Weltschmerz Part 2: Schopenhauer

Even in retrospect, it is easy to sympathize with the dismay of contemporaries about Schopenhauer’s pessimism. There is indeed something shocking about it. For Schopenhauer tells us, explicitly and emphatically, that life is not worth living, and that  non-existence is better than existence. It is as if he were telling us we were better off  dead. It sounds like a recommendation of suicide, even if Schopenhauer himself  advises against such a drastic remedy. Schopenhauer’s pessimism is best understood as his answer to Hamlet’s famous  question: “To be or not to be?” Schopenhauer explicitly refers to Hamlet’s monologue;  and his answer to it could not be more simple and blunt. “The essential meaning of the  world famous monologue in Hamlet”, he writes, “is this: That our life is so miserable  that complete non-existence would be preferable to it.” (I. 445; P 324).

No one at the  end of his life, if he were honest and reflective, Schopenhauer wagers, would want to live it over again or would prefer it over nothingness. Existence is a mistake, we are  told, and our sole aim should be to grasp that it is a mistake, which means knowing “that it would be better not to exist” (II. 775; P 605)

In one argument Schopenhauer formulates his pessimism as the antithesis of Leibniz’s optimism. While Leibniz’s optimism states that this is the best of all possible worlds, Schopenhauer maintains the very opposite: that this is the worst of all possible worlds (II. 747; P 583)

Another argument for pessimism in chapter 46 of Die Welt als Wille und Vorstellung applies the eudemonic calculus to life, weighing its pleasures against its pains. Measured by such a calculus, Schopenhauer argues, life shows itself to be not worth  living simply because its pains vastly outweigh its pleasures, its sufferings greatly over-shadow its joys (IV. 343). If we were purely rational beings, who decide strictly according to our advantage, Schopenhauer contends, we would prefer nothingness over being, simply because life creates far more pain than pleasure (II. 742; P 579–80). 

Hence he compares life to a bad business venture where the losses outweigh the gains, and where we never recover our initial investment (II. 734, 742; P 574, 579–80). Rather than comparing life to a gift, he thinks that we should liken it more to a debt (II. 743;

For Schopenhauer not only expressly repudiates “optimism”, which he regards as the antithesis of his own philosophy,but he also has a decidedly negative attitude toward life. We have no other word for that antithesis, or for that attitude, than “pessimism”.

Even in retrospect, it is easy to sympathize with the dismay of contemporaries about Schopenhauer’s pessimism. There is indeed something shocking about it. For Schopenhauer tells us, explicitly and emphatically, that life is not worth living, and that non-existence is better than existence. It is as if he were telling us we were better off dead. It sounds like a recommendation of suicide, even if Schopenhauer himself advises against such a drastic remedy.

Schopenhauer’s pessimism is best understood as his answer to Hamlet’s famous question: “To be or not to be?” Schopenhauer explicitly refers to Hamlet’s monologue; and his answer to it could not be more simple and blunt. “The essential meaning of the world famous monologue in Hamlet”, he writes, “is this: That our life is so miserable that complete non-existence would be preferable to it.” (I. 445; P 324).

No one at the end of his life, if he were honest and reflective, Schopenhauer wagers, would want to live it over again or would prefer it over nothingness. Existence is a mistake, we are told, and our sole aim should be to grasp that it is a mistake, which means knowing “that it would be better not to exist” (II. 775; P 605).

Paying off the interest takes our entire life; and we pay off the principle only with death. The sheer scale, constancy and intensity of human suffering, and the fact that the wicked prosper while the virtuous suffer, makes it necessary to admit, Schopenhauer insists, that it would have been better had the world never existed (II. 738–9; P 739).

As it stands, this argument seems very dogmatic because Schopenhauer writes as if it were a simple fact that suffering greatly outweighs pleasure in life. Many of his critics, as we shall eventually see, contest this apparent fact; they contend that the very opposite is the case: that, on the whole, at least for the great majority of people, pleasure outweighs suffering. We shall see in the next section, however, that Schopenhauer has a strong rationale for his assessment.

Sometimes in chapter 46 Schopenhauer adopts a moral rather than a eudemonic or utilitarian standard to measure the value of life. This becomes clear when he maintains that the existence of any evil at all shows that life should not have been (II. 738–90; P 576).

In other words, life would be of value only if there were no evil whatsoever. The smallest amount of evil cannot be balanced out, or compensated for, by the greatest amount of good. As Schopenhauer puts it: even if thousands lived in happiness, that would never compensate for the anguish and agony of a single individual.

This argument seems to derive its plausibility from the moral intuition that the suffering of one person cannot be the justification for the happiness of many. This is the intuition behind the old adage: Floreat justitia, pereat mundi. There can be no justification for making the entire world happy if it requires committing an injustice against just one person. The problem with this argument is that it rides roughshod over the moral claims of the great majority to be happy. Should we deny such claims just because fulfilling them would deny one person’s claim to be happy?

Whatever weight we give to this moral intuition, it does not reflect fully the intention behind Schopenhauer’s argument. Schopenhauer’s case against pain is meant to apply not only between individuals but also within one individual. Speaking of one individual alone, Schopenhauer cites Petrarch’s maxim: Mille piacer’ non vagliono untormento.

This argument seems to betray, however, an extraordinary sensitivity to pain. After all, most people prefer enduring root canal treatment for the pleasure of eating with their natural teeth.Thus most of the arguments of chapter 46 prove rather weak. They appear to vindicate those critics of Schopenhauer who think his pessimism rests more on his cranky temperament rather than cool reasoning. Only the utilitarian argument about the preponderance of suffering over happiness has some plausibility. We now need to examine the basis for this argument.

Schopenhauer’s arguments in are not modern but classical, coming straight from the playbook of the Epicurean and Stoic traditions. The Epicureans and Stoics had argued that the dynamics of human desire are inherently frustrating, and that they make it impossible to achieve the highest good, which consists in tranquillity, equanimity or peace of mind. Such happiness can be attained, they taught, only through virtue, self-discipline and withdrawal from the world. Schopenhauer borrows much from their arguments, their conception of happiness and even their strategy for attaining it. Where he departs from his forebears is in his skepticism about human virtue, in the power of most human beings to control their desires and to direct their lives toward the good. Velle non discitur—the will cannot be taught—is one of Schopenhauer’s favourite maxims, which he repeats constantly. If that is true, the highest good of the Epicureans and Stoics will be unattainable in this life.

Schopenhauer’s arguments in begin with an analysis of human desire. The very essence of a human being, we are told, consists in willing or striving. We are first and foremost conative rather than cognitive creatures. This willing and striving mani-fests itself in desire and need, which is some felt deficiency or lack. When we feel this deficiency or lack, we suffer pain (Schmerz), Schopenhauer says, by which he means not so much physical pain (pangs, aches, stabs) but something more like discomfort, unease, frustration and yearning. We strive to satisfy these needs (viz., for food or sex), so that the discomfort, yearning or frustration ceases. Although we sometimes satisfy these needs, the pleasure in their satisfaction never lasts very long, and it takes the form of only momentary relief. The needs then regenerate, so that the discomfort, frustration and yearning recur and we again have to chase after the objects of our desire. Since discomfort, frustration and yearning constantly recur, and since they are forms of suffering, we can say that life consists in suffering. Since, furthermore, need is constant and satisfaction brief, we can say that life consists in more pain than pleasure, more suffering than happiness. Here, then, lies the rationale for Schopenhauer’s eudemonic argument in chapter 46.

The suffering of life, he maintains, arises not simply from deprivation, from the feeling of need alone, but it also comes from another potent source: boredom. If need gives rise to an excess of activity, which consists in the toil and trouble of striving, boredom comes from an excess of inactivity, which consists in the restlessness and discontent of doing nothing at all. Boredom is just as much a source of suffering as need, Schopenhauer insists. For when we are bored, we are desperate. We do not know what to do with ourselves; our very existence is a burden.

Our lives, Schopenhauer contends, constantly oscillate between these two desperate conditions: need and boredom. Whether we feel one or the other depends on how slowly or quickly we satisfy our needs. If we satisfy them too slowly, we feel frustration; if we satisfy them too quickly, we feel boredom. In either case, we suffer, whether from too much or too little activity. These states feed off each other. When we are bored, we long for activity, which brings toil and trouble; but when we are in the midst of toil and trouble, we yearn for rest, which brings boredom. So we are damned whether we act or rest.

Thus our predicament consists in suffering, whether or not we satisfy our needs. If we satisfy them, we suffer boredom; and if we do not satisfy them, we suffer deprivation. But what, one might ask, about those moments when we do satisfy our needs? Surely, someone might object, these are moments of joy or pleasure, however brief, which add to life’s value. Schopenhauer, however, has a response to this objection, one that deprives even these moments of any positive worth. In section of Die Welt als Wille und Vorstellung he argues, following Epicurus, that pleasure is only a negative quality, i.e. it arises only from the removal of deprivation or need. Pleasure is not a positive quality in itself, one that is distinctive from pain, for the simple reason that it is only the absence of pain. We only feel pleasure, Schopenhauer argues, when we return to our normal condition after feeling need.

But once we are in that normal condition, we do not have any special feeling of pleasure. We appreciate what we have only when we lose it.This analysis of pleasure greatly limits its value and extent. If we feel pleasure only after the removal of pain, or only at the end of suffering, we do not feel it for very long, because as soon as we return to normal, we feel no pleasure at all. So in the calculus of life’s costs and benefits, only the pains, which constantly add up, count, because they alone have a positive value; the pleasures, however, are equal to zero.

The suffering of life, he maintains, arises not simply from deprivation, from the feeling of need alone, but it also comes from another potent source: boredom. If need gives rise to an excess of activity, which consists in the toil and trouble of striving, boredom comes from an excess of inactivity, which consists in the restlessness and discontent of doing nothing at all. Boredom is just as much a source of suffering as need, Schopenhauer insists. For when we are bored, we are desperate. We do not know what to do with ourselves; our very existence is a burden.

Our lives, Schopenhauer contends, constantly oscillate between these two desperate conditions: need and boredom. Whether we feel one or the other depends on how slowly or quickly we satisfy our needs. If we satisfy them too slowly, we feel frustration; if we satisfy them too quickly, we feel boredom. In either case, we suffer, whether from too much or too little activity. These states feed off each other. When we are bored, we long for activity, which brings toil and trouble; but when we are in the midst of toil and trouble, we yearn for rest, which brings boredom. So we are damned whether we act or rest.

Neither of these points completely removes the difficulty, however. The first point 
still leaves the question how the intellect becomes fully autonomous if it is subject to 
the domination of the will in all the ways Schopenhauer contends. Arguably, the will 
only appears autonomous, and its apparent autonomy is still subject to subconscious
control. This is a possibility that Schopenhauer cannot discount, given that he argues 
that the will often dominates the intellect subconsciously.

The second point shows only the possibility for a change in conduct, which is still not sufficient to provide the complete change in character that Schopenhauer thinks is necessary for negation of 
that the will. If we are to negate the will, he argues, we need a new character which renounces its old ends, and not simply the acquired character that finds new means to old ends. Thus, in the penultimate section of Die Welt als Wille und Vorstellung, Schopenhauer describes how the person who negates the will does so in virtue of an act of transcendent freedom that completely changes his character, and in virtue of which he is “reborn” (I. 548; P 403).

The acquired character, however, is still in service of the old phenomenal character; it determines new means to its ends but never renounces the ends themselves. But when we ask how this new character arises, we are left with an appeal to the mysterious: an incomprehensible act of transcendent freedom (I. 548–9; P 404–5). It then seems as if redemption is possible only through a deus ex machina, an act of transcendent freedom as inexplicable as divine grace

The Stoics wrongly believed that reason has the power to control the will, and so they falsely assumed that it could provide us with tranquillity. Schopenhauer insists that it is impossible to teach virtue, as the Stoics held, and that we can persuade someone of a motive for action only if it already suits his or her character and will, which are fixed and unalterable. We might convince someone through reason to find new means for their ends; but we cannot get them to change the ends themselves.

One product of that power is the Stoic attitude of “letting go”, of Gelassenheit, which Schopenhauer describes with evident admiration (WWV I. 139; P 85). That attitude involves indifference and equanimity, resigning oneself to the necessity of things, letting the world go its own course and not becoming upset by what happens, whatever that might be. Hence the Stoic sage could take all that life threw at him, “suicide, execution, duel, dangerous undertakings of all kinds, and in general things that even his animal nature rebelled against”. Impressed by the powers of the Stoic sage, Schopenhauer exclaims: “Here one can really say that reason expresses itself practically” (I. 139; P 86).

Yet, for all his agreement with and admiration of the Stoic, Schopenhauer stops short of complete endorsement. The main problem with the Stoic ethic is not that we cannot follow reason or that reason makes too high demands upon us; it is rather that following reason alone cannot provide redemption. The Stoic ethics takes us as far as we can go with human reason; but that is still not far enough. Assuming that we act fully according to the precepts of reason, that is still not sufficient to achieve the good life. The true basis of human virtue, Schopenhauer teaches in his Grundlage der Moral, derives not from reason but from feeling, and from one kind of feeling in particular: sympathy or pity. Having this feeling is a matter of our character and inner nature, and it cannot be commanded or created by following abstract principles or precepts.

Schopenhauer saw his ethic of sympathy and pity as the heart of Christianity, whose great merit, he says, was to have preached caritas, Menschenliebe.

The Christian sources of Schopenhauer’s ethics prove decisive for his judgement of Stoicism, because he endorses the traditional Christian objections against it. In his Parerga he affirms one such objection: that the Stoic suffers from hardness of heart (IV. 378). The Stoic tried to be indifferent about everything, even the death of his wife or child. But Schopenhauer makes the telling point: a heart that no longer feels cannot grow. A cold heart is very problematic, Schopenhauer believes, because it shrinks the greatest virtue, which is pity or sympathy. The Christian and Indian wise men were more admirable models for humanity, Schopenhauer argues, because, though they too had the power to withstand misfortune, they never lost their sympathy with the suffering of the world.

Schopenhauer also approves of another famous Christian complaint about Stoic ethics: its recommendation of suicide (I. 146; P 90–1). In Book XIX of De civitate Dei Augustine famously argued that the Stoic recommendation is an admission that its ethics is a failure. For it was the goal of the Stoic ethic to lead us to happiness in this life. But then to encourage suicide in certain situations—loss of dignity, illness, old age—is to concede that one’s counsel is at an end, and that happiness is really not obtainable on this earth after all. On this score, Schopenhauer agreed with Augustine. In of Die Welt als Wille und Vorstellung he makes it plain that those who advise or commit suicide have not really reached the state of redemption that comes with renunciation of the will. Rather than denying the will, the suicide submits to it because he cannot satisfy it under his present circumstances.

Ultimately, then, Schopenhauer parts company with the Stoic ethic because, for all its demands for indifference toward life, it still could not let go of the world. The Stoic’s final goal was happiness in this life, and for that his ethic was supposed to provide a complete and fail safe guide. It was only a matter of controlling the will, of directing it according to reason. For Schopenhauer, however, happiness in this life is unattainable, and the only way we can approach anything like the tranquillity and equanimity of the Stoic ideal is not by controlling the will but renouncing it, suffocating it in a complete asceticism. The Christian and Indian mystics and ascetics knew better than the Stoic sage: that there could be no happiness in this world, and that redemption lay not in disciplining but denying the will.