, 189, 230–31, 234, 240–41 —and realism, 172, 229, 239 —reason: conception of, 225–30, 232, 237, 245, 249, 253–57; work of art, in contrast to, 227–28, 253–57. See also Schelling, Friedrich Wilhelm Joseph von: and absolute: and reason —and Reinhold, 162, 167–68, 172–73, 175 —and romanticism, 157–60, 257 —and (August Wilhelm) Schlegel, 157 —and (Friedrich) Schlegel, 82, 91, 97–101, 103, 113, 127, 145, 157–58, 160, 260, 295n2 —self-consciousness, conception of, 174, 198, 204, 215–16, 218–21, 223, 316n21; and the absolute, 227, 230, 234; history of, 212, 214, 216, 218–22, 313n5, 313–14n6; as reflective, 168–70, 191, 241 —and Spinoza, 157, 159–60, 170–73, 177–86, 188–89, 193, 202, 305n2, 308n24, 309n26; critique of, 182–86, 188–89, 210, 225, 228–29, 234 —system of knowledge. See Schelling, Friedrich Wilhelm Joseph von: knowledge: system of —and transcendental idealism, 216–17, 226, 232–33, 236, 253 —Tübingen, time in, 161, 187 —unconditioned (das Unbedingte; unbedingt), conception of, 167–70, 173–74, 296n9; as the absolute, 227, 232, 251; nature as, 191, 210 —unconscious, conception of, 22, 209–10, 254, 260; in art, 215, 217, 221, 223, 252, 254; in nature, 217, 222 —work of art. See Schelling, Friedrich Wilhelm Joseph von: art —works: “Abhandlung zur Erläuterung des Idealismus der Wissenschaftslehre,” 186, 188–91, 202, 204–5, 212, 293n6, 310n34; “Allgemeine Deduction des Dynamischen Processes,” 213–14, 313n3; Briefe über Dogmatismus und Kriticismus, 182–83, 188, 240; Bruno oder über das göttliche und natürliche Prinzip der Dinge, 11, 239, 240, 243, 251–52;

337

“Darstellung meines Systems der Philosophie,” 225, 227–30, 232, 234–35, 237–39, 248, 250, 314n3, 315n12; “Einleitung” (to the Erster Entwurf) 160, 188, 193, 195, 197–202, 209, 214, 221, 311n9; Erster Entwurf eines Systems der Naturphilosophie, 51, 159–61, 186, 188, 193, 197–98, 200, 202–3, 205, 209–10, 212, 214–16, 221, 228, 240–41; “Fernere Darstellung meines Systems der Philosophie,” 225, 227, 229–30, 232, 234, 239–43, 245, 253; Historisch-kritische Einleitung in die Philosophie der Mythologie, 256; Ideen zu einer Philosophie der Natur, 159, 190–92, 194, 202, 205, 212, 228, 256; System des transcendentalen Idealismus, 11, 158, 211–14, 216, 218, 220–30, 232, 235, 239, 249–50, 253–54, 256, 260, 313n3; “Timaeus Fragment,” 187, 303n6, 306n13; Über die Möglichkeit einer Form der Philosophie überhaupt, 159, 162, 167, 170, 172; “Ueber den wahren Begriff der Naturphilosophie und die richtige Art ihre Probleme auszulösen,” 209, 313n18; Vom Ich als Prinzip der Philosophie, 159, 161–62, 170–72, 175, 182, 184, 188–89, 202, 230, 232, 234, 240, 306n11, 314n3; Von der Weltseele, 193–94, 200, 228; Vorlesungen über die Methode des akademischen Studiums, 250; Vorlesungen über die Philosophie der Kunst, 252–56; Zeitschrift für spekulative Physik, 213, 225, 227 Schiller, Friedrich, 193 Schlegel, August Wilhelm von: art, conception of, 300n17; Dresden art gallery, visit to, 127, 279n12; and Novalis (Friedrich Leopold von Hardenberg), 280n13; and Schelling, 157; and (Friedrich) Schlegel, 81, 125, 127, 131, 133, 135 Schlegel, Caroline von, 127, 145, 279–80n12 Schlegel, Dorothea von, 81, 279n12, 302n33 Schlegel, Friedrich von —absolute, conception of, 84–85, 101–2, 117, 261; aspects of, 84, 102, 155–56; as immanent, 85, 119; as Kantian regulative ideal, 83, 289n18; as mediation (Vermittlung), 155; as relational, 155 —and absolute idealism, 10, 289n17 —aesthetics, doctrine of, 87, 288n13, 290n21, 300n17. See also Schlegel, Friedrich von: artistic activity

338

index

Schlegel, Friedrich von (cont.) —allegory, use of, 83, 105, 116 —artistic activity: conception of, 85, 129, 141, 150–51, 260–61; and natural creativity, 138–41, 144, 149 —Athenäum, co-editor of, 81, 133, 286n1 —and critical philosophy, 12 —and Baader, Franz von, 145, 301n26 —becoming, conception of, 84–85, 118–22, 125 —Behler, Ernst, 289n18, 289–90n19, 291n27, 300n15 —being: as historical, 85, 117, 120, 125, 293n7; as infinite becoming, 84–85, 120–22, 125 —Beiser, Frederick, 286n1, 295n5, 300n15 —and bible project, 85, 126–27, 137, 301n29 —Bildung (education, formation), conception of, 124, 132–34, 140–46, 148 —Catholicism, conversion to, 87, 291n26, 291n27, 291–92n28 —Chaouli, Michel, 299n8 —consciousness: as aspect of absolute, 84, 99–102, 155; development of, 102–3; as historical, 102–3, 115; and reality, 102, 104, 108, 113, 117, 125; reflective (subjective) consciousness, in contrast to, 100, 107–8, 111; thought (Denken), in contrast to, 107, 111; and truth, 105; as universal, 107–8, 111–15 —contemplative life, 85, 150. See also Schlegel, Friedrich von: vegetative life —and Cotta, 89, 96, 294n14 —Dilthey on, 82, 286–87n2 —and empiricism, 88, 120–21 —encyclopedia project, 85–86, 126–28, 298n1, 298n2. See also Schlegel, Frie­ drich von: and bible project —epistemology, primacy of, 83, 288n13, 289n17 —and Fichte: criticism of, 85–86, 90–91, 97, 106–7, 109–11, 113–14, 292n3, 294–95n18, 314–15n8; relation to, 83, 85, 89, 94–95, 98–103, 109, 112–14, 155–56, 295n2 —and Fichtean-Reinholdian system, 87, 290n21 —first principle, critique of, 85, 87, 89–95, 155–56 —foundationalism, critique of, 81, 290n21







—the fragment, conception of, 131–33, 299n8. See also system: of fragments —Frank, Manfred, 83, 289n15, 289n16, 289n18, 291n27 —freedom, conception of, 123–24 —on French Revolution, 81 —Gelassenheit, conception of, 147, 150. See also Schlegel, Friedrich von: contemplative life —on gender relations, 81, 287n4, 302n33 —genius, conception of, 152 —God, conception of, 116–17, 130, 139, 149, 300n19 —and Goethe, 82, 145–47, 301n26, 301n28 —Göttingen, study in, 89 —Grundsatz. See Schlegel, Friedrich von: first principle, critique of —and Hegel, 81–83, 86, 102, 297–98n7, 302n32 —and Hemsterhuis, 89 —and Herder, 89, 145, 295n1 —and hermeneutic idealism, development of, 104–5, 113–14, 155 —historical method, notion of, 86, 95–98, 103, 135–36, 156, 299–300n15 —history: of philosophy, conception of, 86–87, 92, 97–103, 115; philosophy of, 81, 83, 92, 101, 294n17, 294–95n18, 296n11, 299n9, 300n15, 302n32 —as idealist, 9–10, 13, 82, 104, 106, 112–14, 125, 139, 155, 289n17, 295n7 —identity, statement of, 109 —image (Bild), as distinct from symbol, 118 —imagination, conception of, 135–37, 150, 152, 156, 256 —individual, conception of, 299n9 —infinite: as aspect of the absolute, 84, 101, 259; conception of, 84, 91, 113, 115, 121–22; consciousness, relation to, 99–102, 105, 107–8, 113, 115, 155, 259, 297n3; as distinct from unconditioned, 93, 113, 118; and finite, 113, 115–22, 124, 152–53, 297n2, 297n3, 314n6; good and bad infinite, distinction, 297–98n7; as ground of being, 99, 113; as historical, 118, 120, 125, 293n7; as immanent, 119; nature, as realization of, 102, 120, 124; striving after the, 91, 131











index —infinite perfectibility, notion of, 104, 108, 131, 150, 296n12, 299n7 —intellectual intuition: conception of, 99–101, 106–10, 112, 115; critique of, 86, 109–11, 297n16; and faith, in contrast to, 99; and infinite regress, 110; as nondiscursive, 107; as nonsubjective, 99, 106–8, 112, 297n5; and proof, in contrast to, 99–100; as rational, 100, 107–8 —irony, conception of, and Hegel’s interpretation, 82–83 —and Jacobi, 85, 89–91, 259, 288n12 —and Kant, 89, 97, 103, 109, 112–14, 155–56, 294–95n18 —knowledge: conception of, 81–83; as infinite task, 84; love of, 90 (see also Schlegel, Friedrich von: Wissenschaftsliebe); subjective nature of, 83; as symbolic, 104, 114 —Lebensphilosophie, notion of, 81, 286–87n2 —and Lessing, 145, 301n26 —as literary scholar, 13, 81, 83, 296n11 —love, conception of, 146–48, 302n31 —marriage, views on, 287n4 —and mathematical construction, critique of, 91–92 —mechanism, critique of, 123–24 —the middle, notion of: literary use of, 143–44, 146; philosophical significance of, 91–95, 105, 114, 137, 155, 293n9 —and monism, 84–85 —morality, 85, 120–22; as conscious passivity, 85, 129, 147, 149–50 —music: metaphor of, 129, 133–34, 136–37, 145, 299n13; physical and organic, distinction in, 123, 125 —mysticism, critique of, 87, 120–21 —mythology, conception of, 127, 141–42, 301n22 —natural history, example of, 97 —nature: and art, 127–28, 137–39, 141–42, 149, 260, 300n17, 300n19, 300n20, 300n21, 301n24 (see also Schlegel, Friedrich von: artistic activity); and culture, 125, 137–38; as historical, 120, 125; and mind, 85, 102, 106, 155–56; as moral ideal, 85 (see also Schlegel, Friedrich von: plant, symbol of); as purposive, 107–8, 122; as realization of the infinite, 120,













339 297n4; as self-producing (self-creating), 122–23; study of, 122, 135–37; as unconscious poetry, 139 —and Niethammer, 96 —and Novalis, 40, 43, 48–49, 53, 57, 71, 81, 83, 85, 93–94, 96, 101, 106, 126–28, 131, 133, 137–38, 145, 301n26. See also Novalis: and (Friedrich) Schlegel: correspondence with —and the novel, 81, 87, 128, 138 —ѵoῦς, conception of, 107, 109, 297n15 —organicism, 122–25, 144 —organic whole (organism), conception of, 95, 122–25, 133–35, 144, 299n14 —pantheism, later critique of, 87, 291–92n28 —passivity. See Schlegel, Friedrich von: morality: as conscious passivity —philosophical method: deductive, 95, 99, 129, 134–35, 136; historical, 95–97, 103, 135–36, 156. See also Schlegel, Friedrich von: historical method, notion of —philosophy: historicity of, 86, 92, 97, 102–3, 114–15, 125, 297n18; as love of knowledge (love of wisdom), 89–94, 292n1; and sophistry, as opposed to, 90. See also Schlegel, Friedrich von: history, philosophy of —plant, symbol of, 4, 85, 129, 144–45, 149, 153–54, 302n30 —and Plato, 89, 120–21 —poetry: conception of, 81, 94, 126–31, 138–40, 298n3, 300n20, 301n25; romantic, 81, 128, 131 —political views, 81. See also Schlegel, Friedrich von: on gender relations —as post-Kantian critical philosopher, 83, 156 —postmodern interpretations of, 83 —presentation (Darstellung), conception of, 116–19, 122, 124 —proof and explanation, distinction, 297n1 —reality: as allegory, 105, 112–13, 116; conception of, 101–2, 104–6, 112–13, 115–16, 120, 125, 139–40, 155; as hermeneutic, 105, 114; historical character of, 115, 120, 122, 125, 156 —reason, conception of, 100, 107, 131, 295n5

340

index

Schlegel, Friedrich von (cont.) —reciprocal determination, 7, 90–91, 95, 101–2, 113, 119, 124, 155, 260 —reflection, structure of, 86, 107, 112 —and Reinhold, 87 —revelation (Offenbarung), notion of, 87, 291n27 —Sanskrit, knowledge of, 81 —and Schelling, 82, 91, 97–101, 103, 113, 127, 145, 157–58, 160, 260, 295n2 —and (August Wilhelm) Schlegel, 81, 123, 125, 127, 129, 130–31, 133, 135, 149 —and (Caroline) Schlegel, 127, 145 —and (Dorothea) Schlegel, 81 —and Schleiermacher, 81, 131 —and skepticism, 87, 297n6 —and Spinoza, 89, 99–102, 114, 140, 300n20 —Steigerung (intensification), appropriation of, 145, 147 —as subjective idealist, 82–83, 86, 112 —and subjectivism, in contrast to, 82–83, 106–7, 111–12, 114, 156 —symbol, conception of, 118 —system: conception of, 86, 91–95, 104, 113, 128–30, 144–45, 156, 290n20, 294n12, 298n5 (see also system: of fragments); impossibility of, 82, 114 —thing-in-itself (Ding an sich), 155 —transcendental philosophy, critique of, 86, 98, 100, 103, 106, 113–14 —truth, conception of, 104–6, 113–14, 125, 155, 289n16. See also Schlegel, Friedrich von: knowledge —unconditioned: critique of, 85–86, 90–95, 100, 103, 113–14, 118–19, 122, 155; as dogmatic, 93–94, 119; as dualistic, 93, 119; as opposed to conditioned, 92; as unknowable, 92. See also Schlegel, Friedrich von: first principle, critique of —understanding (Verstand): as distinct from reason, 107; as universal, 107. See also Schlegel, Friedrich von: ѵoῦς —Ur-Ich (original I): conception of, 111–12; as distinct from individual I, 111; as found, not made, 112; as ground of individual I, 111; as ground of reality, 111; I-you relation, 112–13, 148 —vegetative life, notion of, 85, 147–50

—Wechselerweis (alternating proof), conception of, 90–91, 93–94, 113, 119, 122, 153, 156, 259, 288n12, 292n4, 295n7 —Wissenschaftsliebe, 90, 93 —wit, conception of, 83, 136, 152–53 —work of art, conception of, 89, 127, 130, 137–39, 144, 149, 291n27. See also Schlegel, Friedrich von: artistic activity —works: Athenäums-Fragmente, 81, 84, 106, 117, 129, 131, 133, 299n9; Gespräch über die Poesie, 126–28, 138–42; “Ideen,” 126, 131, 140; Jena Vorlesungen (Vorlesungen über Transcendentalphilosophie), 84, 98, 101–2, 104, 107, 113, 115–17, 123, 132, 139, 148, 155, 291n27; Kölner Vorlesungen (Die Entwicklung der Philosophie in zwölf Büchern), 87–88, 103, 109, 111, 113, 116–17, 135, 291n27; Kritische Fragmente (Lyceum Fragmente), 87, 131; Lucinde, 81, 126–28, 137–38, 142–48, 150–53, 297n17; Woldemar Rezension, 85, 89, 91, 93–94, 113, 119, 153, 259, 288n12 Schleiermacher, Friedrich Daniel Ernst, 81, 131, 286n1 (pt. 2) Schulze, Gottlob Ernst, 305n4 self-consciousness: and absolute, 83, 100, 174, 227, 230, 234; and being, 266n19; conditions of, 57, 91, 204, 218–23, 295n2; history of, 214, 216; and intellectual intuition, 110, 174, 218; as ordo inversus, 20–21; as outcome, 198, 233, 297n3; as pure act, 218–19 skepticism, 20, 63, 88, 129, 163–64, 167, 175, 216, 261, 292n29, 297n6 Spinoza, Baruch: as dogmatic, 12; Ethics, 178–79; and Fichte, 238; God, conception of, 178–79; intellectual intuition (see Spinoza, Baruch: third kind of knowledge); and Kant, 184; and Ludovicus Meyer, 178, 308n24; and Novalis, 32, 58, 279n3; and realism, 100–101, 114; and romanticism, 2, 7, 11; and Schelling, 157, 159–60, 170–72, 177–86, 188–89, 193, 202, 210, 225, 228–29, 234, 305n2, 308n24, 309n26; and (Friedrich) Schlegel, 89, 99–102, 114, 140, 300n20; and substance, conception of, 2, 101, 178, 182; third kind of knowledge, conception of, 7, 170, 178–81, 183–84, 202, 308n24; truth, conception



index

Spinoza, Baruch (cont.) of, 180–81; universal concepts, conception of, 178, 181 Steffens, Henrik, 280n12, 311n7 Steigerung (intensification), conception of, 145, 197, 200 subjective idealism, 10–12, 82–83, 86, 100, 106–7, 111–12, 114, 155 substance, notion of, 2, 5, 7, 11, 60, 101, 107, 112, 116, 123, 132, 140, 151, 155, 171–72, 178, 182, 184, 197, 210, 236, 250, 258, 267n29, 270n21, 272n34, 274n44, 289n17 system: of fragments, 4, 86–87, 125, 129, 131–35, 137, 145, 149, 156, 299n6, 299n11, 299n12, 299n13; impossibility of, 82, 114; of knowledge, 4, 17, 42, 57, 65, 72, 78, 95, 104, 129–30, 160, 173, 217, 221, 245, 250, 271n28, 290n20, 294n12, 298n5, 303n2 teleology. See mechanism, critique of thing-in-itself (Ding an sich), notion of, 26, 72, 74, 77, 155, 162–65, 258, 272n34 Tieck, Johann Ludwig, 49, 58, 283n28 Tilliette, Xavier, 162, 264–65n7, 307n17 transcendental idealism (transcendental philosophy): critique of, 1, 38, 53, 63, 86, 97–98, 104, 107, 113–14, 187, 227, 236, 259; methodology of, 9, 91, 103, 187–88, 194, 198, 210, 215–18, 223, 225, 232, 236; move beyond, 7, 31, 98, 100–101, 106,

341

114, 155–56, 174, 193, 198, 205, 212, 224, 236–37 truth, correspondence theory of, 104; (Friedrich) Schlegel’s conception of, 104–6, 113–14, 125, 155, 289n16; Spinoza’s conception of, 180–81 Uerling, Herbert, 35, 270n21, 276n55 unconditioned first principle: romantic critique of, 4, 7, 37, 74, 77–78, 85–86, 90, 93–95, 113–14, 118, 122, 129, 155; significance of, 169–70, 173–74, 296n9 Voigt, Christian, 194–95 Werner, Abraham Gottlob, 52–53, 71, 279n8, 279n11 work of art: absolute, relation to, 20–21, 34–36, 38, 43, 223–28, 230, 250–56, 291n27; and aesthetic intuition, 158, 223–28, 251; construction of, 144, 223; and the encyclopedia project, 127, 137; and nature, 4–5, 36, 38, 49, 51, 58–59, 65, 73–74, 76, 85, 125, 137–42, 144, 149, 191–92, 201, 211, 213, 221, 224, 226, 252–55, 291n27, 300n17; and philosophy, 20–21, 35–38, 42–43, 58, 74–76, 89, 126–30, 140–41, 158, 214, 221, 223–27, 251–56; as presentation for the sake of presentation, 34–38, 43, 275n51, 275n52, 275n53, 276n55; and religion, 127, 291n27. See also art