The Younger Generation
GA 217
3 October 1922, Dornach
Lecture I
First of all I want to say a few words of greeting to express the feelings which your gathering have aroused in me. Your speaker described in a pleasing way the impulses that have brought you together here. Much of what I shall have to say in the coming days will inevitably be a kind of interpretation of what is present within you, more or less strongly as inner experiences which you wish to be brought to clarity of soul. I say clarity of soul rather than merely of an intellectual nature.
You have been brought together by that which lives in the depths of your souls. These depths are taken hold of by forces which, in the specific way in which they are working at the present time, are of recent date. These forces—in the way they are working in you—are scarcely older than this century. They are forces which even today reveal themselves very clearly to him who can see them, but in the near future they will become ever more apparent. In the next few days we shall describe these forces in their most intimate nature, as well as the opposite tendencies which preceded and had become “out of date” by the last third of the nineteenth century. But today, I shall speak about these forces in their more external aspect.
I think, my dear friends, that you feel you can no longer find yourselves in accord with what an older generation has to say to the world today. You see, as early as the seventies, eighties and nineties of the last century, people were stressing, both in art and in philosophy, the deep gulf between the older and younger generations. But all that was said then by poets and others about this gulf, this abyss, is pale in comparison with what has to be considered today. Today the younger and the older generation speak entirely different languages of the soul. This is so to a far greater extent than is realized. It attaches no blame to an older generation as regards the younger. To speak of blame would be to use a form of thought belonging to the older generation—one of their philistine forms of thought. We shall not speak of blame, neither shall we accuse. But we shall consider how fundamentally souls belonging to evolution in the West have changed since the last two to three decades. In our present time, many things clash.
A little while ago I gave a series of lectures in England, at Oxford. As a university town, Oxford occupies a unique position in the cultural life of the West. One feels that in Oxford—a town very closely connected with spiritual evolution in the West—a relic of the Middle Ages is surviving on into the present time. It is by no means an unpleasing relic, quite the contrary, and in many respects worthy of admiration. We were taken round by a friend who is a graduate of Oxford University, and it is the custom there, when in their capacity as graduates, always to wear cap and gown. After we had gone round with him, I met him again in the street. The next morning I could not help describing to the English audience the impression I had when this friend appeared in cap and gown. It seemed to me thoroughly symptomatic. This, together with other experiences, induced me to form a picture and to say why a new social structure, reaching to the depths of modern spiritual life, is necessary. When this friend met me in the street, I said to myself that if I had to write a letter now, under the immediate impression of this meeting, I should not know what date to put on the letter. I should have been tempted to date it about the twelfth or thirteenth century, in order to adhere to the style where such a thing was possible.
Something that is not of the present has been preserved there. We find nothing like it in Middle Europe. But what we find in Middle Europe, in influential centers of culture, is nevertheless an evolutionary product of what I have just described.
Here, in Middle Europe, the gown has practically been discarded, except on festive occasions, when Directors and other officials are expected to wear it, often to their great annoyance.
Our friend, who was also a barrister, said to me: “If I were taking you round the Law Courts in London, I should, as a barrister, have to put on a wig, not a cap.” There you see a survival of something that has become out of date, and yet was still alive in the last century. So there we have the Middle Ages in the present. In Middle Europe people have, after all, outgrown a custom which belonged to the former generation and had become old. First they discarded the costume; then, with a sudden jump, they adopted a kind of thinking, rather different in character, which headed straight into materialism. These contrasts between Western and Middle Europe are extraordinarily great. And now there is a very symptomatic phenomenon which I prefer to describe through facts rather than by abstract words.
In Middle Europe we have forgotten Goethe and accepted Darwin, although Goethe grasped at its roots the knowledge which Darwin only indicates superficially. Many similar things might be quoted. Perhaps you will say that Goethe has not been forgotten, for there exists a Goethe Society, for example. I don't believe you will say it, so I will not pursue it further. Goethe himself and what he brought to light—the Middle European spiritual impulse—were, in fact, forgotten in the second half of the nineteenth century. But these things are mere symptoms. The point is, that along the path taken by Middle Europe and its cultural life, the leading centers of culture emancipated themselves in the thirteenth, fourteenth and fifteenth centuries from the spirit which still remained in the West. Since that time, Middle Europe lost the spiritual, lost the element that storms and pulsates through the soul, from consciousness. That is why it was possible, too, for Goethe to be forgotten.
In the West this element has been preserved in traditions and in external life. In Middle Europe, especially in the German-speaking regions, it has been pushed down, as it were, into the depths of the life of soul, and consciousness has not been filled with it. This was particularly marked in the last third of the nineteenth century.
Close historical study will reveal something strange in the last third of the nineteenth century. If we study the literature and the writings which were read by those who played a part in shaping the cultural life, we find during the last third of the nineteenth century, up to the middle of the eighties and nineties, in German-speaking districts, quite a different style in the journals and even in the newspapers from the style that is current today. Thoughts were finely chiseled and elaborated; importance was attached to sequence in the thoughts, and to beauty as well. In comparison with the style current in the last third of the nineteenth century, our modern style is raw and crude. We need only pick up writings—no matter what they may be—of men in the sixties and seventies, not deeply learned or scholarly but possessing an average degree of culture, and we shall find this great difference. The forms of the thoughts have changed. But what is raw and crude today has proceeded from what, even in scholarly literature during the last third of the nineteenth century, was finely chiseled and full of spirituality. But those who lived through it, who, without necessarily growing old, have reached more advanced years in the present-day world of thought—we notice what has insinuated itself in a dreadful way into every domain of thought and spiritual life: symbolically, I will call it the “empty phrase,” the “cliché.”
With the vogue of the “cliché” there began to develop lack of thought, lack of sound sentiments, lack of will, which are now on the upgrade. These characteristics were the immediate outcome of the “empty phrase,” the “cliché.” The outstanding development of the “empty phrase” took place in the last third of the nineteenth century. You can follow this externally, my dear friends. Things that crop up in a certain epoch need not necessarily appeal to you. And although in one form or another they may definitely not appeal, you can still study them from the point of view of their significance for the whole of mankind.
Think of the rich tones of inner beauty which are to be found in the German romantic poets in the first third of the nineteenth century. Think of the words of a man like Jacob Grimm when he touches on things spiritual, how these words seem to be full of the fresh, health-giving air of the woods, and you will say: “In those days the ‘cliché’ did not yet dominate Middle Europe.” It did not make its way into Middle Europe until the last third of the nineteenth century. Those who are sensitive to such matters are aware of the gradual entrance of what inevitably accompanies the “empty phrase.” When the empty phrase begins to dominate, truth, as experienced inwardly by the soul, dies away. And something else goes hand in hand with the empty phrase: in social life man cannot really find his fellow-men any longer.
My dear friends, when words sound forth without soul from the mouth—as they do in the empty phrase, the cliché—then we pass by other human beings and cannot understand them. This too reached its culmination in the last third of the nineteenth century, not in the soul's depths but in the field of consciousness. Men became more and more alienated from one another. The louder the call for social reforms, the more is it a symptom of the fact that men have become unsocial. Because they no longer have any feeling for what is truly social, they cry out for social reform. A hungry animal does not howl for food because it has food in its stomach, but because it has none. Similarly, the soul that cries out for social life, cries, not because it is permeated with social feeling, but because this feeling is lacking. And so man was gradually turned into a being whose nature is not understood today, and yet it is clear enough that everywhere in the relations between man and man no need is felt to grow near, in soul, to other human beings. Everyone passes the other by. The individual's greatest interest is only in himself.
What then has come into the twentieth century from the last third of the nineteenth as the customary social feeling between man and man? Nowadays you continually hear: “That is my standpoint.” This is how people talk: “That is my standpoint.” Everyone has a standpoint.—as if the standpoint matters! The standpoint in spiritual life is just as fleeting as it is in the physical. Yesterday I stood in Dornach, today I am standing here. These are two different standpoints in physical life. What matters is that a man should have a sound will and a sound heart so that he can look at the world from every standpoint. But people today do not want what they can glean from different standpoints; the egoistic assertion of their own particular standpoint is more important to them. But thus a man shuts himself off in the most rigorous way from his fellow-men. If somebody says something, the other person does not really enter into it, for he has his own standpoint. But people do not get any nearer to each other by such means. We can only come nearer to each other when we know how to place our different standpoints in a world that is common to us all. But this world is simply not there today. Only in the spirit is there a world that is common to all—and the spirit is lacking. That is the second point.
And the third is this. In the course of the nineteenth century the humanity of Middle Europe has really become very weak-willed—weak-willed in the sense that thought no longer unfolds the power to steel the will in such a way as to make man, who is a thought-being, capable of shaping the world out of his thoughts.
And now, my dear friends, when it is said that thoughts have become “pale” this must not be twisted into the assertion that no thoughts are needed in order to live as men. Thoughts, however, must not be so feeble that they stick up there in the head. They must be so strong that they stream down through the heart and through the whole being of man, right down to the feet. For really it is better if, besides red and white blood corpuscles, thoughts, too, pulse through our blood. It is a good thing, certainly, when a man has a heart too, and not merely thoughts. Best of all is for thoughts to have a heart. And that has been lost altogether. We cannot cast off the thoughts that have followed in the wake of the last four or five centuries. But these thoughts must get a heart as well!
And now I will tell you, from an external point of view, what is living in your souls. You have grown up and have come to know the older generation. This older generation expressed itself in words; you could only hear clichés. An unsocial element presented itself to you in this older generation. Men passed each other by. And in this older generation there also presented itself the impotence of thought to pulse through the will and the heart.
You see, people could live with the “cliché,” with antisocial conventionality, with mere routine instead of warm community of life, so long as the heritage from earlier generations was still there. But this heritage was exhausted by the close of the nineteenth century. And so what presented itself could not speak to your own souls. And now, precisely in Middle Europe, you felt that in the depths below there is something that stands in the direst need of rediscovering what once lived beyond the empty phrase, beyond convention, beyond routine. You wanted again to have a living experience of truth, a living experience of human community, of stout-heartedness in cultural life. Where is it then?—so asks a voice within you.
And often, at the dawn of the twentieth century—even if not clearly expressed, it could be seen—on the one side there were the young, and on the other, the old. The old man said: “That is my standpoint.” Ah! as the nineteenth century drew to its close, everyone began to have his own particular standpoint. One was a materialist, the second an idealist, the third a realist, the fourth a sensualist, and so on. They all had their standpoints. But gradually under the domination of empty phrase, convention, and routine, the standpoint had become a crust of ice. The spiritual Ice-Age had dawned. The ice-crust was thin, but as men's “standpoints” had lost the sense of their own weight, they did not break through it. Besides, being cold in heart they did not thaw the ice. The younger people stood side by side with the old, the young with their warm hearts not articulate yet, but warm. This warmth broke through the ice-crust. The younger man did not feel: “That is my standpoint,” but he felt: “I am losing the ground from under my feet. The warmth of my heart is breaking this ice that has congealed out of empty phrase, convention, and routine.” Although not clearly expressed—for today nothing is clearly expressed—this state of thing[s] had existed for a long time and still exists at the present day.
It is hardest of all for those who with a scholarly education try to fit in with the times. They are confronted by thoughts that are void of heart-quality and are quite consciously striven for just because of this. Now in speaking out of the spirit it is often necessary to shape words differently from what is customary when telling people something highly logical, philosophical or scientific. This approach is quite out of place in face of the spiritual, and altogether out of place in face of the spiritual is the following, which we will take as an example.
People say today: He is not a true scientist who does not interpret observation and experiment quite logically; who does not pass from thought to thought in strict conformity with the correct methods that have been evolved. If he does not do this he is no genuine thinker. But, my dear friends, what if reality happens to be an artist and scorns our elaborate dialectical and experimental methods? What if Nature herself works according to artistic impulses? If it were so, human science, according to Nature, would have to become an artist, for otherwise there would be no possibility of understanding Nature. That, however, is certainly not the standpoint of the modern scientist. His standpoint is: Nature may be an artist or a dreamer; it makes no difference to us, for we decree how we propose to cultivate science. What does it matter to us if Nature is an artist? It matters not at all, for that is not our standpoint
At the outset I can only describe a few impressions to illustrate what was working together in chaotic interplay with the approach of the twentieth century—the century that has placed you before such hard trials of the soul. We have had to face outer events, including the grim and terrible world-war; these are only the outward expression of what is reigning in the innermost soul of the modern civilized world. It is simply so, and we must be conscious of it. Primarily we have to seek for something which the deepest soul of Germany is yearning for—as your speaker truly said—but which precisely within Germany was denied by men's consciousness the nearer the modern age approached. We lost not only Goethe but also a great deal of what was there in the Middle Ages and out of which Goethe grew, and we must find it again. And if it is asked today quite from the external aspect: Why have you come here today?—I shall answer: In order to find this. For you are really seeking for something that is there. Goethe answered the question: Which secret is of the highest value?—The revealed secret. (From the Fairy Tale of the Green Snake and the Beautiful Lily.) But it has to be revealed through eyes being opened to perceive it. What concerns you are mainly longings of the inner life—if you understand yourselves aright. Whether one has to become a teacher or adopt some other profession—that is not the point. Everything which those who want again to become whole men are seeking today shall be found out of the common center of true manhood. That is why we find ourselves together here.
After all, it is quite a different matter if in earlier centuries—to take a radical example—people burnt a Giordano Bruno. In those times this was the customary way of refuting truths. But now—to compare this with the following symptom drawn from the realm of science—when the Swabian doctor Julius Robert Maier was making a voyage round the world, the peculiar constitution of the blood in Southern Asia brought him to the conception of what is known as the heat equivalent, the conservation of energy. In 1844 he wrote a treatise on this subject which was rejected as amateurish and unsuitable by the most famous scientific periodical of the time, the Poggendorf Annals. Julius Robert Maier was so enthusiastic about his discovery that whenever anyone met him in the street he began at once to talk about it, until finally contemporary experts decided that as he was always talking about the same thing, he was suffering from fixed ideas. As you know, he was declared insane and put into an asylum. Today you can go to Heilbronn and see the Robert Maier Memorial. It is said that the law of the conservation of energy is the most important law of physics that has been discovered in the modern age. Well, of course, such things happen! Mankind may, naturally, lapse into error, but the point I want to make is that this can be judged out of mere phrases, mere convention, mere routine.
Think of the way such a terrible tragedy, such a terrible mockery, was described in the nineteenth century, and compare it with the account given today of the same case. What has actually happened cannot be undone by abstract writings. Anyone who has a heart within him and reads the descriptions that are given of such a case, feels as if robbed of all inner support and a terrible turmoil is set going in his soul. Human beings must again be capable of feeling, not weakly, but strongly: beautiful—ugly, good—evil, true—false. They must be capable of feeling things not weakly but strongly, so that they live in them with their whole being, that their very heart's blood flows into their words. Then the empty phrase will dissipate and they will feel not only themselves but other men within their own being; convention will dissipate, and the heart's blood will pulse through what they have in their heads; then sheer routine will dissipate and life will become human once again.
Young people in the twentieth century feel these things; they have been seeking but found only chaos. These things cannot be portrayed by writing up external history. At the end of the nineteenth century there was a crucial point in the inner development of mankind. Souls who were born shortly before or shortly after the turn of the century are of quite a different inner make-up from those who were born even during the last third of the nineteenth century. One can speak about this if, in spite of the years piling up, one has not allowed oneself to get old.
So we shall see tomorrow, my dear friends, how the new generation has not linked up with the old but is divided from it by an abyss. It is not a question of finding fault but only of trying to understand. I am not finding fault when I speak of the tragedy which befell Julius Robert Maier. The same kind of thing happened to many people. It is not a matter of finding fault, but of the need for understanding. For the most important thing is to understand what is experienced deeply and inwardly; an unclear seeking cannot be allowed to continue. A light must come that will flood this unclear seeking without making it dry or cold. We must find this light, while preserving the heart's blood.
I do not wish to impose upon you anything that savors of the mystical, but to point to the truth, the truth in the spirit. You know that among the many clichés which became current in the nineteenth century, it was said that the great pioneer of the nineteenth century closed his life by calling out to posterity: “More light!” As a matter of fact Goethe did not say “More light!” He lay on his couch breathing with difficulty and said: “Open the shutters!” That is the truth. The other is the cliché that has connected itself with it. The words Goethe really spoke are perhaps far more apt than the mere phrase “More light”. The state of things at the end of the nineteenth century does indeed arouse the feeling that our predecessors have closed the shutters. Then came the younger generation; they felt cramped; they felt that the shutters which the older generation had closed so tightly must be opened. Yes, my dear friends, I assure you that although I am old, I shall tell you more of how we can now attempt to open the shutters again.
Erster Vortrag
Meine lieben Freunde!
[ 1 ] Als erstes möchte ich am heutigen Abend einige Worte der Begrüßung zu Ihnen sprechen, um die Empfindungen zum Ausdruck zu bringen, die in mir durch die Tatsache angeregt werden, daß Sie sich hier zusammengefunden haben. Ihr Sprecher hat eben in einer sympathischen Weise zum Ausdruck gebracht, welche Impulse unter Ihnen gewirkt haben, um hier zusammenzukommen. Ich denke, daß vieles von dem, was ich in den nächsten Tagen zu Ihnen werde zu sprechen haben, eine Art Interpretation dessen wird sein müssen, was bei Ihnen in mehr oder weniger starken inneren Seelenerlebnissen vorhanden ist und von dem Sie wünschen, daß es zu einer wirklichen seelischen Klarheit- seelischen im Gegensatze zu einer bloß begrifflichen - unter Ihnen gebracht werde.
[ 2 ] Es ist ganz richtig, daß dasjenige, was Sie zusammengeführt hat, in den Tiefen Ihrer Seelen zu suchen ist. Diese Tiefen sind wirklich von Kräften erfaßt worden, die in der ganz besonderen Art, in der sie heute wirken, jungen Datums sind. Man kann sagen, daß diese Kräfte, in der Art, wie sie gerade in Ihnen wirken, kaum älter sind als das Jahrhundert; aber es sind Kräfte, die schon heute für denjenigen, der sie zu sehen vermag, sich sehr deutlich offenbaren, und die immer deutlicher in der allernächsten Zukunft zum Vorschein kommen können. Wir werden diese Kräfte und die ihnen vorangegangenen, entgegengesetzten, das Veraltete vom letzten Drittel des neunzehnten Jahrhunderts, in den nächsten Tagen recht innerlich zu charakterisieren versuchen. Heute möchte ich zunächst einmal eine Kennzeichnung dieser Kräfte von außen geben.
[ 3 ] Ich denke, Sie alle verspüren, daß Sie sich mit dem, was eine ältere Generation der Welt heute zu sagen hat, nicht mehr zusammenfinden können. Sehen Sie, man hat schon in den siebziger, achtziger, neunziger Jahren, in einer stärkeren Weise, als das jemals früher der Fall war, künstlerisch oder auch theoretisch auf die tiefe Kluft hingewiesen, welche zwischen der damals älteren und damals jüngeren Generation lag. Aber alles, was dazumal von Dichtern und anderen Leuten über diese Kluft und diesen Abgrund gesagt worden ist, ist etwas Blasses im Vergleich zu dem, was heute in Betracht kommt. Heute ist es doch so, daß im Grunde genommen die jüngere und die ältere Generation ganz verschiedene Seelensprachen führen, viel verschiedener noch, als man sich dessen bewußt ist. Dabei soll nicht gesprochen werden von irgendwelcher Schuld, welche eine ältere Generation der jüngeren gegenüber haben könnte. In dieser Weise von Schuld zu sprechen, würde selbst zu den Begriffsgestalten der älteren Generation, und noch dazu zu ihren philiströsen gehören. Wir wollen also nicht anklagen; aber wir wollen uns bewußt sein, wie gründlich die Seelen seit zwei bis drei Jahrzehnten gerade innerhalb der abendländischen Entwickelung anders geworden sind. In unserer Gegenwart stößt nämlich vieles zusammen.
[ 4 ] Vor kurzem hatte ich in England eine Reihe von Vorträgen zu halten, in Oxford. Oxford mit seiner universitätsartigen Bildung ist etwas ganz Besonderes in unserem abendländischen Kulturzusammenhang. Dieses Besondere empfindet man so, daß da in Oxford, also an einer Stätte, die gar sehr zur abendländischen Geistesentwickelung gehört, ein durchaus nicht unsympathisches, sondern sympathisches und in vieler Beziehung bewundernswertes Stück Mittelalter in die Gegenwart hineinragt. Wir wurden herumgeführt von einem Freunde, der «Graduate» der Universität Oxford ist, und es ist dort üblich, daß man als «Graduate» diese Universität nur im Talar und Barett betritt. Nachdem wir mit ihm herumgegangen waren, sah ich ihn auf der Straße wieder, und ich mußte am nächsten Morgen vor der englischen Zuhörerschaft die Impression schildern, die ich hatte, als unser Freund im Talar und Barett kam, weil sie mir wirklich symptomatisch erschien. Alles das, im Zusammenhang mit all dem anderen Erlebten, veranlaßte mich, die Sache als Bild heranzuziehen und zu sagen, warum eine soziale Neugestaltung bis tief in das Geistesleben der Gegenwart hinein notwendig ist. Ich sagte: Als unser Freund mir auf der Straße begegnete, da dachte ich mir, wenn ich jetzt unmittelbar unter dem Eindrucke dieser Begegnung einen Brief schreiben müßte, ich würde nicht wissen, welches Datum ich auf den Brief setzen müßte; ich würde versucht sein, etwa das zwölfte bis dreizehnte Jahrhundert zu schreiben, um in dem Stile zu bleiben, in dem so etwas möglich ist. Da hat man wirklich etwas konserviert, was nicht Gegenwart ist. In Mitteleuropa findet sich so etwas nicht. Aber was im tonangebenden Geistesleben Mitteleuropas herrscht, ist doch wiederum ein Entwickelungsprodukt aus dem, was ich soeben charakterisiert habe.
[ 5 ] Hier in Mitteleuropa hat man die Talare so ziemlich abgelegt, abgesehen von ganz feierlichen Gelegenheiten, wo sie Direktoren und andere Funktionäre sogar zu ihrem Ärger tragen müssen. Unser Freund, der zu gleicher Zeit Rechtsanwalt war, sagte mir: Wenn ich Sie in London führte, müßte ich als Rechtsanwalt auftreten und nicht ein Barett, sondern eine Perücke tragen.
[ 6 ] Sie sehen, da ragt etwas hinein, was alt geworden ist, was aber in vergangenen Jahrhunderten noch lebte. Also wirklich Mittelalter in der Gegenwart! Hier bei uns ist man aus dem, was alt geworden ist, was aber in der früheren Generation noch lebte, wohl herausgewachsen. Man hat zunächst das Kostüm abgelegt, sodann in raschem Sprunge eine etwas andere Denkweise angenommen, die aber durchaus in das Materialistische hineingesegelt ist. Diese Gegensätze zwischen Mittel- und Westeuropa sind außerordentlich groß. Es liegt da eine wirklich recht bezeichnende Erscheinung vor, die ich lieber durch eine Tatsache als mit abstrakten Worten charakterisieren will.
[ 7 ] Wir haben in Mitteleuropa Goethe vergessen und Darwin angenommen, trotzdem Goethe die Erkenntnisse, auf die Darwin oberflächlich hindeutet, in ihren Tiefen erfaßt hat. Ich könnte viele ähnliche Erscheinungen anführen. Sie könnten einwenden, man hätte Goethe nicht vergessen, denn es gibt ja zum Beispiel eine Goethe-Gesellschaft. Ich glaube, Sie werden das nicht sagen; darum will ich mich auch nicht weiter darüber auslassen. Goethe und der mitteleuropäische Geistesimpuls, der Goethe emporgetragen hat, sind eigentlich schon in der zweiten Hälfte des neunzehnten Jahrhunderts vergessen worden. Aber das sind doch alles nur Symptome. Die Hauptsache ist, daß auf dem Wege, den Mitteleuropa und sein Geistesleben gegangen ist, die führenden Geistesanstalten im dreizehnten, vierzehnten, fünfzehnten Jahrhundert sich von dem Geiste emanzipiert haben, der im Westen noch geblieben ist. Seit dieser Zeit, wo sich diese mitteleuropäischen, geistig führenden Geistesanstalten emanzipiert haben, hat man in Mitteleuropa das Geistige, das innerlich Seelendurchstürmende, Seelendurchpulsende zwar nicht aus dem Menschen, aber aus dem Bewußtsein verloren. Deshalb konnte man auch Goethe vergessen.
[ 8 ] Im Westen hat man es in der Tradition bewahrt, in äußeren Gestaltungen; in Mitteleuropa, insbesondere innerhalb des deutschen Sprachgebietes, hat man es in die Tiefen des Seelenlebens hinuntergedrängt und das Bewußtsein damit nicht erfüllt. Dies war schon im letzten Drittel des neunzehnten Jahrhunderts stark ausgeprägt.
[ 9 ] Im letzten Drittel des neunzehnten Jahrhunderts können Sie durch eine intime geschichtliche Betrachtung Merkwürdiges finden. Wenn wir betrachten, was in jener Literatur, in jenem Schrifttum erscheint, das von allen denen gelesen wird, die an der Gestaltung des Geisteslebens teilnehmen, so finden wir, daß im letzten Drittel des neunzehnten Jahrhunderts, bis in dieMitte der achtziger, neunziger Jahre hinein, innerhalb des deutschen Sprachgebietes ein ganz anderer Stil in den Journalen, sogar in den Zeitungen geherrscht hat als heute. Damals war ein Stil, der Gedanken ziselierte, Gedanken ausgestaltete, der etwas darauf gab, gewisse Gedankengänge zu verfolgen; der sogar etwas darauf gab, Schönheit in den Gedanken zu haben. Heute ist unser Stil auf den entsprechenden Gebieten, verglichen mit dem letzten Drittel des neunzehnten Jahrhunderts, roh und grob geworden. Man braucht nur irgend etwas, was es auch sei, aus den sechziger, siebziger Jahren von Menschen, die nicht gelehrt, nur allgemein gebildet waren, in die Hand zu nehmen und Sie werden diesen großen Unterschied finden. Die Gedankenformen sind andere geworden. Aber das, was heute roh und grob ist, ist doch gerade aus dem hervorgegangen, was oftmals fein ziseliert und geistreich im letzten Drittel des neunzehnten Jahrhunderts innerhalb der gelehrten Bildung üblich war. Gerade damals sehen wir etwas heraufziehen; und diejenigen, die heute zu den älteren Jahrgängen gehören, ohne im Sinne des heutigen Geisteslebens selber alt geworden zu sein, die haben es auch erlebt: Was dazumal so furchtbar einzog in alles Geistesleben, das ist, was ich, symbolisch charakterisiert, die Phrase nennen möchte.
[ 10 ] An dieser Phrase entwickelten sich die Gedankenlosigkeit, die Gesinnungslosigkeit und die Willenslosigkeit, die heute auf dem Wege sind, immer größer und größer zu werden. In erster Linie gingen diese Dinge aus der Phrase hervor. Sie können auch äußerlich verfolgen, wie sich die Phrase hauptsächlich im letzten Drittel des neunzehnten Jahrhunderts herausgebildet hat. Die Dinge brauchen Ihnen nicht sympathisch zu sein, die da und dort in einem Zeitalter auftreten. Aber auch, wenn sie einem nicht sympathisch sind, kann man sie in ihrer Bedeutung für den ganzen Menschenzusammenhang beobachten.
[ 11 ] Nehmen Sie die innigen, wunderbaren Töne, die im ersten Drittel des neunzehnten Jahrhunderts etwa in der deutschen Romantik anzutreffen waren, nehmen Sie das manchmal wie aus frischer, gesunder Waldesluft heraus wehende Reden über Geistiges bei einem Menschen wie Jakob Grimm, und Sie werden sagen: Da herrschte in Mitteleuropa noch nichts von Phrase. Die zieht erst im letzten Drittel des neunzehnten Jahrhunderts in Mitteleuropa ein. Wer dafür eine Empfindung hat, der weiß schon, wie allmählich die Zeit der Phrase heraufgekommen ist. Und wo die Phrase zu herrschen beginnt, da erstirbt die innerlich seelisch erlebte Wahrheit. Und mit der Phrase geht einher ein anderes: Der Mensch kann den Menschen nicht mehr finden im sozialen Leben.
[ 12 ] Meine lieben Freunde! Wenn der ’Ton aus dem Munde klingt so, daß er nicht Seele hat — wie es bei der Phrase der Fall ist -, dann gehen wir als Mensch neben dem anderen Menschen einher und können ihn nicht verstehen. Das ist eine Erscheinung, die auch wieder im letzten Drittel des neunzehnten Jahrhunderts ihren Höhepunkt erlangt hat; nicht in den Seelentiefen drunten, aber im Bewußtsein. Die Menschen wurden einander fremd und immer fremder. Wenn damals immer lauter der Ruf nach sozialen Impulsen und Reformen ertönte, so ist das ein Symptom dafür, daß die Menschen unsozial geworden waren. Weil sie das Soziale nicht mehr fühlten, drängte es sie, nach dem Sozialen zu schreien. Das Tier, das hungrig ist, schreit nicht nach der Nahrung, weil es die Nahrung im Magen hat, sondern weil es sie nicht hat. Die Seele, die nach dem Sozialen schreit, schreit nicht, weil sie vom Sozialen durchdrungen ist, sondern weil sie diese Empfindung nicht hat. So wurde der Mensch nach und nach zu dem Wesen, dessen man sich heute nicht bewußt ist; aber im weitesten Umfang ist die Tatsache zwischen Mensch und Mensch herrschend, daß man gar nicht mehr das Bedürfnis hat, anderen Menschen seelisch nahezutreten. Die Menschen gehen alle aneinander vorbei. Das meiste Interesse hat jeder Mensch nur an sich selber.
[ 13 ] Was ist denn ganz besonders üblich geworden im letzten Drittel des neunzehnten Jahrhunderts und dann aus diesem heraus in das zwanzigste Jahrhundert herübergekommen als soziales Empfinden von Mensch zu Mensch? Einen Satz hören Sie heute immer wieder die Leute sagen: Das ist mein Standpunkt. — Jeder hat einen Standpunkt. Als ob es darauf ankäme, was man für einen Standpunkt hat! Der Standpunkt im geistigen Leben ist nämlich ebenso vorübergehend wie der Standpunkt im physischen Leben. Gestern stand ich in Dornach, heute stehe ich hier. Das sind zwei verschiedene Standpunkte im physischen Leben. Es kommt darauf an, daß man einen gesunden Willen und ein gesundes Herz hat, um die Welt von jedem Standpunkte aus betrachten zu können. Aber die Menschen wollen heute nicht das, was sie von den verschiedenen Standpunkten aus gewinnen können, sondern wichtiger ist ihnen die egoistische Behauptung ihrer Standpunkte. Damit schließt man sich aber in der rigorosesten Weise von seinem Nebenmenschen ab. Sagt einer etwas, geht man nicht ein auf das, was er sagt, denn man hat ja seinen Standpunkt. Aber dadurch kommt man sich nicht näher. Näher kommt man sich, wenn man seine verschiedenen Standpunkte in eine gemeinsame Welt hineinzustellen weiß. Aber diese gemeinsame Welt fehlt heute ganz. Eine gemeinsame Welt für den Menschen findet sich nur im Geiste. Und der fehlt.
[ 14 ] Das ist das zweite, und das dritte ist: Wir sind im Grunde genommen im Laufe des neunzehnten Jahrhunderts als mitieleuropäische Menschheit nach und nach doch recht willensschwach geworden, willensschwach in dem Sinne, daß der Gedanke nicht mehr die Kraft gewinnt, den Willen so zu stählen, daß der Mensch, der doch ein Gedankenwesen ist, die Welt aus seinen Gedanken heraus zu gestalten vermag.
[ 15 ] Wenn davon gesprochen wird, daß die Gedanken blaß sind, sollte man daraus aber nicht den Schluß ziehen, daß man keine Gedanken braucht, um als Mensch zu leben. Die Gedanken sollten nur nicht so schwach sein, daß sie im Kopfe oben sitzen bleiben. Sie sollten so stark sein, daß sie durch das Herz und durch den ganzen Menschen bis in die Füße hinunter strömen; denn es ist wahrhaft besser, wenn statt bloßer roter und weißer Blutkügelchen auch Gedanken unser Blut durchpulsen. Es ist gewiß wertvoll, wenn der Mensch auch ein Herz hat und nicht bloß Gedanken. Aber das Wertvollste ist, wenn die Gedanken ein Herz haben. Das haben wir jedoch ganz verloren. Die Gedanken, welche die letzten vier bis fünf Jahrhunderte gebracht haben, können wir nicht mehr ablegen; aber diese Gedanken müssen auch ein Herz bekommen.
[ 16 ] Und sehen Sie, jetzt will ich Ihnen ganz äußerlich einmal sagen, was in Ihren Seelen lebt. Sie sind herangewachsen, haben die ältere Generation kennengelernt. Diese ältere Generation hat sich in Worten dargestellt. Sie konnten nur Phrasen hören. In dieser älteren Generation stellte sich Ihnen ein unsoziales Element dar. Der eine ging an dem anderen vorbei. Und in dieser älteren Generation stellte sich Ihnen auch dar die Ohnmacht des Gedankens, den Willen, das Herz zu durchpulsen.
[ 17 ] Mit der Phrase, mit dem antisozialen Konventionalismus und mit der bloßen Lebensroutine statt der Herzens-Lebensgemeinschaft konnte man so lange sich halten, als noch die Erbschaft der vorigen Generationen vorhanden war. Diese Erbschaft war ungefähr am Ende des neunzehnten Jahrhunderts dahin. So war für Sie nichts da, was zu der eigenen Seele sprechen konnte. Sie fühlten aber, daß in den Tiefen gerade in Mitteleuropa etwas vorhanden ist, was das tiefste Bedürfnis hat, wiederum zu dem zurückzufinden, was einmal jenseits der Phrase gelebt hat, jenseits der Konvention, jenseits der Routine: das Bedürfnis, wiederum Wahrheit zu erleben, wiederum menschliche Gemeinschaft zu erleben, wiederum Herzhaftigkeit des ganzen Geisteslebens zu empfinden. Wo ist denn das? So sagt eine Stimme in Ihrem Innern.
[ 18 ] Und wurde dies auch nicht klar und deutlich ausgesprochen, so hat man doch oftmals in der Zeit der Morgendämmerung des zwanzigsten Jahrhunderts, wenn ein junger und ein alter Mensch nebeneinander standen, den alten sagen hören: Das ist mein Standpunkt. — Ach, die Menschen hatten allmählich, als das neunzehnte Jahrhundert zu Ende ging, alle, alle ihren Standpunkt. Der eine war Materialist, der andere Idealist, der dritte Realist, der vierte Sensualist und so weiter. Aber allmählich unter der Herrschaft von Phrase, Konvention und Routine waren die Standpunkte auf einer Eiskruste angekommen. Die geistige Eiszeit war gekommen. Nur, daß das Eis dünn war, und da die Standpunkte der Menschen die Empfindung für ihr eigenes Gewicht verloren hatten, so durchbrachen sie nicht die Eiskruste. Sie waren außerdem in ihrem Herzen kalt, sie erwärmten auch die Eiskruste nicht. Die Jüngeren standen neben den Alten, die Jüngeren mit dem warmen Herzen, das noch nicht sprach, das aber warm war. Das durchbrach die Eiskruste. Und der Jüngere fühlte nicht: Das ist mein Standpunkt, — sondern der Jüngere fühlte: Ich verliere den Boden unter den Füßen. Meine eigene Herzenswärme bricht dieses Eis auf, das sich zusammengezogen hat aus Phrase, Konvention und Routine. — Wenn auch dieses Gefühl nicht deutlich ausgesprochen wurde — denn heute wird nichts deutlich ausgesprochen -, so war diese Erscheinung doch seit langem vorhanden und ist auch in der Gegenwart vorhanden.
[ 19 ] Am schwierigsten hat es in dieser Beziehung derjenige, der heute versucht, aus seiner gelehrten Bildung heraus sich in die Zeit hineinzufinden. Was sich dem darbietet, das sind die ganz bewußt als «herzlose» Gedanken angestrebten Gedanken. Gewissen Dingen gegenüber hat man es allmählich dazu gebracht, bewußt herzlose Gedanken anzustreben. - Wenn man aus dem Geiste heraus redet, muß man manchmal die Worte etwas anders formen, als man dies heute tut, indem man über dieses und jenes etwas vor den Menschen außerordentlich Logisches, Philosophisches, Wissenschaftliches sagt. Das ist aber manchmal etwas, das vom Geistigen aus gesehen etwas höchst Unanständiges ist. Und zu so etwas, was vor dem Geistigen höchst unanständig ist, gehört zum Beispiel das Folgende.
[ 20 ] Die Leute sagen heute: Das ist kein richtiger Wissenschafter, der nicht ganz logisch die Beobachtung und das Experiment interpretiert, der nicht von Gedanke zu Gedanke fortschreitet, wie sie nur nach den richtig ausgestalteten Methoden fortschreiten dürfen. Der ist kein richtiger Denker, der das nicht tut. - Wie aber, meine lieben Freunde, wenn die Wirklichkeit eine Künstlerin wäre und unserer ausgestalteten dialektischen und experimentellen Methoden spottete, wenn die Natur selber nach Kunstimpulsen arbeitete? Dann müßte der Natur wegen die menschliche Wissenschaft zur Künstlerin werden, sonst käme man der Natur nicht bei! Das aber ist ja nicht der Standpunkt der heutigen Wissenschafter. Deren Standpunkt ist: Mag die Natur eine Künstlerin sein oder eine 'Träumerin, das ist uns gleichgültig; wir befehlen, wie Wissenschaft zu treiben ist. Was geht es uns an, ob die Natur eine Künstlerin ist? Das geht uns gar nichts an, denn das ist nicht unser Standpunkt.
[ 21 ] Ich kann Ihnen zunächst nur einige Empfindungen schildern, um zu zeigen, was da alles in chaotischer Weise durcheinanderstrebte, als das zwanzigste Jahrhundert herankam, jenes Jahrhundert, das Sie, meine jüngeren Freunde, vor harte innere Seelenprüfungen gestellt hat. Was uns an äußeren Ereignissen entgegengetreten ist, einschließlich des furchtbaren, grausigen Weltkrieges, ist ja nur der äußere Ausdruck dessen, was in der heutigen, zivilisierten Welt im Inneren der Seelen herrscht. Das ist nun einmal so. Dessen müssen wir uns bewußt werden. Wir müssen uns auch dessen bewußt werden, daß wir vor allen Dingen etwas zu suchen haben, wonach das tiefste Seelenwesen — wie Ihr Sprecher ganz richtig gesagt hat — gerade Deutschlands sich sehnt, das aber gerade innerhalb Deutschlands, je mehr die neueste Zeit herankam, aus dem Bewußtsein heraus verleugnet worden ist. Wir haben nicht nur Goethe, wir haben auch vieles aus dem Mittelalter verloren, aus dem Goethe herausgewachsen ist, und wir müssen das wiederfinden. Und auf die Frage: Warum sind sie heute hierher gekommen? — möchte ich die Antwort geben: Um das zu finden. Denn Sie sind eigentlich auf der Suche nach etwas, was da ist. Goethe hat die Frage beantwortet, welches Geheimnis das wichtigste ist: «Das offenbare!» Es kann aber erst offenbar werden dadurch, daß man die Augen dafür öffnet. — Es sind schon vorzugsweise innere Angelegenheiten, innere Sehnsuchten, um die es sich bei Ihnen handelt, wenn Sie sich recht verstehen. Und ob sich der Einzelne pädagogisch oder in einer anderen Weise auszuleben hat, darauf kommt es nicht an. Es kommt darauf an, daß alles, was heute die Menschen suchen, die wiederum ganz Mensch werden wollen, aus dem gemeinsamen Zentrum echten Menschentums heraus gesucht und gefunden werde. Dazu wollen wir uns eben hier zusammenfinden.
[ 22 ] Nicht wahr, es ist ja doch etwas anderes, wenn in früheren Jahrhunderten die Menschen — nehmen wir etwas Radikales — einen Giordano Bruno verbrannt haben. Denn das war dazumal die übliche Art, Wahrheiten zu widerlegen. Vergleichen Sie das, um jetzt gerade auf wissenschaftlichem Gebiete ein Beispiel zu nehmen, mit dem Fall des schwäbischen Arztes Julius Robert Mayer. Dieser kam auf einer Weltreise in Südasien durch die Beobachtung des Blutes auf eine Anschauung, die man heute als die von dem Äquivalent der Wärme, von der Erhaltung der Kraft bezeichnet. Im Jahre 1844 schrieb er diese Sache auf, und seine Abhandlung wurde von der berühmtesten naturwissenschaftlichen Zeitschrift jener Zeit, den «Poggendorf’schen Annalen», als dilettantisch, als ungeeignet zurückgewiesen! Und weil Julius Robert Mayer für seine Wahrheit so begeistert war, daß er immer, wenn ihm jemand auf der Straße begegnete, davon zu sprechen anfing, so meinten die Fachgenossen, er leide an fixen Ideen. Er wurde bekanntlich für irrsinnig erklärt und in ein Sanatorium gebracht. Heute kann man nach Heilbronn gehen und findet dort das Robert-Mayer-Denkmal. Die Leute sagen heute, er habe das größte physikalische Gesetz der neueren Zeit gefunden. Meinetwillen, das alles konnte passieren. Irrtum ist natürlich etwas, dem die Menschheit verfallen kann. Das Wesentliche aber ist, wie phrasenhaft, wie konventionell und wie aus einer bloßen Lebensroutine heraus so etwas heute beurteilt wird.
[ 23 ] Nehmen Sie die Darstellungen, in denen der furchtbar tragische Fall dieses so schrecklich Belachten geschildert wird. Lesen Sie, was im neunzehnten Jahrhundert darüber geschrieben wurde und halten Sie eine heutige Darstellung dagegen. Was da geschehen ist, ist mit abstrakten Schilderungen nicht abgetan. Wer ein Herz im Leibe hat und die heutigen Schilderungen liest oder hört, dem ersterben innerlich alle Haltekräfte, und ein furchtbarer Impuls tut sich in der Seele auf.
[ 24 ] Die Menschen müssen wiederum dazu kommen, stark fühlen zu können: schön — häßlich, gut — böse, wahrhaftig — verlogen. Sie müssen dazu kommen, das nicht schwächlich zu fühlen, sondern stark zu fühlen, so daß sie mit ihrem ganzen Menschen darin stehen, daß wiederum Herzblut in den Worten ist. Dann zerstiebt die Phrase und man fühlt wieder den anderen Menschen in sich, nicht bloß sich selbst; dann zerstiebt die Konvention, und man kann wiederum das, was man im Kopfe hat, durchpulsen lassen von seinem Herzblut. Dann zerstiebt das bloße Routineleben, und das Leben wird wieder menschlich.
[ 25 ] Alles das fühlt die Jugend im zwanzigsten Jahrhundert. Sie suchte, sah sich aber in einem Chaos. Diese Dinge lassen sich nicht durch die äußere Geschichte charakterisieren. Wir haben am Ende des neunzehnten Jahrhunderts einen großen Knotenpunkt in der inneren Entwickelung der Menschheit. Die Seelen, die kurz vor oder kurz nach der Jahrhundertwende geboren wurden, sind innerlich ganz anders konstruiert als die noch im letzten Drittel des neunzehnten Jahrhunderts geborenen. Davon kann man sprechen, in einer gewissen Art Vergleiche anstellen, wenn man eben, trotzdem sich Jahr auf Jahr gehäuft hat im Lebensgange, sich nicht hat alt werden lassen.
[ 26 ] So wollen wir morgen zunächst sehen, wie sich die neue Generation nicht an die alte Generation angeschlossen hat, sondern durch einen Abgrund von ihr getrennt ist. Nicht anklagen, sondern nur begreifen wollen wir. Ich will nicht einmal anklagen, wenn ich so etwas ausspreche, wie das große Tragische, das Julius Robert Mayer geschehen ist. Es ist vielen so gegangen. Das soll also keine Anklage sein; aber wir sollen verstehen. Das ist das Wichtigste: daß man versteht, was man tief innerlich erlebt; denn das kann nicht mehr lange so fortgehen, daß nur ein unklares Suchen herrscht. Was kommen muß, ist ein gewisses Licht, das sich ausgießen will über dem unklaren Suchen, aber ohne ins Trockene, ohne ins Kalte hineinzukommen. Mit Bewahrung des Herzblutes muß man Licht finden können.
[ 27 ] Ich möchte Ihnen auf keinem Gebiete irgend etwas Mystisches vormachen, sondern überall die Wahrheit zeigen, die Wahrheit im Geiste. Sie wissen ja, unter den vielen Phrasen, die im neunzehnten Jahrhundert sich geltend gemacht haben, ist auch diese: Der große Pionier des neunzehnten Jahrhunderts hätte sein Leben damit beschlossen, daß er der Nachwelt zurief: «Mehr Licht!». Das werde ich Ihnen nicht sagen, denn das hat Goethe nicht gesagt. Goethe lag in seinem Liegestuhl, atmete schwer und sagte: «Macht die Fensterladen auf!». Das ist die Wahrheit. Das andere ist die Phrase, die sich daran gegliedert hat. Vielleicht ist der wahre Ausspruch Goethes besser zu gebrauchen als die Phrase: «Mehr Licht!». Es ist eben durch dasjenige, was am Ende des neunzehnten Jahrhunderts vorgefunden werden konnte, die Empfindung entstanden: die uns vorangegangen sind, haben ja die Fensterläden zugemacht! Und da kam die junge Generation und fühlte sich beengt, hatte das Gefühl, es müssen die Fensterläden aufgemacht werden, die die alte Generation so fest zugeschlossen hat. Ja, meine lieben Freunde, ich möchte Ihnen versprechen, wenn ich auch alt bin, im ferneren davon zu reden, wie wir nun versuchen können, die Fensterläden aufzukriegen. Davon wollen wir also morgen weiterreden.
First Lecture
My dear friends!
[ 1 ] First of all, I would like to say a few words of welcome to you this evening to express the feelings that have been stirred in me by the fact that you have gathered here. Your speaker has just expressed in a very sympathetic way the impulses that have brought you together here. I think that much of what I will have to say to you over the next few days will have to be a kind of interpretation of what is present in you in more or less intense inner soul experiences and which you wish to bring to a real spiritual clarity—spiritual in contrast to merely conceptual—among yourselves.
[ 2 ] It is quite right that what has brought you together is to be sought in the depths of your souls. These depths have indeed been seized by forces which, in the very special way in which they are working today, are of recent origin. One can say that these forces, in the way they are currently working in you, are hardly older than the century; but they are forces that are already very clearly revealing themselves today to those who are able to see them, and which may become increasingly apparent in the very near future. In the next few days, we will try to characterize these forces and the opposing forces that preceded them, the outdated forces of the last third of the nineteenth century, in a very inner way. Today, I would first like to give an external characterization of these forces.
[ 3 ] I think you all feel that you can no longer identify with what an older generation has to say to the world today. You see, already in the 1970s, 1980s, and 1990s, more strongly than ever before, artists and theorists pointed to the deep divide between the older and younger generations of that time. But everything that poets and others said at the time about this divide and this abyss pales in comparison to what we are seeing today. Today, it is basically the case that the younger and older generations speak completely different languages of the soul, much more different than people realize. This is not to say that the older generation is in any way to blame for the younger generation. To speak of blame in this way would be to adopt the conceptual framework of the older generation, and moreover, its philistine framework. So we do not want to accuse, but we want to be aware of how profoundly souls have changed over the last two or three decades, especially within Western development. In our present time, many things are colliding.
[ 4 ] I recently had a series of lectures to give in England, in Oxford. Oxford, with its university-style education, is something very special in our Western cultural context. This special quality is felt in the fact that in Oxford, a place that is very much part of Western intellectual development, a thoroughly sympathetic and in many ways admirable piece of the Middle Ages protrudes into the present. We were shown around by a friend who is a graduate of Oxford University, and it is customary there that graduates only enter the university wearing a gown and cap. After we had walked around with him, I saw him again on the street, and the next morning, in front of an English audience, I had to describe the impression I had when our friend came in wearing his gown and cap, because it really seemed symptomatic to me. All this, in connection with everything else I had experienced, prompted me to use the image to explain why a social restructuring is necessary that reaches deep into the intellectual life of the present. I said: When our friend met me on the street, I thought to myself that if I had to write a letter immediately under the impression of this encounter, I would not know what date to put on the letter; I would be tempted to write something like the twelfth or thirteenth century in order to remain in the style in which such a thing is possible. There, something has really been preserved that is not contemporary. You don't find anything like that in Central Europe. But what prevails in the dominant intellectual life of Central Europe is, in turn, a product of the development I have just characterized.
[ 5 ] Here in Central Europe, people have pretty much done away with academic robes, except on very solemn occasions, when directors and other officials are even required to wear them, much to their annoyance. Our friend, who was also a lawyer, told me: “If I were to show you around London, I would have to appear as a lawyer and wear a wig instead of a beret.”
[ 6 ] You see, there is something protruding here that has become outdated, but was still alive in past centuries. It's really like the Middle Ages in the present day! Here, we have outgrown what has become outdated, but was still alive in previous generations. First, we discarded the costume, then quickly adopted a slightly different way of thinking, which, however, has sailed straight into materialism. These contrasts between Central and Western Europe are extremely great. There is a truly significant phenomenon here, which I would rather characterize with facts than with abstract words.
[ 7 ] In Central Europe, we have forgotten Goethe and embraced Darwin, even though Goethe grasped the insights that Darwin superficially alludes to in their depth. I could cite many similar phenomena. You might object that Goethe has not been forgotten, because there is, for example, a Goethe Society. I don't think you would say that, so I won't dwell on it any further. Goethe and the Central European intellectual impulse that carried him to prominence were actually forgotten in the second half of the nineteenth century. But these are all just symptoms. The main thing is that, on the path taken by Central Europe and its intellectual life, the leading intellectual institutions of the thirteenth, fourteenth, and fifteenth centuries emancipated themselves from the spirit that remained in the West. Since that time, when these Central European intellectual institutions emancipated themselves, Central Europe has lost the spiritual, the inner turmoil and pulsation of the soul, not from human beings, but from consciousness. That is why Goethe could be forgotten.
[ 8 ] In the West, it has been preserved in tradition and external forms; in Central Europe, especially in German-speaking areas, it has been pushed down into the depths of the soul, thus failing to fulfill consciousness. This was already very pronounced in the last third of the nineteenth century.
[ 9 ] In the last third of the nineteenth century, you can find something remarkable through an intimate historical observation. If we look at what appears in the literature, in the writings read by all those who participate in the shaping of intellectual life, we find that in the last third of the nineteenth century, until the mid-1880s and 1890s, a completely different style prevailed in the journals, even in the newspapers, within the German-speaking world than it does today. At that time, there was a style that chiseled thoughts, developed thoughts, that valued pursuing certain trains of thought; that even valued beauty in thoughts. Today, compared to the last third of the nineteenth century, our style in the corresponding fields has become crude and coarse. You only need to pick up anything from the 1960s or 1970s written by people who were not educated, only generally well-informed, and you will find this great difference. The thought forms have changed. But what is crude and coarse today has emerged precisely from what was often finely chiseled and witty in the last third of the nineteenth century within educated circles. It was precisely at that time that we saw something coming up; and those who belong to the older generations today, without having grown old themselves in the sense of today's intellectual life, also experienced it: what was so terribly encroaching on all intellectual life at that time is what I would like to call, symbolically characterized, the phrase.
[ 10 ] This phrase gave rise to thoughtlessness, lack of conviction, and lack of will, which are now on the way to becoming greater and greater. These things arose primarily from the phrase. You can also observe externally how the phrase developed mainly in the last third of the nineteenth century. You do not have to like the things that occur here and there in an age. But even if you do not like them, you can observe their significance for the whole human context.
[ 11 ] Take the heartfelt, wonderful tones that were to be found in the first third of the nineteenth century, for example in German Romanticism, take the talk about spiritual matters that sometimes seemed to come blowing out of the fresh, healthy forest air in a person like Jakob Grimm, and you will say: there was still no trace of phraseology in Central Europe. That only came into Central Europe in the last third of the nineteenth century. Anyone who has a feeling for this knows how gradually the age of empty phrases came about. And where empty phrases begin to prevail, the truth experienced in the inner soul dies. And empty phrases go hand in hand with something else: people can no longer find other people in social life.
[ 12 ] My dear friends! When the sound that comes out of our mouths has no soul—as is the case with phrases—then we walk alongside other people as human beings and cannot understand them. This is a phenomenon that reached its peak again in the last third of the nineteenth century; not in the depths of the soul, but in consciousness. People became strangers to one another and increasingly alienated. If the call for social impulses and reforms grew louder and louder at that time, it was a symptom of the fact that people had become unsocial. Because they no longer felt the social, they were compelled to cry out for the social. The animal that is hungry does not cry out for food because it has food in its stomach, but because it does not have it. The soul that cries out for the social does not cry out because it is permeated by the social, but because it does not have this feeling. Thus, man gradually became the being we are not aware of today; but to the greatest extent, the fact that prevails between people is that they no longer feel the need to get close to other people emotionally. People pass each other by. Every person is most interested only in themselves.
[ 13 ] What has become particularly common in the last third of the nineteenth century and then carried over into the twentieth century as a social feeling between people? Today you hear people say again and again: That is my point of view. — Everyone has a point of view. As if it mattered what point of view you have! The point of view in spiritual life is just as temporary as the point of view in physical life. Yesterday I was standing in Dornach, today I am standing here. These are two different points of view in physical life. What matters is that you have a healthy will and a healthy heart so that you can view the world from every point of view. But people today do not want what they can gain from different points of view; what is more important to them is the selfish assertion of their own points of view. In this way, however, they shut themselves off from their fellow human beings in the most rigorous manner. When someone says something, they do not respond to what he says, because they have their own point of view. But this does not bring them closer together. We come closer to each other when we know how to place our different points of view in a common world. But this common world is completely lacking today. A common world for human beings can only be found in the spirit. And that is lacking.
[ 14 ] That is the second point, and the third is this: Basically, in the course of the nineteenth century, we as a Central European humanity have gradually become quite weak-willed, weak-willed in the sense that thought no longer gains the power to steel the will so that man, who is after all a thinking being, is able to shape the world out of his thoughts.
[ 15 ] When we speak of thoughts being pale, we should not conclude from this that we do not need thoughts in order to live as human beings. Thoughts should simply not be so weak that they remain stuck in our heads. They should be so strong that they flow through the heart and through the whole human being down to the feet; for it is truly better if thoughts pulse through our blood instead of mere red and white blood cells. It is certainly valuable for human beings to have a heart and not just thoughts. But the most valuable thing is for thoughts to have a heart. However, we have lost this completely. We can no longer discard the thoughts that the last four or five centuries have brought us; but these thoughts must also be given a heart.
[ 16 ] And now I will tell you quite openly what lives in your souls. You have grown up and got to know the older generation. This older generation expressed itself in words. You could only hear phrases. In this older generation, you saw an antisocial element. One person passed by another. And in this older generation, you also saw the powerlessness of thought, of the will to penetrate the heart.
[ 17 ] With empty phrases, antisocial conventionalism, and a mere routine of life instead of a community of hearts and minds, it was possible to hold on as long as the legacy of previous generations was still there. This legacy was gone by the end of the nineteenth century. So there was nothing left for you that could speak to your own soul. But you felt that deep down, especially in Central Europe, there was something that had a profound need to find its way back to what had once existed beyond rhetoric, beyond convention, beyond routine: the need to experience truth again, to experience human community again, to feel the heartiness of the whole spiritual life again. Where is that? So says a voice within you.
[ 18 ] And even if this was not clearly and distinctly expressed, one often heard, in the dawn of the twentieth century, when a young person and an old person stood side by side, the old person say: That is my point of view. — Oh, as the nineteenth century drew to a close, everyone, everyone had their own point of view. One was a materialist, another an idealist, a third a realist, a fourth a sensualist, and so on. But gradually, under the rule of phraseology, convention, and routine, these points of view had become encrusted in ice. The intellectual ice age had come. Only the ice was thin, and since people's points of view had lost their sense of their own weight, they did not break through the crust of ice. Moreover, they were cold in their hearts, so they did not warm the crust of ice. The younger ones stood beside the old ones, the younger ones with warm hearts that did not yet speak, but were warm nonetheless. This broke through the crust of ice. And the younger generation did not feel, “This is my point of view,” but rather, “I am losing the ground beneath my feet. The warmth of my own heart is breaking this ice that has formed from phrases, conventions, and routine.” Even if this feeling was not clearly expressed — because nothing is clearly expressed today — this phenomenon had been present for a long time and is still present today.
[ 19 ] In this regard, those who today try to find their way into the present from their scholarly education have the most difficult task. What presents itself are thoughts that are deliberately sought after as “heartless” thoughts. With regard to certain things, people have gradually been led to consciously seek heartless thoughts. When one speaks from the spirit, one must sometimes form words somewhat differently than one does today, when one says something extremely logical, philosophical, or scientific about this or that to people. But sometimes this is something that, from a spiritual point of view, is highly indecent. And the following, for example, belongs to this category of things that are highly indecent from a spiritual point of view.
[ 20 ] People today say: He is not a real scientist who does not interpret observation and experiment in a completely logical way, who does not proceed from thought to thought as they must proceed according to correctly designed methods. He is not a real thinker who does not do this. But what if, my dear friends, reality were an artist and mocked our established dialectical and experimental methods, if nature itself worked according to artistic impulses? Then, for the sake of nature, human science would have to become an artist, otherwise one would not be able to understand nature! But that is not the position of today's scientists. Their position is: Whether nature is an artist or a ‘dreamer’ is irrelevant to us; we dictate how science is to be conducted. What does it matter to us whether nature is an artist? That is none of our business, because that is not our position.
[ 21 ] For now, I can only describe a few impressions to show you the chaotic turmoil that prevailed at the dawn of the twentieth century, the century that has subjected you, my younger friends, to harsh inner trials. What we have encountered in external events, including the terrible, gruesome world war, is only the outward expression of what prevails in the souls of people in today's civilized world. That is simply the way it is. We must be aware of this. We must also be aware that, above all, we have to search for something that the deepest soul of Germany—as your speaker has quite rightly said—longs for, but which, the more recent times have approached, has been denied in consciousness, especially within Germany. We have lost not only Goethe, but also much of the Middle Ages from which Goethe grew, and we must rediscover it. And to the question: Why have you come here today? — I would like to answer: To find that. For you are actually searching for something that is there. Goethe answered the question of which secret is the most important: “The obvious one!” But it can only become obvious when you open your eyes to it. — If you understand yourselves correctly, it is primarily inner matters, inner longings that you are concerned with. And whether the individual has to live out his life pedagogically or in some other way is irrelevant. What matters is that everything that people today are searching for, who in turn want to become fully human, is sought and found from the common center of genuine humanity. That is why we want to come together here.
[ 22 ] Isn't it true that it is something else when, in earlier centuries, people — let us take something radical — burned Giordano Bruno. For that was the usual way of refuting truths at that time. Compare that, to take an example from the field of science, with the case of the Swabian physician Julius Robert Mayer. On a trip around the world in South Asia, he came to a conclusion through his observations of blood that is now regarded as the equivalent of heat, of the conservation of energy. In 1844, he wrote about this, and his treatise was rejected by the most famous scientific journal of the time, the Poggendorf Annalen, as amateurish and unsuitable! And because Julius Robert Mayer was so enthusiastic about his discovery that he would talk about it whenever he met someone on the street, his colleagues thought he was suffering from delusions. He was declared insane and committed to a sanatorium. Today, you can visit Heilbronn and see the Robert Mayer monument. People today say that he discovered the greatest physical law of modern times. For my part, all that could have happened. Error is, of course, something to which humanity is prone. The essential thing, however, is how phraseological, how conventional, and how out of mere routine such a thing is judged today.
[ 23 ] Take the accounts that describe the terribly tragic case of this man who was so horribly ridiculed. Read what was written about him in the nineteenth century and compare it with a contemporary account. What happened there cannot be dismissed with abstract descriptions. Anyone who has a heart and reads or hears today's descriptions feels all their inner strength drain away, and a terrible impulse arises in their soul.
[ 24 ] People must once again be able to feel strongly: beautiful — ugly, good — evil, truthful — deceitful. They must come to feel this not weakly, but strongly, so that they stand with their whole being behind it, so that there is heart and soul in their words. Then the phrase shatters and one feels the other person within oneself again, not just oneself; then convention shatters, and one can once again let what one has in one's head pulsate through one's heart's blood. Then mere routine life shatters, and life becomes human again.
[ 25 ] The youth of the twentieth century feels all this. They searched, but found themselves in chaos. These things cannot be characterized by external history. At the end of the nineteenth century, we have a great crossroads in the inner development of humanity. The souls born shortly before or shortly after the turn of the century are internally constructed quite differently from those born in the last third of the nineteenth century. One can speak of this, make certain comparisons, if one has not allowed oneself to grow old, even though the years have accumulated in the course of life.
[ 26 ] So tomorrow we will first see how the new generation has not followed the old generation, but is separated from it by an abyss. We do not want to accuse, but only to understand. I do not even want to accuse when I speak of the great tragedy that befell Julius Robert Mayer. Many have suffered the same fate. This is not meant to be an accusation; but we must understand. That is the most important thing: that we understand what we experience deep within ourselves; for it cannot go on much longer with only vague searching. What must come is a certain light that wants to pour itself out over the vague searching, but without coming into the dry, cold air. While preserving the heart's lifeblood, we must be able to find light.
[ 27 ] I do not wish to present anything mystical to you in any field, but to show you everywhere the truth, the truth in the spirit. You know, among the many phrases that have become popular in the nineteenth century, there is also this one: The great pioneer of the nineteenth century decided to end his life by calling out to posterity: “More light!” I will not say that to you, because Goethe did not say it. Goethe lay in his deck chair, breathing heavily, and said: “Open the shutters!” That is the truth. The other is the phrase that has been attached to it. Perhaps Goethe's true saying is more useful than the phrase “More light!” It was precisely because of what could be found at the end of the nineteenth century that the feeling arose: those who came before us closed the shutters! And then the young generation came along and felt confined, felt that the shutters that the older generation had closed so tightly had to be opened. Yes, my dear friends, I would like to promise you that when I am old, I will talk more about how we can now try to open the shutters. Let's continue talking about this tomorrow.