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The Tension Between East and West
GA 83

3 June 1922, Vienna

3. East and West in History

Goethe who gave simple expression to so much that men find great and moving, once wrote: “Each man should consider with what part of himself he can and will influence his time!”

When we allow such a saying—with all that we know may have passed through Goethe's mind as he said it—to affect us, we are initiated into the whole relationship of man to history. For most people, of course, the search for their own particular standpoint, from which they can deploy their powers in the development of humanity in accordance with the spirit of the age in which they live, is more or less unconscious. Yet even a superficial examination of human development shows that men have increasingly been compelled to organize their lives in a conscious manner. Instinctive living was a feature of earlier civilizations. The transition to increasing consciousness is itself a factor in history. Nowadays, indeed, we can see that the increasing complications of life require man to participate in the development of humanity with a certain degree of consciousness, however humble his position. It is unfortunate that as yet we really have very few points d'appui in the study of mankind's historical development to help us in our efforts to reach this point of view.

As a scientific discipline, this study is of fairly recent origin, after all. Its novelty is apparent, one might say, in the historical writing that has been published.

Historians have produced magnificent things. In developing from the unscientific chronicle-writing that still prevailed even in the eighteenth century, however, history, falling as it did within the age of natural science, attempted increasingly to take on the forms appropriate to that science. Thus the historical attitude gradually became identified with the concept post hoc, ergo propter hoc. Although this way of looking at human history as cause and effect does indeed carry us a long way, yet to the unprejudiced observer there remain countless facts in history which are not consistent with a simple causal interpretation. And at this point we are struck by an image that can symbolize history: the image of a flowing river. We cannot simply derive its features at a given point from what lies a little farther upstream, but must realize that in its depths there operate all kinds of forces that may come to the surface at any point, and may throw up waves which are not determined by those that went before.

So, too, human history seems to point to unspoken depths, to resemble a surface on which countless forces impinge from below. And human observation can scarcely presume to gain a complete picture of the particular features of a given epoch. For this reason, the study of history will doubtless have to come more and more to be what I would call symptomatological. In the human organism itself, which is such a richly differentiated whole, a great deal has to be discovered about its health and ill-health by observing the symptoms through which the organism expresses itself. In the same way, we must gradually accustom ourselves to study historical symptomatology. We must learn to interpret surface features precisely, and, by including more and more symptoms in our interpretation, contrive to allow the vital essence of historical development to work on us. In this way, by a spiritual comprehension of the forces of human history—which in all kinds of indirect ways also affect our own soul—we can find our own place in the development of mankind.

A view of the world and of life such as I have put before you is particularly fitted to reveal how, even in one's most intimate inner experiences, what is historically symptomatic is manifest. What I have described to you, the awakening of cognitive capacities that are not present in ordinary consciousness, being dormant deep down in the soul—this awakening of capacities appropriate to modern man leads us to see that we must develop these cognitive powers differently nowadays from the way they were developed in earlier times. Not only this: when we do develop these powers, the spiritual vision that results is something quite different to the man of today from what it was, for example, to the men of the ancient East, which we touched on the day before yesterday in describing yoga exercises.

Looking at these ancient Oriental attitudes, as they were developed by men who sought to elicit, from within, powers of cognition reaching into the super-sensible sphere, we conclude: everything we know about it indicates that such knowledge, in gaining a place within the soul, took on a permanent and enduring character there. What men think in ordinary life, what they absorb from the experiences of earthly existence, and what then takes root as memories—these have permanence in the soul; and we are simply unhealthy in spirit if we have any considerable gaps in our capacity to remember what we have experienced in the world from a given point in childhood onwards. To this state of mental permanence were admitted all the insights into the spiritual world gained by ancient Oriental methods. They deposited memories, as the ordinary experiences of the day deposit memories. The characteristic of the early Oriental seer was precisely that he found himself increasingly absorbed into a lasting communion with the spiritual world, as he made his way into it. Once inside the divine and spiritual world, he knew himself to be secure. He knew that it also represented something enduring for his soul.

The opposite, we may say, is true of anyone today who, by virtue of the powers to which mankind has advanced since those early days, rises to a certain spiritual vision. He develops his views on the spiritual sphere to the point of experiencing them; but they cannot possibly become memories for him in the way that the thoughts we experience daily in the outside world become memories.

It is certainly a great disappointment to many who struggle to gain a certain spiritual vision by modern methods to find that, although they do gain glimpses of this spiritual world, these are transitory, like the sight of a real object in the outside world, which we no longer perceive when we go away from it. In this mental activity, there is no incorporation into memory in the ordinary sense, but a momentary contact with the spiritual world. If we later wish to regain this contact, we cannot simply call up the experience from our recollection. What we can do, however, is to recollect something that was an ordinary experience in the physical world: how by developing our powers we achieved our experience of the spiritual world. We can then retrace our steps and repeat the experience, exactly as we return to a sensory perception. This is one of the most important factors that authenticate this modern vision: that what we see does not combine with our physical being; for if thoughts are to gain some permanence as memories, they must always be combined with our physical being, held fast by our organism.

Perhaps I may interpolate a personal observation here by way of explanation. Anyone who has some contact with the spiritual world, and wishes to communicate what he has experienced, is unable to make this communication from memory in the usual sense. He always has to make a certain effort to attain again to direct spiritual observation. For this reason, even if someone who speaks out of the spiritual world gives a lecture thirty times, no lecture will be an exact repetition of the one before: each must be drawn direct from experience.

Here is something which, in my view, can remove certain anxieties that might arise in troubled minds about this modern spiritual vision. Many people today, with some justification, see the grandeur of the most significant riddles of existence in the very fact that they can never be completely solved. Such people are frightened of a philistinism of spiritual vision which might confront them with the assertion that the riddles of existence could be finally “solved” by a philosophy. Well, the view of life we are discussing here cannot speak of such a “solution,” for the reason that has just been given: what is always being forgotten must constantly be re-acquired.

But therein lies its vitality! We are brought back again to life as it is revealed externally in nature, as opposed to what we experience inwardly on seeing our thoughts become memories. Perhaps what I want to say will sound banal to many people; but it is not meant to be banal. No one can say: I ate yesterday and so I am full, I do not need to eat today or tomorrow or the day after; similarly, no one can say of modern spiritual vision: It is complete, it has now become part of memory, and we know where we are with it once and for all.

Indeed, it is not just that we must always struggle afresh to perceive what seeks to manifest itself to man; but that, if we dwell continuously over a long period on the same concepts from the spiritual world, seeking them out repeatedly, it will even happen that doubts and uncertainties appear; it is characteristic of true spiritual vision that we should have to conquer these doubts and uncertainties again and again in the vital life of the soul. We are thus never condemned to the calm of completion when we strive towards spiritual vision in the modern sense.

There is another point, too. This modern spiritual vision demands above all what may be called “presence of mind.” The spiritual visionary of ancient Oriental times could take his time. What he achieved was a permanent possession. If man as he is today wishes to look at the spiritual world, he must be spiritually quick-witted, if I may so put it; he must realize that the revelations of the spiritual world appear, only to vanish again at the next moment. They must therefore be caught by “presence of mind” at the moment of their occurrence. And many people prepare themselves carefully for spiritual vision, but fail to attain it through omitting to train this “presence of mind.” Only by doing so can we avoid a situation in which we only become sufficiently attentive when the thing itself is past.

I have now described to you many of the features that the modern seeker after the spiritual world encounters. In the course of my lectures, other features will become apparent. Today, I should like to point to just one more of them, since it will lead directly to a certain historical view of humanity.

When we try as modern men in this sense to find our way with certainty into the spiritual world, without becoming eccentrics, it is best for us to start from concepts and ways of thinking we have obtained from a fundamental study of nature and by immersion in a fundamental natural science. No concepts are quite so suitable for the meditative life I have described as those gained from modern science—not just for us to absorb their content, but rather to meditate upon it. As modern men, we have really learnt to think through science. We must always remember that we have learnt through science the thinking that is suited to our present epoch. Yet what we gain in thinking techniques from modern science is only a preparation for a true spiritual vision.

No logical argument or philosophical speculation will enable us to use ordinary thinking, trained on the objects of the outside world and on experiment and observation, as anything more than a preparation. We must then wait until the spiritual world approaches us in the way I have been describing. For each step we take in the observation of the spiritual world we must first become ripe. We cannot of our own volition do anything except make of ourselves an organ to which the spiritual world is willing to reveal itself. Objective revelation is something we must wait for. And anyone who has experience in such things knows that he has to wait years or decades for certain kinds of knowledge. Again, it is precisely this that guarantees the objectivity of what is real in the spiritual world—that is, of knowledge.

This again was not so for those in ancient times in the Orient who sought through their exercises the way into the super-sensible world. The nature of their thinking from the beginning was such that they needed only to extend it to find the way into the spiritual world which I described two days ago. Even in ordinary life, therefore, their thinking needed only to be extended to lead to a certain clairvoyance. But because it developed from the ordinary life of the times, this was a rather dream-like vision, whereas the vision towards which we as modern men strive operates with complete self-possession, like that which is active in the solution of mathematical problems. It is just when we turn our attention to the intimate experiences of spiritual research that we see in this change the expression of great transformations in human nature as a whole in the course of historical times. I mean times that are “historical” in the sense that they are approachable not only by anyone who can examine the history both of men and of the cosmos through spiritual vision, but also by anyone who examines the external documents quite straightforwardly. In these external documents, too, we can look at early periods in the spiritual life of humanity and perceive how they differ from the position within this spiritual world which we and our time must aspire to.

By virtue of the fact that our thinking cannot just be extended automatically to bring us to spiritual vision, but can only make us ready to see the spiritual world when it appears to us, it is suited to operate within the field of experiment and observation, within the field that natural science has made its own. Yet just because we perceive what inner rigour and strength our thinking has achieved, we shall be all the more likely to apply it to our training, and thus be able to await the revelation of the spiritual world in the true sense of the word. Even here, it is apparent that our thinking today is rather different from that of earlier times.

I shall have opportunities later on for historical digressions. Much that refers to the outside world can then be deduced from what I have to say today. Today, I shall speak rather about the inner powers of man's development. This is a subject that brings us in the end to thinking and to the transformation of this thinking in the course of man's development. But in the last analysis all external history is dependent on thinking, and what he achieves in history man produces from his thoughts, together with his feelings and impulses of will; and therefore, if we want to find the deepest historical impulses, we must turn to human thinking.

But the thinking employed today for natural science on the one hand, and for achieving human freedom on the other, differs quite considerably from that which we find in earlier ages of mankind. There will, of course, be many people who will say: thinking is thinking, whether it occurs in John Stuart Mill or in Soloviev, in Plato, Aristotle and Heraclitus or in the thinkers of the ancient East. Anyone with an intuitive insight into the way thoughts have functioned within humanity, however, will conclude: our thinking today is fundamentally something very different from that of earlier epochs. This raises an important problem in human development.

Let us examine our present-day way of thinking. (I shall have an opportunity later to give evidence from natural science for what I am now expounding historically.) What we call thinking actually developed from the handling of language. Anyone with a sense of what is operative in a people's language—of the logic, familiar to us from childhood, operative in the language—and with enough psychological awareness to observe this in life, will find that our thinking today actually derives from what language makes of our soul's potentialities. I would say: from language we gradually separate thoughts and the laws thoughts obey: our thinking today is given us by speech.

Yet this thinking that is given us by speech is also the thinking that has come of age in human civilization since the days of Copernicus, Galileo and Giordano Bruno, in periods when humanity has been devoting its attention principally to the observation of nature in the modern sense. The thinking that is applied to observation and experiment inevitably becomes a part of us; we refine what we absorb with language as part of our common heritage until it becomes a thought-structure by which we then apprehend the outside world.

But we need only go back a relatively short distance in human history to encounter something quite different. Let us go back, for example, to the civilization of Greece. Anyone who can enter the world of Greek art, Greek literature, Greek philosophy—can catch, in fact, the mood of Greece—will discover quite empirically that the Greeks still experienced thoughts closely interwoven with words. Thought and word were one. By the concept logos, they meant something different from what we mean when we speak of a thought or a thought sequence. They spoke of thought as if the element of speech was its natural physical aspect. Just as in the physical world we cannot conceive our soul as spatially separated from our physical organism, so too in Greek consciousness thought was not separated from word. The two were felt as a unity, and thought flowed along on the waves of words.

But this produces an attitude to the outside world quite different from ours, where thought has already separated from word. And thus, when we go back into Hellenic civilization, fundamentally we have to adopt a quite different temper of soul if we are to penetrate into the real experiences of the Greek soul. By the same token, all the science, for example, that was produced in Greece no longer seems like science by modern standards. The scientist of today will say: the Greeks really had no natural science; they had a natural philosophy. And he will be right. But he will have perceived only a quarter, so to speak, of the problem. Something much more profound is involved. What this is we can explore only by regaining spiritual vision.

If we make use of the way of thinking which is particularly apt for scientific research, and to which we now train ourselves by inheritance and education, and develop what we call scientific concepts, then in the nature of our consciousness we separate these concepts strictly from what we call artistic experience and what we call religious experience. It is a fundamental characteristic of our age that modern man demands a science which involves no element of artistic creation or outlook, and nothing that claims to be the object of religious consciousness and religious devotion to the temporal or the divine. This, we conclude, is a characteristic of our present civilization. And we find this characteristic increasingly well developed the further West we go in our examination of the foundations of human civilization. This is the characteristic: that modern man keeps science, art and religious life separate in his soul. He even endeavours to form a special concept of science, to prevent art from invading science, to exclude the imagination from everything that is “scientific,” except for that part concerned with inventions; and then to put forward another kind of certainty—that of faith—to play its part in religious life.

If you try, in the manner I have described, to rise to a spiritual perception, then, starting of course from the trained scientific thought of the present, you arrive at what I have characterized as vital, plastic thinking. With this plastic thinking, too, you feel equipped to comprehend, in what I will call a qualitatively mathematical way, what cannot be comprehended with ordinary mathematics and geometry: living things. With vital thinking you feel yourself equipped to apprehend living things.

When we look at the purely chemical compounds in the inorganic world, we find that all their materials and forces are in a state of more or less unstable equilibrium. The equilibrium becomes increasingly unstable and the interaction increasingly complicated, the further we ascend towards living things. And as the equilibrium becomes more unstable, so the living structure increasingly evades quantitative understanding: only vital thought can connect up with a living structure in the way that mathematical thought does with a lifeless one. We thus arrive (and as I have previously indicated, I am saying something now that will be shocking to many people) at an epistemological position where ordinary logical abstract thinking is continually being converted into a kind of artistic thinking or artistic outlook, yet one as exact as ever mathematics or mechanics can be.

I know how, impelled by the modern spirit of science, people shrink from transposing anything exact into the artistic sphere, which represents a kind of qualitative mathesis. But what is the good of epistemology insisting that we can only arrive at objective knowledge by moving from one logical deduction to the next, and by excluding from knowledge all these artistic features—if nature and reality do in fact operate artistically at a certain level, so that they only yield to an artistic mode of comprehension?

In particular, we cannot examine what it is that shapes the human organism from within, as I described the day before yesterday—that operates in us as a first approximation to a super-sensible man—unless we allow logical thinking to flow over into a kind of artistic creation, and unless from a qualitative mathematics we can recreate the creative human form. All we need is to retain the scientific spirit and absorb the artistic spirit.

In short, we must create from the science of today an artistic outlook, whilst maintaining the whole spirit of science. In so doing, however, we approach the reconciliation of science and art that Goethe sensed when he said: “The beautiful is a manifestation of secret laws of nature—laws which, but for its appearance, would have remained eternally hidden from us.” Goethe was well aware that, if we seek to comprehend nature or the world as a whole solely with the kinds of thought that prove to be healthy and correct for the inorganic world, then the totality of the world simply will not yield to our enquiry. And we shall not find the bridge from inorganic to organic science until we transpose abstract cognition into inwardly vitalized cognition, which is at the same time an inward freedom of action.

In thus turning, within the mental endeavour of today, to a comprehension of living things, we also come closer to what was present in the Greek mind, not in the controlled and conscious way at which we aim, but rather instinctively. And no one can really understand what was being expressed even in Plato, still less in the pre-Socratic philosophers, unless he is aware of the presence there of a co-operation between the artistic and the philosophical and scientific elements in man. Only at the end of the Hellenic age—in philosophy, for instance, with Aristotle—does thought become separated from language and later develop via scholasticism into scientific thought. Only at the end of the Hellenic age is thought sifted out. Earlier on, thought is an artistic element in Greece. And, fundamentally, Greek philosophy can only be understood if it is also apprehended with an artistic understanding.

But this now leads us to see Greece in general as the civilization where science and art are still linked together. This is apparent both in its art and in its science. Naturally, I cannot go into every aspect of this in detail. But if you will look at Greek sculpture with sound common sense and a sound, spiritually informed eye, you will find that the Greek sculptor did not work from a model as is done today: his plastic creation sprang from an inner experience. In forming the muscle, the bent arm, the hand, he made what he felt within him. He felt an inner, living, second man—what I will call an ethereal man; he experienced himself through his soul and in this way felt his outward envelope. His inner experience went over into the sculpture. Art was a revelation of this vision. And the vision, which was carried over into the thought living in the language, became a science that retained an artistic character by being one with what the spirit of the Greek language made manifest to a Greek.

We thus enter, with Greece, a world accessible to us otherwise only if we advance from our own science, divorced from art, to a kind of knowledge that flows over into the artistic sphere. I would say: what we now evolve consciously was once instinctively experienced. Indeed, we can actually see how, in the course of history, this association of art and science gradually passes into the present complete separation of the two.

As humanity developed through Roman times into the Middle Ages, the higher levels of education and training had a quite different basis from that which later prevailed. Later, in the scientific age, the main concern was to communicate to men the results of observation and experiment. In our education, we live almost entirely by absorbing these results. Looking back at the period when some influence of Greek civilization was still at work, we can see that even scientific training touched man closely then and was aimed rather at developing abilities in him. We see how in the Middle Ages the student had to work through the seven liberal arts, as they were called: grammar, rhetoric, dialectic, arithmetic, geometry, astronomy and music. What mattered was abilities. What you were to become as a scientist you achieved through the seven liberal arts—and yet these were already well on the way to becoming knowledge and science, as later happened.

If you study the now much-despised scholasticism of the Middle Ages, which stands at the meeting-place of earlier times and our own, you will see what a wonderful training it provided in the art of thinking. One could wish that people today would only assimilate something of the best type of medieval scholasticism, which fostered in men a technique and art of thinking. This is particularly necessary if, as indeed we must, we are to arrive at clear-cut concepts. By starting from the attitude of today, however, with its strict separation of science, art and religion, and tracing human development back through the Middle Ages, we approach the civilization of Greece. And the further we go back in this, the more clearly we see the fusion of science and art.

Yet even in Greek civilization there is something separate from science and art: religious life. It affects men quite differently from scientific or artistic experience. The vital element in art and science exists objectively in space and time: the content of religious consciousness is beyond space and time. It belongs to eternity; admittedly, it is brought to birth by space and time, but we cannot approach it by remaining within space and time.

We can see even from the external documents what spiritual science today needs to discover about these things. And I should like to draw attention to a work which has just appeared in Austria and which is extraordinarily helpful in this connection. It is Otto Willmann's History of Idealism, a book that stands head and shoulders above many other currently concerned with similar problems. (One can judge such things dispassionately, even if they spring from views opposed to one's own, provided that they lead to something beneficial to spiritual life.)

In Greece we find on the one hand this unity of art and science, and on the other hand the religious life to which the Greek devotes himself. In popular religion, it is true, this is represented plastically, but in the religious mysteries it is gained by initiation in a deeper sense. But everywhere we can see that religion plays no part in the soul-powers evolved in science and art. Instead, in order to partake of the religious life, the soul must first take on that temper of piety, that universal love, in which it can comprehend revelations of the divine and spiritual realm with which man can unite in religious devotion.

Let us now look across at the Orient! The further back we go, the more we find that its spiritual life is something different again. Here, once more, we can be guided by what we have gained through our modern spiritual training: we ascend from experience of the vital concept to that inner pain and suffering which we have to overcome in order that our whole self may become a sense-organ or spiritual organ; and we cease to experience the world in the physical body alone, by existing in the world independently of our physical body. In so doing, we exist in the world in such a way that we learn to experience a reality outside space and time. We thus experience the reality of the spiritual sphere and its influence on the temporal in the way I have described. But if by overcoming pain and suffering within ourselves we do gain spiritual vision, we shall have brought into knowledge something of this other element—the element which, whilst remaining intact as real knowledge, real spiritual cognition, is continually leading knowledge into religious experience. And while continuing to experience what has survived from ancient times as a religious element in venerable traditional concepts, we also experience a similar spiritual element of more recent origin, if we work our way up to a cognition that can exist in the sphere of religious devotion.

Only then do we understand how deep in man lie the springs of the unity of religion, art and science in the ancient East. They were once united: what man knew and admitted to his corpus of ideas was another aspect of what he set up to shine before him in artistic beauty; and what he thus knew and comprehended, and made to radiate beauty, was also something spiritual to which he made his devotions and which he treated as subject to a higher order. Here we see religion, art and science united.

This, however, takes us back into an age where not only did thought live on the waves of words, but where also it was man's experience that thought inhabited regions deeper even than words, and was connected with the innermost texture of human nature. For this reason, the Indian yogi elicited thoughts from breathing, which goes deeper than words. Only gradually did thought raise itself into words and then, in modern civilization, beyond words. Originally, however, thought was connected with more intimate and deeper human experience, and that was when the unity of religious, artistic and scientific life could unfold in complete harmony.

Today, there remains in the Orient an echo of what I have described to you as a harmonious unity of religion, art and philosophy, as it appears for instance in the vedas. But it is an echo which requires to be understood—and which we cannot easily understand simply from the standpoint of that isolation of religion, art and science which exists in Western civilization. We do truly understand it, however, if by a new spiritual science we rise to an outlook that can again produce a harmony of religion, art and science. In the Orient, meanwhile, we still have the remnants of that early unity before us. If you look, you will see that just where the East touches and influences Europe, the echo still persists. A past historical epoch remains present at a certain spot on the earth. We can perceive this presence in a great philosopher of Eastern Europe, in Soloviev.

This philosopher of the second half of the nineteenth century has a quite special effect on us. When we look at the philosophers of the West, John Stuart Mill or Herbert Spencer or others, we find that their standpoint has grown out of the scientific thinking I have described today. In Soloviev, however, something survives which presents religion, art and science as a unity. When we first begin to read Soloviev, it is true, we notice that he uses the philosophical language he found in Kant or Comte; he has complete command of the modes of expression of these philosophers of Western and Central Europe. But when we become at home in his mind and in what he expresses by the use of these modes, our awareness of him changes. He arouses a sense of the past; he seems like someone who has come to life again from the discussions that preceded the Council of Nicaea. We perceive, in fact, the tone that prevails in the discussions of the early Christian fathers; and in those early centuries of Christianity there certainly did survive an echo of the unity of religion and science. This unity, in which volition and thought also flow together, informs Soloviev's East European philosophy of life.

And if we look at the culture and civilization around us today, we do indeed find in the more Westerly parts just that separation of religion, art and science; what really belongs to our moment of history, the real basis of our activities and our picture of the world, is the discipline that is strictly built up on scientific thinking, whereas in art forms and religious matters we take over older traditional material. We can see today how few new styles are produced in art, and how everywhere old ones live on. The vital element in our time is what is vital in scientific thinking. We must wait for a time that will have lively imaginal thinking as I have described it—a thinking that will again lead to what is vital and will be capable of artistic creativity in new styles, without becoming insipidly allegorical and inartistic.

Scientific thought, we find, is thus the motive impulse of the immediate present, especially the further West we move; while in the East we find an echo of an earlier unity of religion, art and science.

This religious strain forms part of the temperament of East Europeans, with which they look at the world. They are able to understand the West only indirectly, via a spiritual development like that contained in our spiritual science movement; they have no direct understanding of the West, precisely because people in the West attempt to distinguish sharply religion and art from scientific thought.

We who live between the two must allow the world of the senses to obtrude on us and must entertain the thought appropriate to it; but we cannot help also looking inward and experiencing our inner self, and for the inner self we need religious experience. But I would say: more deeply buried in human nature than the religious experience we need within us and the scientific experience we need for observing the outside world, is the link between the two, artistic experience.

Artistic experience is thus something which today is not a first demand on life. We have seen that Western civilization is concerned with scientific thoughts, and Eastern civilization with religious ones. We have seen that we are part of an artistic tradition, but that we cannot feel entirely at home in it, indeed that the artistic tradition itself is in many ways a revival. And yet one must say: the yearning for a balance of this kind is certainly present in the central region between East and West. We see it, for example, when we look at Goethe.

For what was Goethe's great longing when, with what I would call his predominantly artistic talents, he was faced by the riddles of nature? His artistic sense transformed itself naturally into his scientific outlook. One could say: in Goethe, the representative Central European, we find art and science all of a piece; all of a piece, too, is Goethe's life when we follow its development and know how to locate it properly within the history of recent times. Goethe made himself at home in the collaboration of art and science. There thus arose in him a longing that can only be understood historically: the urge towards Italy, to a more southerly civilization. After looking at the works of art he found in the South, he wrote to his friends in Weimar something that followed on from the philosophy and science he had come to know there in Weimar. In Spinoza he had found divine power represented philosophically. That did not satisfy him. He wanted an extended and spiritualized approach to the world and to spirituality. And in the sight of the Southern works of art he wrote to his friends: “Here is necessity, here is God!” “I have an idea that the Greeks operated according to the laws by which nature herself operates; I am on their track.” Here Goethe is trying to merge science and art.

If in conclusion I introduce a personal note, I do so only to show you how a single pointer can reveal the way in which the Middle region can take up a position between East and West. I encountered this pointer some forty years ago here in Vienna. In my youth I made the acquaintance of Karl Julius Schröer—he was then lecturing on the history of German literature from Goethe onwards. In his introductory lecture he made a number of important points; and he then said something entirely characteristic of the longing that instinctively inspired the best minds in Central Europe. Schröer's words, too, were instinctive. Yet in fact he expressed a longing to combine art and science, to combine Western scientific thought and Eastern religious thought in artistic vision; and he summed up what he wanted to say in the, to me, significant words: “The Germans have an aesthetic conscience.”

Of course, this does not describe an actual state of affairs. It expresses a longing, the longing to look at art and science together. And the feeling when we do look at them together has been finely expressed by another Central European, one whom I have just characterized: when we can look at science and art together, we can then raise ourselves to religious experience, if only the science and art contain true spirituality in Goethe's sense. This is what he meant by saying:

Whoever has science and art.
Has religion too;
Whoever does not have them,
Let him have religion.

Anyone with an aesthetic conscience attains to scientific and religious conscientiousness too. From this we can see where we stand today.

I do not like using the word “transition”—all periods are transitional—but today, in a time of transition, what matters is the kind of transition. In our time we have experienced and developed to its supreme triumph the separation of religion, art and science. What must now be sought, and what alone can provide an understanding between East and West, is the harmonization, the inner unity of religion, art and science. And this inner unity is what the philosophy of life of which I have been speaking seeks to attain.

Anthroposophie Und Weltorientierung

Ost-West in der Geschichte

Meine sehr verehrten Anwesenden! Goethe, der so vieles großes Menschenbewegende in einfache Ausdrücke geprägt hat, schrieb auch den Satz nieder: «Frage sich doch jeder, mit welchem Organ er allenfalls in seine Zeit einwirken kann und wird!»

Läßt man einen solchen Ausspruch — mit all dem, wovon man wissen kann, daß es durch Goethes Seele gezogen sein könnte, indem er einen solchen Ausspruch tat — auf sich wirken, so wird man hineinversetzt in das ganze Verhältnis des Menschen zum geschichtlichen Leben. Gewiß verläuft das heute noch bei den meisten Menschen mehr oder weniger unbewußt, daß sie suchen, ihren besonderen Standpunkt zu gewinnen, durch den sie die Möglichkeit finden, in der rechten Art ihre Kräfte so einzusetzen im Entwickelungsgang der Menschheit, daß dieses Einsetzen aus dem Geist der Epoche heraus geschieht, in der sie leben. Aber man darf wohl sagen: eine schon oberflächliche Betrachtung des menschlichen Lebens in seiner Entwickelung zeigt, daß die Menschen schließlich darauf angewiesen sind, immer bewußter und bewußter ihr Leben zu gestalten. Das instinktive Leben war das Kennzeichen alter Kulturepochen. Der Übergang zu einer immer größeren Bewußtheit ist auch ein geschichtlicher Faktor. Und in der Gegenwart kann man schon fühlen, wie das immer komplizierter und komplizierter gewordene Leben von dem Menschen fordert, daß er mit einem gewissen Grad von Bewußtsein sich hineinstelle, wenn er auch auf einem vielleicht noch so wenig bemerkenswerten Platz steht, in die Entwickelung der Menschheit. Allein gerade bei dem Streben nach einem solchen Standpunkt haben wir im Grunde heute noch wenig Anhaltspunkte an der Betrachtung der geschichtlichen Entwickelung der Menschheit.

Diese Betrachtung der geschichtlichen Entwickelung der Menschheit im neueren Sinn einer Wissenschaft ist eigentlich noch nicht besonders alt. Und man möchte sagen, man verspürt die Jugend der geschichtlichen Betrachtung in dem, was eben in der Geschichtsschreibung zutage getreten ist.

Diese Geschichtsschreibung hat Großartiges hervorgebracht. Allein indem sie sich aus der ja sogar im 18. Jahrhundert noch herrschenden unwissenschaftlichen Chronikenschreibung herausentwickelte, versuchte sie, weil sie in das naturwissenschaftliche Zeitalter hineinfiel, immer mehr und mehr auch naturwissenschaftliche Formen anzunehmen. Und so sehen wir, daß sich die geschichtliche Betrachtungsweise mehr und mehr der Anschauung genähert hat, daß immer das Folgende aus dem Vorhergehenden ursächlich begriffen werden müsse. Aber wer unbefangen genug ist, kann sehen, daß zwar eine solche ursächliche Betrachtung des geschichtlichen Lebens der Menschheit weit führt, daß aber immer noch zahllose Tatsachen dieses geschichtlichen Lebens bleiben, die sich nicht widerspruchslos einreihen lassen in eine einfache Ursachenbetrachtung. Und dann erscheint einem wohl ein Bild, das versinnlichen kann das geschichtliche Leben: das Bild eines fortfließenden Stromes, bei dem wir aber dasjenige, was an einem bestimmten Punkte seines Laufes ist, nicht immer bloß herleiten könnten aus dem, was ein wenig weiter stromaufwärts ist, sondern bei dem wir Rücksicht darauf nehmen müßten, daß in seinen Tiefen allerlei von Kräften waltet, die sich an jeder Stelle an die Oberfläche drängen können, Wellen aufwerfen können, die nicht durch die vorhergehenden bedingt sind.

So scheint wohl auch das geschichtliche Leben der Menschheit hineinzuweisen in unsägliche Tiefen, erscheint uns wie eine Oberfläche, an die heraufstoßen unermeßlich viele Kräfte. Und die menschliche Betrachtung kann sich wohl kaum vermessen, in all das etwa restlos hineinzuschauen, was irgendeiner Epoche besonders eigentümlich ist. Daher wird sich wohl die geschichtliche Betrachtung immer mehr und mehr dem nähern müssen, was ich nennen möchte eine symptomatologische Betrachtung. Wir müssen ja auch am menschlichen Organismus, der eine so reichlich in sich differenzierte Totalität ist, vieles von seinem gesunden und kranken Zustand dadurch konstatieren, daß wir auf die Symptome sehen, in denen sich dieser Organismus äußert. Ebenso müssen wir uns wohl nach und nach gewöhnen, eine geschichtliche Symptomatologie zu treiben: was sich an der Oberfläche ankündigt, so aufzufassen, daß es uns auf einzelnes hindeutet und wir durch immer mehr und mehr Symptome, die wir in unsere Anschauung hereinbegreifen, dazu kommen, das innerlich Lebendige des geschichtlichen Werdens so auf uns wirken zu lassen, daß wir durch das innerlich seelische Ergreifen der geschichtlichen Kräfte der Menschheit, die ja auf allerlei Umwegen auch in unsere Seele wirken, befähigt werden, unseren Platz in der Menschheitsentwickelung zu finden.

Gerade eine solche Betrachtung der Welt und des Lebens, wie ich sie vor Ihnen entwickeln durfte, kann einem so recht die Empfindung davon beibringen, wie sich auch in dem, was man in seinem intimsten Innern erlebt, geschichtlich Symptomatisches ausspricht. Gerade das was ich Ihnen geschildert habe, das Erwachen und Erwecken von Erkenntnisfähigkeiten, die im gewöhnlichen Bewußtsein nicht vorhanden sind, sondern die im gewöhnlichen Leben tief unten in der Seele schlummern, gerade dieses Erwachen und Erwecken von Erkenntniskräften, wie es dem modernen Menschen angemessen ist, führt uns dazu, einzusehen, daß wir diese Erkenntniskräfte in der Gegenwart nicht nur anders entwickeln müssen, als sie in der Vorwelt entwickelt worden sind. Sondern wenn wir dann solche Kräfte entwickeln, wenn wir dieses intime innere Leben bis zu einem geistigen Schauen führen, dann stellt sich für den heutigen Menschen der Grundcharakter dieses geistigen Schauens doch in einer ganz anderen Weise dar, als er sich dargestellt hat für Menschen zum Beispiel des orientalischen Uraltertums, an das wir gerührt haben, als vorgestern die Jogaübung geschildert worden ist.

Wenn wir hinblicken nach diesen alten orientalischen Anschauungen, wie sie entwickelt worden sind von denjenigen, die aus ihrem Inneren Erkenntniskräfte, die in das Übersinnliche hineingreifen, heraustreiben wollten, so müssen wir sagen: Alles was wir darüber wissen, weist uns darauf hin, daß solche Erkenntnisse, indem sie in die Seele sich einlebten, durchaus einen bleibenden, einen dauernden Charakter in der Seele annahmen. Was der Mensch im gewöhnlichen Leben denkt, was er in sich aufnimmt als die Wirkung auf seine Seele aus den Erlebnissen des irdischen Daseins, was sich dann in Erinnerungen festsetzt, ist das, was in der Seele eine Dauer hat; und wir sind einfach geistig nicht gesund, wenn wir Lücken erheblicher Art haben in bezug auf die Erinnerungsfähigkeit an das, was wir von einem bestimmten Zeitpunkt unserer Kindheitsentwickelung an in der Welt erlebt haben. In diese gedankliche Dauer gliederte sich alles das ein, was in alter orientalischer Seelenkultur an Einsichten in die geistige Welt errungen wurde. Es bildete sozusagen so Erinnerungsvorstellungen, wie die gewöhnlichen Erlebnisse des Tages Erinnerungsvorstellungen bilden. Das war gerade das Eigentümliche des älteren orientalischen Sehers, daß er sich immer mehr und mehr in ein dauerndes Gemeinschaftsleben mit der geistigen Welt hineinfand, indem er seinen Weg in diese Welt hinein absolvierte. Er wußte sich sozusagen geborgen, wenn er einmal drinnen war in der göttlich-geistigen Welt. Er wußte, daß diese etwas Dauerndes auch für seine Seele darstellt.

Nun darf man aber in einem gewissen Sinne schon sagen, das Gegenteil ist für den der Fall, der sich heute aus den Kräften der Menschennatur heraus, zu denen sich die Menschheit eben seit jenen alten Tagen bis in die Gegenwart herauf entwickelt hat, zu einem gewissen geistigen Schauen erhebt: Er entwickelt seine Anschauungen über das Geistige so, daß er sie erlebt; aber er kann sie unmöglich in derselben Weise zu Erinnerungsvorstellungen machen, wie die Gedanken, die wir im Alltag an der Außenwelt erleben, Erinnerungsvorstellungen werden.

Das ist gerade für viele, die nach den heutigen Methoden sich zu einem gewissen geistigen Schauen hinringen, eine große Enttäuschung, daß sie zwar Einblicke gewinnen in diese geistige Welt, daß aber diese Einblicke vorübergehend sind wie das Anschauen einer Realität, vor der wir in der Außenwelt stehen, die auch nicht mehr in unserer Wahrnehmung vorhanden ist, wenn wir von ihr hinweggehen. Keine Einverleibung dem Gedächtnisse im gewöhnlichen Sinne ist es, was sich im Seelenleben abspielt, sondern ein augenblickliches Verbundensein mit der geistigen Welt. Will man dann in einem späteren Zeitpunkt dieses Verbundensein wieder haben, so kann man das Erlebnis nicht einfach aus der Erinnerung heraufholen, sondern man kann nur das Folgende machen: Man kann sich natürlich an das erinnern, was den gewöhnlichen Erlebnissen der physischen Welt angehört, wie man sich etwa durch Kräfteentwickelungen dahin gebracht hat, ein solches Erlebnis aus der geistigen Welt zu haben. Dann kann man den Weg wiederum machen, und man kann es wiederum haben, geradeso wie wenn man zu einer sinnlichen Wahrnehmung wiederum zurückkehrt. Das ist gerade eines der wichtigsten Momente, die verbürgen die Realität des modernen Schauens: daß sich das, in das wir hineinblicken, nicht mit unserer Leiblichkeit vereinigt; denn es heißt immer, mit der Leiblichkeit vereinigt, durch den Organismus befestigt werden, wenn Gedanken als Erinnerungsvorstellungen eine gewisse Dauer gewinnen.

Wenn ich hier eine persönliche Bemerkung einfügen darf — vielleicht zu einer Verständigung —, so ist es diese: Jemand, der ein wenig Verbindung hat mit der geistigen Welt und Mitteilung über das machen will, was er erfahren hat, ist nicht in der Lage, im gewöhnlichen Sinn aus der Erinnerung heraus diese Mitteilung zu machen. Er muß immer gewisse Anstrengungen machen, um sich wiederum selber zum unmittelbaren geistigen Beobachten hinzuführen. Daher kann auch jemand, der unmittelbar aus der geistigen Welt heraus spricht, ich möchte sagen, dreißigmal ein und denselben Vortrag halten: er wird für ihn nicht eine Wiederholung des vorangehenden sein, sondern er muß immer in unmittelbarer Weise aus dem Erlebnis herausgeholt werden.

Darin liegt zu gleicher Zeit etwas, von dem ich sagen möchte, daß es gewisse Sorgen, die auftauchen könnten in ängstlichen Seelen gegenüber dieser modernen Geistesschau, beheben kann. Viele Menschen sehen ja heute noch, und zwar mit einem gewissen Recht, die Größe der bedeutungsvollen Rätselfragen des Daseins gerade darin, daß diese Fragen niemals restlos gelöst werden können. Sie fürchten sich vor der Philistrosität der geistigen Anschauung, wenn sie etwa der Behauptung gegenüberstehen müßten, die Rätsel des Daseins könnten endgültig durch irgendeine Weltanschauung «gelöst» werden. Nun, von einer solchen «Lösung» kann auch die Lebensauffassung nicht sprechen, von der hier die Rede ist, und zwar gerade aus dem eben angegebenen Grund heraus: Was gewissermaßen immer wieder vergessen wird, das muß immer neu erworben werden.

Darin aber zeigt sich gerade die Lebendigkeit. Wir nahen uns gewissermaßen wieder dem, was sich auch äußerlich in der Natur als der Charakter des Lebendigen zeigt, gegenüber dem, was wir sonst innerlich erleben, indem wir unsere Gedanken zu Erinnerungsvorstellungen werden sehen. Vielleicht klingt es für manchen trivial, was ich jetzt sagen möchte; es ist aber nicht trivial gemeint. So wenig wie jemand sagen kann: Ich habe gestern gegessen, also bin ich satt, brauche heute und morgen und ferner nicht zu essen - ebensowenig kann gegenüber der modernen Geistesschau jemand sagen, sie sei einmal abgeschlossen, teile sich dann der Erinnerung mit, und man wisse nun für alle Zeit das, was man hat.

Ja, nicht nur dies ist der Fall, daß man immer von neuem ringen muß, um gegenwärtig zu bekommen, was sich dem Menschen offenbaren will, sondern sogar das ist der Fall, daß, wenn man längere Zeit über denselben Vorstellungen aus der geistigen Welt immer wieder und wiederum brütet, sie immer wieder und wiederum aufsucht, daß dann sogar Zweifel auftauchen, Ungewißheiten auftauchen, und daß man die Ungewißheiten und Zweifel im lebendigen inneren Seelenleben gerade bei der richtigen Geistesschau immer von neuem besiegen muß. Man ist also niemals, ich möchte sagen, zu der Ruhe des Fertigseins verdammt, wenn man im modernen Sinn zur Geistesschau hinstrebt.

Und ein anderes noch muß gesagt werden. Diese moderne Geistesschau erfordert vor allen Dingen auch, was man Geistesgegenwart nennen kann. Der Geistesschauer alter orientalischer Vorzeiten konnte sich gewissermaßen Zeit lassen. Was er sich errang, blieb dauernd vorhanden. Derjenige, der aus der modernen Menschennatur heraus in die geistige Welt hineinschauen will, der muß schlagfertig, möchte ich sagen, sein mit seinem Geistorgan; er muß gewahr werden, wie das, was sich aus der geistigen Welt heraus offenbart, zuweilen nur einen Augenblick da ist und nachher wieder verschwindet, wie es also im Moment des Entstehens in Geistesgegenwart aufgefaßt werden muß. Und viele Menschen, die sich sorgsam vorbereiten zu einer solchen Geistesschau, kommen nicht zu ihr, weil sie nicht zu gleicher Zeit diese Geistesgegenwart in vorbereitenden Übungen suchen. Denn nur dadurch ist man imstande, zu vermeiden, daß man seine Aufmerksamkeit eigentlich erst entwickelt hat, wenn die Sache schon wiederum vorbei ist.

Damit habe ich Ihnen mancherlei Eigentümlichkeiten dessen, was dem modernen Sucher nach der geistigen Welt begegnet, geschildert. Im Verlaufe der Vorträge werden noch andere solche Eigentümlichkeiten auftreten. Heute möchte ich, weil es direkt hinüberführen wird zu einer gewissen geschichtlichen Betrachtung der Menschheit, nur noch auf das eine aufmerksam machen.

Wenn wir in diesem nun wiederum von einer gewissen Seite charakterisierten Sinn als moderner Mensch den Weg in die geistige Welt hinein in sicherer Weise, so daß wir nicht Phantasten werden, finden wollen, so ist es am besten, wenn wir von den Vorstellungen, von den Denkoperationen ausgehen, die wir uns an einer gründlichen Naturbeobachtung und durch Vertiefen in eine gründliche Naturwissenschaft angeeignet haben. Keine Vorstellungen eignen sich gerade zu meditativem Leben so gut, wie ich es geschildert habe, als diejenigen, die man aus der modernen Naturwissenschaft heraus gewinnt, nicht um sie allein inhaltlich aufzunehmen, sondern um sie inhaltlich meditativ zu verarbeiten. Wir haben eben als moderne Menschen im strengsten Sinne des Wortes an der Naturwissenschaft das Denken gelernt. Dessen sollen wir eingedenk sein, daß wir an der Naturwissenschaft das Denken, das unserer heutigen Zeitepoche angemessen ist, gerade gelernt haben. Nun kann aber dieses alles, was wir also an Denkoperationen aus der modernen Naturwissenschaft gewinnen können, nur Vorbereitung sein für die eigentliche Geistesschau.

Niemals können wir durch irgendwelche logische Konsequenz, durch irgendwelche philosophische Spekulation das gewöhnliche Denken, das wir an den Dingen der Außenwelt, an Experiment und Beobachtung schulen, zu etwas anderem verwenden, als um uns vorzubereiten. Wir müssen dann warten, bis die geistige Welt in der Art an uns herantreten will, wie ich das gestern und vorgestern geschildert habe. Wir müssen zu jedem einzelnen Schritt in der Beobachtung der geistigen Welt erst reif werden. Wir können nicht aus innerer Willkür etwas anderes herbeiführen, als uns gewissermaßen zu einem Organ zu machen, dem sich die geistige Welt offenbaren will. Die objektive Offenbarung — wir müssen sie erwarten. Und wer in solchen Dingen Erfahrung hat, der weiß, wie er auf manche Erkenntnisse jahre-, jahrzehntelang warten muß, bevor sie sich ihm erschließen. Es verbürgt wiederum gerade dieser Umstand die Objektivität dessen, was Wirklichkeit in der geistigen Welt ist, für die Erkenntnis.

So war es wiederum nicht bei dem, der in alten orientalischen Zeiten, in der Welt des Ostens, durch seine Übungen den Weg in die übersinnliche Welt hinein suchte. Bei ihm war das Denken von vornherein so geartet, daß er es gewissermaßen nur fortzusetzen brauchte, um jenen Weg in die geistige Welt hinein zu finden, den ich vorgestern charakterisiert habe. Er stand also schon im gewöhnlichen Leben in einem Denken drinnen, das nur fortgesetzt zu werden brauchte, um in seiner eigenen Fortsetzung zu einem gewissen Hellsehen zu führen, das aber dafür auch, weil es aus dem gewöhnlichen Leben der damaligen Zeit heraus entwickelt war, ein mehr traumhaftes Schauen war, während das Schauen, zu dem wir als moderne Menschen streben, ein solches ist, das bei voller Besonnenheit, ähnlich der bei Lösung mathematischer Probleme vorhandenen, verläuft. Wir sehen darin gerade, indem wir uns an das wenden, was der Geistesforscher intim erleben muß, einen Ausdruck für gewaltige Verwandlungen in der ganzen Menschennatur im Verlauf von historischen Zeiten. Historisch sind diese Zeiten insofern, als nicht nur der, der in der Art, wie ich das noch schildern werde, durch geistige Anschauung selbst bis in fernste Urzeiten das geschichtliche Leben sowohl der Menschen wie des Kosmos prüfen kann, daß nicht nur der darauf kommen kann, sondern auch der, welcher in unbefangener Weise die äußeren Dokumente prüft. Wir können auch in diesen äußeren Dokumenten auf alte Zeiten geistigen Lebens der Menschheit hinschauen und ersehen, wie sie sich unterscheiden von dem, was wir selber, was unsere Zeit erstreben muß in bezug auf das Drinnenstehen in dieser geistigen Welt.

Dadurch, daß unser Denken nicht ohne weiteres fortgesetzt werden kann, um in seiner eigenen Fortströmung uns zur Geistesschau zu bringen, sondern dadurch, daß es bloß die Vorbereitung machen, uns selbst gewissermaßen präparieren kann, damit wir reif werden, wenn die geistige Welt uns entgegentritt, diese zu schauen, dadurch gerade ist unser Denken geeignet, innerhalb des Feldes der Experimente, der Beobachtungen zu wirken und zu weben, innerhalb des Feldes, das die Naturwissenschaft zu dem ihrigen gemacht hat. Aber gerade indem wir einsehen, welche innere Strenge, welche innere Kraft unser Denken erreicht hat, werden wir es um so sicherer auf unsere Schulung anwenden, damit wir dann auf die Offenbarung der geistigen Welt im richtigen Sinne des Wortes warten können. Schon daraus geht hervor, daß unser Denken heute etwas anderes ist als in alten Zeiten.

Ich werde wiederholt Gelegenheit haben zu geschichtlichen Exkursen. Da wird sich manches, was auf die äußere Welt bezüglich ist, fortsetzen lassen von dem aus, was ich heute zu sagen habe. Heute werde ich mehr auf das zu sprechen kommen, was die inneren Kräfte der Menschheitsentwickelung sind. Da werden wir ja doch zuletzt auf das Denken geführt und auf die Verwandlung dieses Denkens im Laufe der Epochen der Menschheitsentwickelung.

Da von diesem Denken aber schließlich doch alles äußere geschichtliche Leben abhängig ist, da der Mensch das, was er geschichtlich vollbringt, aus seinen Gedanken, neben seinen Gefühls- und Willensimpulsen, hervorbringt, so müssen wir uns, wenn wir uns an die tiefsten geschichtlichen Impulse wenden wollen, an das menschliche Denken wenden.

Nun aber unterscheidet sich dieses menschliche Denken, wie wir es heute für die Naturwissenschaft auf der einen Seite und zur Auswirkung der menschlichen Freiheit auf der anderen Seite brauchen können, doch in ganz erheblichem Maße von dem Denken, das wir in früheren Epochen der Menschheit finden. Gewiß, es werden sich manche Menschen finden, die sagen: Denken ist Denken, ob es nun auftritt bei John Stuart Mill oder bei Solovjeff, ob es auftritt meinetwegen bei Plato, Aristoteles, Heraklit, oder ob es auftritt bei den Denkern des alten Orients. Derjenige aber, der bloß mit einem gewissen inneren Spürsinn zunächst einzugehen vermag auf die Art und Weise, wie Gedanken innerhalb der Menschheit gewirkt haben, der wird sich sagen: Unser heutiges Denken ist im Grunde genommen doch etwas ganz anderes, als das Denken älterer Epochen war. Damit wird ein wichtiges Problem der Menschheitsentwickelung berührt.

Schauen wir auf unser heutiges Denken hin. Ich werde noch Gelegenheit haben, das, was ich jetzt mehr geschichtlich entwickle, auch aus der Naturwissenschaft heraus zu begründen. Was wir Denken nennen, hat sich eigentlich herausentwickelt aus der Handhabung der Sprache. Wer einen Sinn hat für das, was in der Sprache eines Volkes wirksam ist, für das, was an Logik in der Sprache wirkt, an Logik, in die wir uns während unserer Kindheit hineinleben, und wer dann psychologischen Sinn genug dazu hat, um das im Leben zu beobachten, der wird finden, daß unser heutiges Denken eigentlich aus dem hervorgeht, was die Sprache aus unserer Seelenkonstitution macht. Ich möchte sagen, aus der Sprache lösen wir allmählich die Gedanken und Gedankengesetzmäßigkeiten heraus; unser heutiges Denken ist eine Gabe des Sprechens,

Aber gerade das Denken, das eine Gabe des Sprechens ist, das ist dasjenige Denken, das in der zivilisierten Menschheit groß geworden ist seit den Tagen des Kopernikus, des Galilei, des Giordano Bruno, das groß geworden ist in den Zeiten, in denen die Menschheit vorzugsweise ihre Aufmerksamkeit der Naturbetrachtung im modernen Sinn zugewendet hat. Das Denken, das auf Beobachtung und Experiment angewendet wird, das muß, ich möchte sagen, so vertraut mit uns leben, daß wir das, was wir mit der Sprache uns aneignen als ein allgemeines Volksgut, ideell so verfeinern, daß es in uns zum ideellen Gedanken wird, durch den wir dann die Außenwelt ergreifen.

Aber wir brauchen nur eine im Verhältnis zur gesamten Menschheitsentwickelung kurze Zeitspanne zurückzugehen, und wir finden etwas ganz anderes. Wir gehen zum Beispiel zurück bis zum Griechentum. Wer sich hineinzuversetzen weiß in das, was in der griechischen Kunst, in der griechischen Dichtung, in der griechischen Philosophie wirkte, was überhaupt zu uns herübertönt aus dem Griechentum, der findet — auf ganz empirische Weise ist das möglich —, daß der Grieche noch das, was Gedanke war, innig mit dem Worte verwoben erlebte. Gedanke und Wort waren eines. Man sprach, indem man den Logosbegriff entwickelte, von etwas anderem, als wovon wir sprechen, wenn wir von dem Gedanken oder der Gedankenverbindung sprechen. Man sprach von dem Gedanken so, daß dieser Gedanke das sprachliche Element zu seiner selbstverständlichen Körperlichkeit hatte. Ebensowenig wie wir in der physischen Welt uns unsere Seele räumlich abgetrennt denken können vom physischen Organismus, ebensowenig sonderte sich für das griechische Bewußtsein der Gedanke vom Wort. Man fühlte die beiden durchaus als ein Einheit, und auf den Wogen der Worte strömte der Gedanke dahin.

Das aber bedingt auch eine ganz andere Stellung des Menschen in seinem Bewußtsein zur Außenwelt, als die unsrige ist mit dem Gedanken, der sich bereits vom Wüorte losgelöst hat. Und so müssen wir, wenn wir in das Griechentum zurückgehen, im Grunde genommen uns eine ganze andere Seelenstimmung aneignen, wenn wir eindringen wollen in die wirklichen Erlebnisse der griechischen Seele. Deshalb aber auch nimmt sich alles das, was im Griechentum zum Beispiel als Wissenschaft hervorgebracht worden ist, für die heutigen Anforderungen nicht mehr als Wissenschaft aus. Der heutige Naturforscher wird sagen: Die Griechen haben ja keine Naturwissenschaft gehabt; sie hatten eine Naturphilosophie. Und damit hat er recht. Aber das Problem ist damit eigentlich nur, ich möchte sagen, im Viertel seines Wesens ergriffen. Hier liegt etwas viel Tieferes zugrunde. Und das, was da zugrunde liegt, können wir erst wieder erforschen mit einer geistigen Anschauung.

Wenn wir uns des Denkens, das nun einmal heute für die Naturforschung besonders geeignet ist, in das wir uns heute hineinschulen durch die Vererbung und Erziehung, wenn wir uns dieses Denkens bedienen und das ausbilden, was wir wissenschaftliche Vorstellungen nennen, dann trennen wir diese wissenschaftlichen Vorstellungen nach dem Wesen unseres Bewußtseins streng ab von dem, was wir künstlerisches Erleben nennen, und von dem, was wir religiöses Erleben nennen. Das ist gerade ein Grundcharakteristikon unserer Zeit, daß der moderne Mensch in einem gewissen Sinne eine Wissenschaft fordert, die nichts aufnimmt von irgendeiner künstlerischen Gestaltung, irgendeiner künstlerischen Anschauung, und auch nichts aufnimmt von dem, was Gegenstand des religiösen Bewußtseins, der religiösen Hingabe an Weltlichkeit und Göttlichkeit sein will. Wir müssen sagen, das ist ein Charakteristikon unserer gegenwärtigen Zivilisation. Und wir finden immer mehr und mehr dieses Charakteristikon ausgeprägt, je weiter wir nach Westen gehen und dort den Grundcharakter der menschlichen Zivilisation prüfen. Das ist das Charakteristikon, daß der moderne Mensch als nebeneinanderstehend in seiner Seele hat Wissenschaft, Kunst und religiöses Leben. Und er bemüht sich ja, einen besonderen Wissensbegriff zu bilden, die Kunst durchaus nicht übergreifen zu lassen in die Wissenschaft, die Phantasie auszuschalten aus allem, was «wissenschaftlich» ist mit Ausnahme dessen, was auf Erfindungen abzielt; und dann eine andere Art von Glaubensgewißheit geltend zu machen, die insbesondere im religiösen Leben ihre Rolle spielen soll.

Wenn man in dem Sinn, wie ich es charakterisiert habe, versucht, zu einer geistigen Anschauung aufzusteigen, dann kommt man, indem man durchaus von dem geschulten naturwissenschaftlichen Denken der Gegenwart ausgeht, zu dem, was ich charakterisierte als ein lebendiges Denken, als ein bildhaftes Denken. Mit diesem bildhaften Denken fühlt man sich nun auch gerüstet, dasjenige, ich möchte sagen, wie mathematisch, aber jetzt qualitativ, zu begreifen, was mit der gewöhnlichen Mathematik und Geometrie nicht zu begreifen ist: das Lebendige. Mit dem lebendigen Gedanken fühlt man sich geeignet, das Lebendige zu ergreifen.

Indem dasjenige, was, sagen wir, in bloßen chemischen Verbindungen der unorganischen Welt wirkt, von uns überschaut wird, ist - wenn ich mich jetzt populär aussprechen darf — das, was da wirkt an Stoffen und Kräften, in einem mehr oder weniger labilen Gleichgewicht. Immer labiler und labiler wird das Gleichgewicht, immer komplizierter und komplizierter wird das Ineinanderwirken, je mehr wir heraufsteigen zum Lebendigen. Und in demselben Maße, wie das Gleichgewicht labiler wird, entreißt sich das lebendige Gebilde der quantitativen Erfahrung; und erst dem lebendigen Gedanken wird es so zugänglich, daß er sich mit dem lebendigen Gebilde so verbinden kann wie der mathematische Gedanke mit dem leblosen. Dadurch aber gelangen wir — ich habe schon in einem der früheren Vorträge darauf hingewiesen, daß ich damit eigentlich für viele heutige Denker etwas Horribles sage —, dadurch gelangen wir herauf zu einem Erkenntnisstandpunkt, der kontinuierlich überführt das gewöhnliche, logische, abstrakte Denken in eine Art künstlerischen Denkens, in eine Art künstlerischer Anschauung, die aber durchaus innerlich so exakt ist, wie nur jemals die Mathematik oder Mechanik exakt sein können.

Ich weiß, wie sehr man davor zurückschreckt von seiten des modernen Wissenschaftsgeistes aus, dasjenige, was exakt sein will, überzuführen in das Künstlerische, in das, was sich, indem die Qualität mitwirkt, im Menschen zu einer Art qualitativen Mathesis gestaltet. Aber was nützt denn alle Erkenntnistheorie, die da deklamiert, daß wir zu einer Erkenntnis der Objektivität doch nur kommen könnten, wenn wir von Schlußfolgerung zu Schlußfolgerung fortschreiten und uns ja hüten müßten, irgend etwas von einem solchen künstlerischen Wesen in die Erkenntnis einzubeziehen, wenn die Natur, die Wirklichkeit auf einer gewissen Stufe eben künstlerisch wirkte, so daß sie sich nur einem künstlerischen Erkennen ergeben würde.

Insbesondere gelangen wir nicht zu dem, was den menschlichen Organismus so von innen heraus gestaltet, wie ich das vorgestern beschrieben habe — was als eine Art erster übersinnlicher Mensch in uns wirkt -, wenn wir nicht dasjenige, was zusammenfügendes Denken ist, in eine Art künstlerische Gestaltung einlaufen lassen, wenn wir nicht aus einer qualitativen Mathematik heraus die menschliche schaffende Gestalt nachschaffen können. Wir brauchen nur beizubehalten den Geist der Wissenschaftlichkeit und aufzunehmen den Geist des Künstlerischen.

Kurz, wir müssen aus dem, was wir heute Wissenschaft nennen, indem wir den ganzen Wissenschaftsgeist aufrecht erhalten, ein künstlerisches Anschauen gebären. Dann aber, wenn wir das tun, nähern wir uns der Versöhnung von Wissenschaft und Kunst, wie sie Goethe geahnt hat, indem er einen Ausspruch tat wie diesen: «Das Schöne ist eine Manifestation geheimer Naturgesetze, die uns ohne dessen Erscheinung ewig wären verborgen geblieben.» Goethe wußte gar wohl: Wenn man dabei bleibt, mit den Gedankenformen die Natur oder die Welt überhaupt begreifen zu wollen, welche sich als die gesunden und richtigen für die unorganische Welt herausstellen, so ergibt sich einfach nicht die Gesamtheit der Welt. Und nicht eher wird man den Übergang finden von der Wissenschaft des Unorganischen zu der des Organischen, ehe man nicht die abstrakte Erkenntnis in die innerlich belebte Erkenntnis, die zu gleicher Zeit ein inneres Schalten und Walten ist, überführen wird.

Indem wir uns so innerhalb des modernen Geistesstrebens hinwenden zu einer Erfassung des Lebendigen, nähern wir uns aber dem, was nun nicht in solcher Besonnenheit und Bewußtheit, nach denen wir streben, aber eben instinktiv vorhanden war im griechischen Bewußtsein. Und niemand begreift in Wirklichkeit, was sich noch bei P/ato, aber insbesondere bei den vorsokratischen Philosophen äußerte, wenn er nicht gewahr wird, daß da noch ein Zusammenwirken des künstlerischen Elements im Menschen mit dem philosophisch-wissenschaftlichen vorhanden war. Erst am Ausgang des Griechentums, philosophisch gesprochen etwa bei Aristoteles, wird der Gedanke abgetrennt, der aus der Sprache heraus geboren ist und der dann später, indem er sich über die Scholastik entwickelt, zum naturwissenschaftlichen Gedanken wird. Erst im späteren Griechentum wird der Gedanke herausgeschält. Das ältere Griechentum hat den Gedanken als künstlerisches Element. Und griechische Philosophie ist im wesentlichen auch nur zu verstehen, wenn sie zu gleicher Zeit mit künstlerischem Sinn ergriffen wird.

Das aber führt uns überhaupt dazu, in dem Griechentum zu sehen diejenige Zivilisation, die Wissenschaft und Kunst noch ungetrennt hat. Das drückt sich aus sowohl in der Kunst wie in der Wissenschaft selber. Ich kann natürlich jetzt nicht auf alle Einzelheiten eingehen. Aber studieren Sie mit gesundem Menschensinn und mit einem gesunden, geistdurchdrungenen Auge, was die griechische Plastik ist, so werden Sie finden, daß der Grieche nicht in dem Sinn, wie das heute geschieht, nach dem Modell arbeitete, daß der Grieche, indem er plastisch arbeitete, aus einem inneren Erleben heraus arbeitete. Indem er den Muskel, den gebeugten Arm formte, die Hand formte, formte er nach, was er in seinem Innern erfühlte. Seinen inneren, lebendigen zweiten Menschen, ich möchte sagen, diesen ätherischen Menschen, den fühlte er; seelisch durchlebte er sich und fühlte so die Begrenzung nach außen. Das, was er innerlich erlebte, ging in die Plastik über. Die Kunst war eine Offenbarung dessen, was so geschaut wurde. Und dieses Schauen, das hinübergetragen wurde in diesen in der Sprache lebenden Gedanken, wurde zur Wissenschaft, die noch einen künstlerischen Charakter hatte dadurch, daß sie eins war mit dem, was griechischer Sprachgeist dem Griechen offenbarte.

Und so treten wir ein mit dem Griechentum in eine Welt, die sich uns erst wiederum erschließt, wenn wir selber aufsteigen aus unserer von der Kunst getrennten Wissenschaft zu einer Erkenntnis, die wiederum überfließt ins künstlerische Element. Ich möchte sagen, was wir später entwickeln in voller Besonnenheit, das war früher einmal da in einem instinktiven Erleben. Und wir können ja geradezu sehen, wie sich innerhalb des geschichtlichen Lebens dieses Zusammenleben von Kunst und Wissenschaft dann hinüberwandelt in das, was in unserer Zeit vorhanden ist: die völlige Trennung von Kunst und Wissenschaft.

Als die Menschheit sich durch das Römertum hindurch in das Mittelalter hinein entwickelte, ging die Erziehung, die Bildung zu einer höheren Stufe der Menschheitskultur von einem ganz anderen Gesichtspunkt aus, als das später der Fall war. Später, im naturwissenschaftlichen Zeitalter, kam es hauptsächlich darauf an, die Ergebnisse dessen, was aus der Beobachtung und dem Experiment gewonnen wird, dem Menschen mitzuteilen. Wir leben ja fast davon in unserer Bildung, daß wir uns Ergebnisse, die aus der Beobachtung, aus dem Experimentieren genommen sind, aneignen. Schauen wir hin auf die Zeit, in der sich noch eine gewisse Fortwirkung des Griechentums zeigte, so sehen wir, wie da auch in der wissenschaftlichen Ausbildung noch etwas vorhanden war, was näher an den Menschen heranrückte, was mehr auf die Ausbildung eines Könnens im Menschen hinwirkte. Wir sehen, wie im Mittelalter der Auszubildende durchgehen mußte durch die sogenannten sieben freien Künste: Grammatik, Rhetorik, Dialektik, Arithmetik, Geometrie, Astronomie und Musik. Es kam auf ein Können an. Was man werden sollte als Wissenschafter, das erwarb man sich durch die sieben freien Künste, die aber durchaus schon auf dem Wege waren, Erkenntnis und Wissenschaft zu werden, wie das später dann geschehen ist.

Und man kann ja sehen, wenn man die heute so viel verpönte scholastische Philosophie des Mittelalters studiert, wie gerade diese Scholastik, die auf dem Übergang von alten Zeiten zu den unsrigen steht, eine wunderbare Ausbildung der Begriffskunst ist. Man möchte den modernen Menschen nur wünschen, daß sie etwas von der Scholastik in sich aufnähmen, die in den besten Zeiten des Mittelalters üblich war, die eine Denktechnik und Denkkunst in den Menschen heranzog. Man braucht das gerade, wenn man zu festumrissenen Begriffen, zu denen wir kommen müssen, kommen will. Indem man nun aber von dem heutigen Standpunkt ausgeht, der Wissenschaft, Kunst und Religion streng voneinander trennt, und durch das Mittelalter nach aufwärts steigt in der Menschheitsentwickelung, nähert man sich dem Griechentum, wo, je weiter und weiter man zurückgeht, man sich desto mehr und mehr davon überzeugt, daß Wissenschaft und Kunst in eins verschmolzen sind.

Aber noch immer steht im Griechentum da eine von Wissenschaft und Kunst getrennte Erscheinung: das religiöse Leben. Es kommt an den Menschen auf eine ganz andere Weise heran als das wissenschaftliche oder künstlerische Erleben. Was in Kunst und Wissenschaft lebt, lebt im Raum und in der Zeit als Objekt; der Inhalt des religiösen Bewußtseins ist jenseits von Raum und Zeit. Das gehört der Ewigkeit an, das gebiert zwar Raum und Zeit aus sich, aber wir kommen ihm nicht nahe, wenn wir innerhalb von Raum und Zeit stehenbleiben.

Was Geisteswissenschaft, allerdings in einem viel genaueren Sinn, heute über diese Dinge entwickeln muß, kann man auch aus den äußeren Dokumenten ersehen. Und ich möchte immer wieder hinweisen auf ein gerade in Österreich erschienenes, in dieser Beziehung außerordentlich brauchbares Werk, auf die «Geschichte des Idealismus» von Otto Willmann, ein Buch, das besonders hervorragend ist über viele Bücher, die ähnliche Probleme in der Gegenwart behandeln. Man kann unbefangen urteilen über solche Dinge, wenn sie auch aus entgegengesetzten Anschauungen hervorgehen, wenn sie nur hinführen zu etwas, was das Geistesleben fördert.

Im Griechentum steht da jene Einheit von Kunst und Wissenschaft und auf der anderen Seite jenes religiöse Leben, an das sich der Grieche hingibt, das er allerdings in der Volksreligion in Bildern ausgestaltet, in der Mysterienreligion aber durch die Einweihung in vertieftem Sinn erhält. Aber überall können wir sehen, daß in die Seelenkräfte, die sich in Wissenschaft und Kunst entwickeln, das Religiöse nicht hereinspielt, sondern daß das Seelenleben, um ins religiöse Leben zu kommen, erst in jene fromme Stimmung, in jene All-Liebe kommen muß, in der erfaßt werden kann, was sich aus dem Göttlich-Geistigen überhaupt offenbart und mit dem sich der Mensch in religiöser Hingabe vereinigen kann.

Gehen wir aber hinüber zu dem Orient. In je ältere Zeiten wir zurückgehen, desto mehr finden wir, daß es mit dem geistigen Leben wiederum etwas ganz anderes ist. Und auch da kann uns das führen, was wir selbst innerhalb der modernen Geistesschulung uns erringen: Wenn wir von dem Erleben des lebendigen Begriffs zu jenen innerlichen Schmerzen und Leiden aufsteigen, die wir überwinden müssen, damit wir ganz Sinnes- beziehungsweise Geistesorgan werden als ganzer Mensch und aufhören, im bloßen physischen Leib die Welt zu erfahren, indem wir unabhängig vom physischen Leib in der Welt drinnenstehen, dann stehen wir so in der Welt, daß wir lernen, außerhalb von Raum und Zeit eine Wirklichkeit zu erleben. Da erleben wir dann auch die Wirklichkeit des Geistig-Seelischen, wie es hereinwirkt in das Zeitliche, in der Art, wie ich es geschildert habe. Aber wenn wir die Geistesschau erringen, die errungen wird durch die Überwindung von Schmerz und Leid im Innern, haben wir damit schon etwas von dem Element in die Erkenntnis hereingebracht, das in ganz kontinuierlicher Weise die Erkenntnis hineinführt, indem sie als wirkliche Erkenntnis, als wirkliches Wissen dem Geiste nach aufrecht bleibt, in das religiöse Erleben. Und indem wir das, was aus alten Zeiten in ehrwürdigen traditionellen Vorstellungen als Religionsinhalt geblieben ist, erleben, erleben wir auch Neueres von einem ähnlichen geistigen Inhalt wiederum, wenn wir uns hinaufringen zu einem solchen Erkennen, das nun leben kann in der Sphäre der religiösen Frömmigkeit.

Dann aber verstehen wir erst, aus welchen menschlichen Tiefen heraus das entsprungen ist, was in der Welt des alten Ostens gelebt hat als eine Einheit nun von Religion, Kunst und Wissenschaft. Die waren einmal eine Einheit. Was der Mensch erkannte, was er aufnahm in seine Ideenwelt, das war eine andere Seite dessen, was er vor sich hinstellte, damit es in künstlerischer Schönheit auf ihn herabstrahle; und was er also erkennend erfaßte und in Schönheit erstrahlen ließ, war auch ein Geistiges, dem er seine Kultushandlungen darbrachte, demgegenüber er sich auch mit seinem Tun bewegte als hingegeben an eine höhere Ordnung. Religion, Kunst, Wissenschaft sehen wir hier als eine Einheit verwirklicht.

Das führt uns aber zurück in eine Zeit, in der der menschliche Gedanke selber nicht nur auf den Wogen des Wortes dahinlebte, sondern wo Erlebnis für den Menschen war, daß der Gedanke in noch tieferen Regionen lebte als das Wort selber, daß der Gedanke verbunden war mit der innigsten Faserung dessen, was menschliche Natur ist. Daher holte der indische Jogi die Gedanken aus dem Atmen heraus, aus dem was tiefer begründet ist als das Wort. Der Gedanke hat sich erst nach und nach zum Wort erhoben und dann über das Wort hinaus in der modernen Kultur. Der Gedanke war aber ursprünglich mit intimerem, ‚tieferem menschlichen Erleben verbunden, und das war in der Zeit, wo sich die Einheit des religiösen, künstlerischen und wissenschaftlichen Lebens in einer durchgreifenden Harmonie entfalten konnte.

Von dem, was ich Ihnen so schildern konnte als harmonische Einheit von Religion, Kunst und Philosophie, wie sie uns etwa in den Veden als Richtung entgegentritt, von dem ist heute ein Nachklang im Orient drüben vorhanden. Aber ein Nachklang, den wir verstehen müssen, den wir nicht leicht verstehen, wenn wir uns bloß zu dem erheben, was in der westlichen Kultur lebt als Trennung von Religion, Kunst und Wissenschaft, den wir aber im vollen Sinn des Wortes verstehen, wenn wir uns durch eine neuere Geisteswissenschaft aufschwingen zu einer Anschauung, die wiederum eine Harmonie von Religion, Kunst und Wissenschaft hervorbringt. Aber wir haben im Orient noch die Überreste von jener alten Einheit vor uns. Schauen wir hinüber: selbst da, wo er nach Europa herüberwirkt, haben wir das in einem Nachklang noch vor uns. Was eine frühere geschichtliche Epoche war, das ist in einer gewissen Weise auf einem gewissen Fleck der Erde noch Gegenwart geblieben. Und wir können diese Gegenwart an einem großen Philosophen des europäischen Ostens, an Solovjeff, wahrnehmen.

Dieser Philosoph der zweiten Hälfte des 19. Jahrhunderts wirkt auf uns in einer ganz besonderen Art. Wenden wir uns den Philosophen des Westens zu, John Stuart Mill oder Herbert Spencer oder anderen, so finden wir, daß ihr Standpunkt herausgewachsen ist aus dem naturwissenschaftlichen Denken, das ich heute beschrieben habe. In Solovjeff lebt aber noch etwas, was Religion, Kunst und Wissenschaft wie als eine Einheit darstellt. Man sieht allerdings, wenn man sich an die Lektüre von Solovjeff heranmacht, daß er wie eine philosophische Sprache dasjenige benützt, was sich bei Kant, bei Comte findet; er beherrscht die Ausdrucksformen dieser westlichen und mitteleuropäischen Philosophen vollständig. Lebt man sich aber in seinen Sinn ein, in das was er durch diese Ausdrucksformen ausspricht, dann er- lebt man ihn anders. Man hat bei ihm ein historisches Gefühl: er kommt einem vor wie ein Mensch, der wieder auferstanden ist aus den Diskussionen heraus, die vor dem Konzil von Nicäa gepflogen worden sind. Man fühlt förmlich den Ton, der in den Diskussionen der ersten christlichen Väter herrschte, und es lebte in diesen ersten christlichen Jahrhunderten durchaus noch ein Nachklang von der Einheit von Religion und Wissenschaft — diese Einheit, wo auch der Wille noch mit dem Denken zusammenfließt. Das alles strömt und wellt durch Solovjeffs osteuropäische Weltanschauung.

Und wenn wir heute auf das hinschauen, was uns als Kultur und Zivilisation umgibt, so finden wir, daß wir in den mehr westlichen Gegenden eben jene Trennung von Religion, Kunst und Wissenschaft haben, daß aber das, was So recht unserem historischen Augenblick angehört, was So recht das ist, aus dem heraus wir wirken und die Gebilde der Welt prägen müssen, jene Wissenschaft ist, die auf dem zuerst geschilderten naturwissenschaftlichen Denken streng aufgebaut ist, während wir in den Kunststilen und Religionsinhalten altes Traditionelles übernehmen. Wir sehen heute, wie wenig produktiv die Kunst in neuen Stilformen ist, wie überall alte Stilformen aufleben. Dasjenige, was in unserer Zeit lebendig ist, ist das, was im wissenschaftlichen Gedanken lebt. Wir müssen erst eine Zeit abwarten, die in der Weise, wie ich es geschildert habe, das belebte, imaginative Denken hat, das wiederum zum Lebendigen führt, das wiederum auch in neuen Stilformen künstlerisch unmittelbar schöpferisch werden kann, ohne daß es strohern, allegorisch, unkünstlerisch wird.

Wir sehen also den wissenschaftlichen Gedanken als den treibenden Impuls der unmittelbaren Gegenwart, und um so mehr, je mehr wir nach Westen kommen. Und wir sehen im Osten einen Nachklang dessen, was Einheit von Religion, Kunst und Wissenschaft war.

Dieses religiöse Grundelement, diese Nuance haben die Osteuropäer im Gemüt. Sie schauen mit dieser Grundnuance in die Welt hinein. Den Westen können sie nur auf dem Umweg über eine solche geistige Entwikkelung verstehen, wie sie hier bei unserer geisteswissenschaftlichen Bewegung vorliegt; ein unmittelbares Verständnis für den Westen haben sie nicht, weil man gerade im Westen reinlich das Religiöse und das Künstlerische vom wissenschaftlichen Gedanken abgrenzen will.

Und in der Mitte - wir können uns dem nicht verschließen -, da muß der Mensch die äußere Sinneswelt sich aufdrängen lassen und den Gedanken erleben, der sich für die äußere Sinnenwelt eignet; er kann aber nicht anders als zurückblicken auf sich selber und sein Inneres erleben, und für das Innere braucht er das religiöse Erleben. Ich möchte aber sagen, tiefer verborgen in der menschlichen Natur als das religiöse Erleben, das man im Innern braucht, und das wissenschaftliche Erleben, das man für die Beobachtung der Außenwelt braucht, ist das Bindeglied zwischen beiden, das künstlerische Erleben.

Dieses künstlerische Erleben ist daher auch etwas, was heute im Leben so dasteht, daß es nicht in erster Linie als Anforderung an das Leben geltend gemacht wird. Wir sehen, wie sich die westliche Kultur mit Wissenschaftsgedanken trägt und die östliche Kultur mit religiösen Gedanken. Wir sehen, wie wir in einer künstlerischen Kultur drinnenstehen, wie wir uns aber nicht voll in sie einleben können, wie die künstlerische Kultur vielfach Renaissance ist. Dennoch aber muß man sagen, die Sehnsucht nach einem solchen Ausgleich ist in der Mitte zwischen Ost und West durchaus vorhanden. Und wir sehen sie, wenn wit etwa hinblicken gerade auf Goethe.

Was war denn Goethes große Sehnsucht, als er, ich möchte sagen, aus unmittelbar künstlerischen Anlagen heraus vor die Rätsel der Natur gestellt wurde? Sein Künstlersinn formte sich wie selbstverständlich um zu seiner wissenschaftlichen Anschauung. Und man möchte sagen, bei Goethe, dem repräsentativen Mitteleuropäer, finden wir Kunst und Wissenschaft doch in eins geprägt, und wir finden es weiter in eins geprägt, wenn wir das Goethesche Leben in seiner Entwickelung verfolgen und wenn wir verstehen, Goethe so recht in die Entwickelung der neueren Zeit hineinzustellen. Goethe lebt sich hinein in dieses Zusammenwirken von Kunst und Wissenschaft. So entstand eine nur historisch aufzufassende Sehnsucht in ihm: der Drang nach Italien, nach südlicher Kultur. Und von der Beobachtung der Kunstwerke, die sich ihm im Süden darboten, schrieb er seinen Weimarischen Freunden etwas, was sich anlehnte an das, was er dort in Weimar als Philosophie und Wissenschaft kennengelernt hatte. In Spinoza hatte er das göttliche Walten dargestellt gefunden in philosophischer Weise. Ihm genügte das nicht. Er wollte ein erweitertes, ein vergeistigteres Hineinleben in die Welt und in die Geistigkeit. Und im Anblick der südlichen Kunstwerke schrieb er seinen Freunden: «Da ist Notwendigkeit, da ist Gott!» Und: «Ich habe die Vermutung, daß die Griechen nach eben den Gesetzen verfuhren, nach welchen die Natur selbst verfährt und denen ich auf der Spur bin.» Hier will Goethe in eins verschmelzen Wissenschaft und Kunst.

Wenn ich zum Schluß etwas Persönliches anführe, so soll es nur aus dem Grund geschehen, um Ihnen anzudeuten, wie man an einem einzelnen Symptom die Art und Weise finden kann, wie die mittlere Welt sich zwischen Ost und West hineinstellen kann. Dieses Symptom habe ich vor etwa vierzig Jahren hier in Wien erlebt. In meiner Jugend lernte ich kennen Karl Julius Schröer; er las dazumal über die Geschichte der deutschen Dichtung seit Goethes erstem Auftreten. In der Einleitungsvorlesung sagte er verschiedenes Bedeutungsvolles; aber er sprach dann ein Wort aus, das so recht charakteristisch ist für das mitteleuropäische Sehnen der besten Geister, aus dem heraus sie, mehr instinktiv, sprachen. Auch Schröer sprach mehr instinktiv. In der Tat aber drückte er die Sehnsucht nach einer Verbindung von Kunst und Wissenschaft aus, nach einer Verbindung des westlichen Wissenschaftsgedankens und des östlichen Religionsgedankens in dem künstlerischen Schauen, indem er zusammenfaßte, was er sagen wollte, in dem für mich bedeutungsvollen Worte: Der Deutsche hat ästhetisches Gewissen.

Damit ist ganz gewiß nicht eine unmittelbare allgemeine Realität ausgesprochen. Aber eine Sehnsucht ist ausgesprochen, die Sehnsucht danach, zusammenzuschauen Kunst und Wissenschaft. Und dann, wenn man das zusammenschauen kann, dann hat ja ein anderer Mitteleuropäer, den ich eben charakterisiert habe, die Empfindung gehabt, die er ausgesprochen hat in schönen Worten: daß man dann, wenn man zusammenschauen kann Wissenschaft und Kunst, sich auch zum religiösen Erleben erheben kann, wenn nur in diesem Goetheschen Sinn in Wissenschaft und Kunst wirkliche Geistigkeit gefunden wird. In diesem Sinn hat er das Wort gesprochen:

Wer Wissenschaft und Kunst besitzt,
Hat auch Religion;
Wer jene beiden nicht besitzt,
Der habe Religion.

Wer ästhetisches Gewissen hat, kommt auch zur wissenschaftlichen und religiösen Gewissenhaftigkeit. Und das kann uns zeigen, wo wir heute stehen.

Heute, ich spreche nicht gern das oft angcfuhrte Wort von der Ubergangszent aus, jede Zeit ist eine Übergangszeit, aber heute, in einer Übergangszelt kommt es eben darauf an, worin der Übergang in der Zeit besteht. In unserer Zeit erlebten wir, bis zum höchsten Triumph entwickelt, die Trennung von Religion, Kunst und Wissenschaft. Das aber, was gesucht werden muß und was erst eine Verständigung finden lassen kann zwischen Ost und West, das ist die Harmonisierung, die innere Einheit von Religion, Kunst und Wissenschaft. Und zu dieser inneren Einheit möchte die Weltauffassung und Lebensanschauung, von der hier gesprochen worden ist und weiter gesprochen werden wird, führen.

3. Anthroposophy and World Orientation

East-West in History

Ladies and gentlemen! Goethe, who expressed so many great and moving ideas in simple terms, also wrote the following sentence: “Let everyone ask themselves with which organ they can and will influence their time!”

If we allow such a statement — with everything we know could have passed through Goethe's soul when he made it — to sink in, we are transported into the whole relationship of human beings to historical life. Certainly, most people today are still more or less unaware that they are seeking to gain their own particular standpoint, through which they will find the opportunity to use their powers in the right way in the course of human development, so that this use of their powers arises from the spirit of the epoch in which they live. But it is fair to say that even a superficial observation of human life in its development shows that people are ultimately dependent on shaping their lives more and more consciously. Instinctive living was the hallmark of ancient cultural epochs. The transition to ever greater consciousness is also a historical factor. And in the present, one can already feel how life, which has become increasingly complicated, demands that people take their place in the development of humanity with a certain degree of consciousness, even if they occupy a position that is perhaps still unremarkable. However, when it comes to striving for such a standpoint, we still have little to go on when considering the historical development of humanity.

This view of the historical development of humanity in the modern sense of a science is actually not particularly old. And one might say that one senses the youthfulness of historical observation in what has just come to light in historiography.

This historiography has produced great things. Simply by developing out of the unscientific chronicle writing that still prevailed even in the 18th century, it attempted, because it fell into the age of natural science, to take on more and more scientific forms. And so we see that the historical approach has increasingly approached the view that what follows must always be understood causally from what precedes it. But anyone who is sufficiently unbiased can see that, although such a causal view of the historical life of humanity goes a long way, there are still countless facts of this historical life that cannot be reconciled without contradiction with a simple causal view. And then an image appears that can sensualize historical life: the image of a flowing stream, in which, however, we cannot always deduce what is at a certain point in its course merely from what is a little further upstream, but in which we must take into account that all kinds of forces are at work in its depths, forces that can push their way to the surface at any point and create waves that are not caused by the preceding ones.

Thus, the historical life of humanity also seems to point to unspeakable depths, appearing to us like a surface onto which an immeasurable number of forces surge. And human observation can hardly presume to see completely into everything that is particularly characteristic of any given epoch. Therefore, historical observation will probably have to approach more and more what I would call a symptomatological observation. After all, we must also ascertain much of the healthy and diseased state of the human organism, which is such a richly differentiated totality, by looking at the symptoms in which this organism manifests itself. In the same way, we must gradually accustom ourselves to pursuing a historical symptomatology: to understand what appears on the surface as pointing to the individual, and to allow the inner vitality of historical development to affect us through more and more symptoms that we take into our view, we can allow the inner vitality of historical development to affect us in such a way that, through the inner spiritual grasp of the historical forces of humanity, which also affect our soul in all kinds of roundabout ways, we are enabled to find our place in human development.

It is precisely such a view of the world and of life, as I have been able to develop before you, that can really teach one the feeling of how, even in what one experiences in one's most intimate inner being, historical symptoms express themselves. Precisely what I have described to you, the awakening and stirring of powers of knowledge that are not present in ordinary consciousness but lie dormant deep within the soul in ordinary life, precisely this awakening and stirring of powers of knowledge, as is appropriate for modern human beings, leads us to realize that we must not only develop these powers of knowledge in the present in a different way than they were developed in the past. But when we develop such powers, when we lead this intimate inner life to spiritual vision, then the basic character of this spiritual vision presents itself to modern man in a completely different way than it did to people of, for example, ancient Oriental times, which we touched upon the day before yesterday when the yoga exercise was described.

When we look at these ancient Oriental views, as developed by those who wanted to draw out from within themselves powers of knowledge that reach into the supersensible, we must say: Everything we know about them indicates that such insights, as they became established in the soul, took on a lasting, permanent character in the soul. What people think in their everyday lives, what they take in as the effect on their souls from the experiences of earthly existence, what then becomes fixed in their memories, is what has permanence in the soul; and we are simply not spiritually healthy if we have significant gaps in our ability to remember what we have experienced in the world from a certain point in our childhood development. Everything that was gained in ancient Oriental spiritual culture in terms of insights into the spiritual world was integrated into this mental permanence. It formed, so to speak, memories in the same way that ordinary daily experiences form memories. This was precisely what was unique about the older Oriental seer: that he found himself more and more in a lasting community life with the spiritual world as he made his way into this world. He knew, so to speak, that he was safe once he was inside the divine-spiritual world. He knew that this also represented something lasting for his soul.

Now, in a certain sense, one can say that the opposite is true for those who, drawing on the powers of human nature, which humanity has developed from those ancient days to the present, rise to a certain spiritual vision: They develop their views of the spiritual in such a way that they experience them; but they cannot possibly turn them into memories in the same way that the thoughts we experience in everyday life in the outside world become memories.

This is a great disappointment for many who, using today's methods, strive to attain a certain spiritual vision, because although they gain insights into this spiritual world, these insights are temporary, like looking at a reality in the external world that is no longer present in our perception when we walk away from it. What takes place in the soul life is not incorporation into memory in the ordinary sense, but a momentary connection with the spiritual world. If one then wants to have this connection again at a later point in time, one cannot simply retrieve the experience from memory, but can only do the following: One can, of course, remember what belongs to the ordinary experiences of the physical world, such as how one has brought oneself to have such an experience from the spiritual world through the development of forces. Then one can take the path again and have it again, just as one returns to a sensory perception. This is precisely one of the most important moments that guarantee the reality of modern vision: that what we look into does not unite with our physicality; for it always means being united with physicality, being fixed by the organism, when thoughts as memory images gain a certain duration.

If I may insert a personal remark here—perhaps for the sake of understanding—it is this: someone who has a little connection with the spiritual world and wants to communicate what he has experienced is not able to do so from memory in the ordinary sense. He must always make certain efforts to lead himself back to direct spiritual observation. Therefore, even someone who speaks directly from the spiritual world can, I would say, give the same lecture thirty times: for them, it will not be a repetition of the previous one, but must always be drawn directly from their experience.

At the same time, there is something in this that I would like to say can alleviate certain concerns that might arise in fearful souls regarding this modern spiritual view. Many people today still see, and with a certain degree of justification, the greatness of the meaningful riddles of existence precisely in the fact that these questions can never be completely solved. They fear the philistine nature of spiritual contemplation when confronted with the assertion that the mysteries of existence can be definitively “solved” by some worldview. Well, the view of life we are discussing here cannot speak of such a “solution” either, precisely for the reason just stated: What is, in a sense, forgotten again and again must always be reacquired.

But this is precisely where vitality comes in. In a sense, we are returning to what is also evident externally in nature as the character of living things, as opposed to what we otherwise experience internally when we see our thoughts become memories. What I am about to say may sound trivial to some, but it is not meant to be trivial. Just as no one can say, “I ate yesterday, so I am full and do not need to eat today, tomorrow, or in the future,” so too no one can say of the modern view of the spirit that it is once and for all complete, that it is then communicated to memory, and that we now know for all time what we have.

Yes, not only is it the case that one must always struggle anew to grasp what wants to reveal itself to human beings, but it is even the case that when one broods over the same ideas from the spiritual world again and again for a long time, seeking them out again and again, doubts arise, uncertainties arise, and that one must constantly overcome these uncertainties and doubts in one's inner soul life, especially in the case of true spiritual vision. So one is never, I would say, condemned to the tranquility of completion when one strives for spiritual vision in the modern sense.

And one more thing must be said. This modern spiritual vision requires above all what can be called presence of mind. The spiritual seer of ancient Oriental times could, so to speak, take his time. What he achieved remained permanently available. Those who, out of modern human nature, want to look into the spiritual world must, I would say, be quick-witted with their spiritual organ; they must become aware that what is revealed from the spiritual world is sometimes only there for a moment and then disappears again, and that it must therefore be grasped with presence of mind at the moment of its emergence. And many people who carefully prepare themselves for such spiritual vision do not attain it because they do not seek this presence of mind at the same time in preparatory exercises. For only in this way is one able to avoid having developed one's attention only when the thing is already over.

I have thus described to you some of the peculiarities encountered by the modern seeker of the spiritual world. Other such peculiarities will arise in the course of the lectures. Today, because it will lead directly to a certain historical view of humanity, I would like to draw your attention to just one more thing.

If, as modern human beings characterized in a certain way, we want to find a sure path into the spiritual world without becoming fantasists, it is best to start from the ideas and thought processes that we have acquired through thorough observation of nature and immersion in a thorough understanding of natural science. No ideas are as well suited to meditative life as I have described as those gained from modern natural science, not to be absorbed in terms of content alone, but to be processed meditatively in terms of content. As modern human beings in the strictest sense of the word, we have learned to think through natural science. We should bear in mind that we have learned through natural science the way of thinking that is appropriate to our present age. However, all that we can gain from modern natural science in terms of thought processes can only be preparation for true spiritual insight.

We can never use the ordinary thinking that we train on the things of the outer world, on experiment and observation, for anything other than preparation, through any logical consequence or philosophical speculation. We must then wait until the spiritual world approaches us in the manner I described yesterday and the day before. We must first mature to each individual step in the observation of the spiritual world. We cannot bring about anything else out of inner arbitrariness than to make ourselves, so to speak, an organ to which the spiritual world wants to reveal itself. We must wait for objective revelation. And anyone who has experience in such matters knows how they must wait years, even decades, for certain insights to become available to them. It is precisely this circumstance that guarantees the objectivity of what is reality in the spiritual world for knowledge.

This was not the case, however, for those who, in ancient Oriental times, in the world of the East, sought the path into the supersensible world through their exercises. Their thinking was from the outset of such a nature that they only needed to continue it, so to speak, in order to find that path into the spiritual world which I characterized the day before yesterday. In his ordinary life, he was already engaged in a way of thinking that only needed to be continued in order to lead, in its own continuation, to a certain clairvoyance. However, because it had developed out of the ordinary life of that time, it was a more dreamlike vision, whereas the vision we strive for as modern people is one that proceeds with full deliberation, similar to that which exists when solving mathematical problems. Precisely by turning to what the spiritual researcher must experience intimately, we see in this an expression of tremendous transformations in the whole of human nature in the course of historical times. These times are historical insofar as not only those who, in the manner I shall describe, can examine the historical life of both human beings and the cosmos through spiritual intuition itself, even back to the most distant primeval times, can come to this conclusion, but also those who examine the external documents in an unbiased manner. We can also look at these external documents on the ancient times of spiritual life of humanity and see how they differ from what we ourselves, what our time must strive for in relation to standing within this spiritual world.

Because our thinking cannot simply continue in its own flow to bring us to spiritual vision, but because it can only prepare us, so to speak, so that we become ready to see the spiritual world when it comes to meet us, it is precisely because of this that our thinking is suited to working and weaving within the field of experiments and observations, within the field that natural science has made its own. But precisely because we recognize the inner rigor and inner strength that our thinking has attained, we will apply it all the more confidently to our training, so that we can then wait for the revelation of the spiritual world in the true sense of the word. This alone shows that our thinking today is different from what it was in ancient times.

I will have repeated opportunities for historical digressions. Much of what relates to the outer world can be continued from what I have to say today. Today I will talk more about the inner forces of human development. Ultimately, this will lead us to thinking and to the transformation of this thinking in the course of the epochs of human development.

But since all external historical life ultimately depends on this thinking, since human beings bring forth what they accomplish historically from their thoughts, alongside their impulses of feeling and will, we must turn to human thinking if we want to address the deepest historical impulses.

However, this human thinking, as we need it today for natural science on the one hand and for the effect of human freedom on the other, differs considerably from the thinking we find in earlier epochs of humanity. Certainly, there will be some people who say: thinking is thinking, whether it occurs in John Stuart Mill or Soloviev, whether it occurs in Plato, Aristotle, Heraclitus, or whether it occurs in the thinkers of the ancient Orient. But anyone who is able to respond with a certain inner intuition to the way in which thoughts have worked within humanity will say to themselves: Our thinking today is, in essence, something quite different from the thinking of earlier epochs. This touches on an important problem in human development.

Let us look at our thinking today. I will have further opportunity to substantiate what I am now developing more historically from the perspective of natural science. What we call thinking has actually developed from the use of language. Anyone who has a sense of what is effective in the language of a people, of what logic is at work in language, of the logic we grow into during our childhood, and who then has enough psychological insight to observe this in life, will find that our thinking today actually arises from what language does to our soul constitution. I would like to say that we gradually extract thoughts and laws of thought from language; our thinking today is a gift of speech.

But it is precisely this thinking, which is a gift of speech, that has grown in civilized humanity since the days of Copernicus, Galileo, and Giordano Bruno, that has grown in times when humanity has turned its attention primarily to the observation of nature in the modern sense. Thinking applied to observation and experimentation must, I would say, become so familiar to us that we refine what we acquire through language as a common public good in such a way that it becomes an ideal thought within us, through which we then grasp the outside world.

But we need only go back a short time in relation to the entire development of humanity, and we find something quite different. Let us go back to Greek culture, for example. Anyone who can empathize with what was at work in Greek art, Greek poetry, Greek philosophy, what resonates with us from Greek culture, will find — and this is possible in a completely empirical way — that the Greeks still experienced what was thought as intimately interwoven with the word. Thought and word were one. When the concept of logos was developed, people spoke of something different from what we speak of when we speak of thought or the connection of thoughts. They spoke of thought in such a way that this thought had the linguistic element as its natural physicality. Just as we cannot think of our soul as spatially separate from the physical organism in the physical world, so too did thought not separate itself from the word in the Greek consciousness. The two were felt to be a unity, and thought flowed along on the waves of words.

But this also implies a completely different position of man in his consciousness towards the outside world than ours is with the thought that has already detached itself from the word. And so, when we go back to Greek culture, we must, in essence, acquire a completely different state of mind if we want to penetrate the real experiences of the Greek soul. That is why everything that was produced in Greek culture as science, for example, no longer appears to be science in today's terms. Today's natural scientist will say: The Greeks did not have natural science; they had natural philosophy. And he is right. But the problem is that this only touches on a quarter of its essence, I would say. There is something much deeper underlying it. And we can only explore what lies beneath with a spiritual view.

When we use the thinking that is particularly suited to natural science today, which we have been trained in through heredity and education, when we use this thinking and develop what we call scientific ideas, then we strictly separate these scientific ideas, according to the nature of our consciousness, from what we call artistic experience and from what we call religious experience. It is precisely a fundamental characteristic of our time that modern man demands, in a certain sense, a science that takes nothing from any artistic form, any artistic view, and also takes nothing from what is the object of religious consciousness, of religious devotion to worldliness and divinity. We must say that this is a characteristic of our present civilization. And we find this characteristic becoming more and more pronounced the further we go west and examine the fundamental character of human civilization there. This is the characteristic that modern man has science, art, and religious life coexisting in his soul. And he strives to form a special concept of knowledge, not to allow art to encroach on science, to eliminate imagination from everything that is “scientific” with the exception of what aims at inventions; and then to assert a different kind of certainty of belief, which is to play a role especially in religious life.

If one attempts to ascend to a spiritual view in the sense I have characterized, then, starting from the trained scientific thinking of the present, one arrives at what I have characterized as living thinking, as pictorial thinking. With this pictorial thinking, one now feels equipped to comprehend, I would say mathematically, but now qualitatively, what cannot be comprehended with ordinary mathematics and geometry: the living. With living thought, one feels capable of grasping the living.

When we look at what, let's say, is at work in the mere chemical compounds of the inorganic world, what is at work in substances and forces is, if I may express myself in popular terms, in a more or less unstable equilibrium. The more we ascend to the living, the more unstable and unstable the equilibrium becomes, and the more complicated and complicated the interaction becomes. And to the same extent that the equilibrium becomes more unstable, the living structure eludes quantitative experience; and only the living thought becomes so accessible that it can connect with the living structure in the same way that mathematical thought connects with the lifeless. But in this way we arrive — I have already pointed out in one of my earlier lectures that I am actually saying something horrible to many of today's thinkers — we arrive at a point of knowledge that continuously transforms ordinary, logical, abstract thinking into a kind of artistic thinking, into a kind of artistic perception that is, however, just as precise internally as mathematics or mechanics can ever be.

I know how much the modern scientific mind recoils from transforming that which seeks to be precise into the artistic, into that which, through the influence of quality, forms a kind of qualitative mathesis in human beings. But what use is all epistemology that proclaims that we can only arrive at a knowledge of objectivity if we proceed from conclusion to conclusion and must be careful not to incorporating anything of such an artistic nature into our knowledge, when nature, reality, at a certain level, worked artistically, so that it would only yield to artistic cognition?

In particular, we cannot arrive at what shapes the human organism from within, as I described the day before yesterday—what acts as a kind of first supersensible human being within us—if we do not allow what is synthetic thinking to flow into a kind of artistic creation, if we cannot recreate the human creative form from a qualitative mathematics. We need only maintain the spirit of scientificity and take in the spirit of artistry.

In short, we must give birth to an artistic view from what we today call science, while maintaining the entire spirit of science. But then, when we do that, we approach the reconciliation of science and art, as Goethe foresaw when he made a statement like this: “Beauty is a manifestation of secret laws of nature that would have remained hidden from us forever without its appearance.” Goethe knew very well that if we persist in trying to understand nature or the world in general with thought forms that prove to be healthy and correct for the inorganic world, we will simply not be able to grasp the world in its entirety. And we will not find the transition from the science of the inorganic to that of the organic until we transform abstract knowledge into inner, animated knowledge, which is at the same time an inner process of thinking and acting.

By turning within modern intellectual endeavour towards an understanding of the living, we are approaching what was not present in the Greek consciousness in the form of the prudence and awareness to which we aspire, but was instinctively present. And no one really understands what was still expressed by Plato, but especially by the pre-Socratic philosophers, unless they realize that there was still an interaction between the artistic element in human beings and the philosophical-scientific element. It is only at the end of Greek civilization, philosophically speaking around Aristotle, that the idea born out of language is separated and later, through its development in scholasticism, becomes a scientific idea. It is only in later Greek civilization that the idea is extracted. Ancient Greek culture regarded thought as an artistic element. And Greek philosophy can essentially only be understood if it is grasped at the same time with artistic sensibility.

This leads us to see in Greek culture the civilization that still had science and art inseparable. This is expressed both in art and in science itself. Of course, I cannot go into all the details now. But if you study Greek sculpture with a healthy human sense and a healthy, spirit-filled eye, you will find that the Greeks did not work from models in the way we do today, but that they worked from an inner experience. When they formed the muscle, the bent arm, the hand, they were forming what they felt within themselves. They felt their inner, living second human being, I would like to say, this ethereal human being; they lived through it spiritually and thus felt the limitation to the outside world. What he experienced inwardly was transferred into sculpture. Art was a revelation of what was seen in this way. And this seeing, which was carried over into these thoughts living in language, became a science that still had an artistic character because it was one with what the Greek spirit of language revealed to the Greeks.

And so, with the Greeks, we enter a world that only opens up to us again when we ourselves rise from our science, which is separated from art, to a knowledge that in turn overflows into the artistic element. I would like to say that what we later develop in full deliberation was once there in an instinctive experience. And we can actually see how, within the course of history, this coexistence of art and science then transforms into what we have in our time: the complete separation of art and science.

As humanity developed through Roman times into the Middle Ages, education and training for a higher level of human culture proceeded from a completely different point of view than was later the case. Later, in the age of natural science, the main thing was to communicate to people the results of what had been gained from observation and experimentation. Our education is based almost entirely on acquiring results obtained from observation and experimentation. If we look back to the time when Greek culture still had a certain influence, we see that scientific education still had something that was closer to human beings, something that was more focused on developing skills in people. We see how, in the Middle Ages, trainees had to pass through the so-called seven liberal arts: grammar, rhetoric, dialectic, arithmetic, geometry, astronomy, and music. It was a matter of skill. What one was to become as a scientist was acquired through the seven liberal arts, which, however, were already on their way to becoming knowledge and science, as indeed happened later.

And when you study the scholastic philosophy of the Middle Ages, which is so frowned upon today, you can see how this scholasticism, which stands at the transition from ancient times to our own, is a wonderful training in the art of conceptual thinking. One can only wish that modern people would absorb something of the scholasticism that was common in the best times of the Middle Ages, which cultivated a technique and art of thinking in people. This is precisely what is needed if we want to arrive at the clearly defined concepts that we must arrive at. But starting from today's standpoint, which strictly separates science, art, and religion, and ascending through the Middle Ages in human development, one approaches Greek culture, where the further back one goes, the more one becomes convinced that science and art are fused into one.

But there is still one phenomenon in Greek culture that is separate from science and art: religious life. It approaches human beings in a completely different way than scientific or artistic experience. What lives in art and science lives in space and time as an object; the content of religious consciousness is beyond space and time. It belongs to eternity, which gives birth to space and time, but we cannot approach it if we remain within space and time.

What spiritual science must develop today about these things, albeit in a much more precise sense, can also be seen from external documents. And I would like to refer again and again to a work that has just been published in Austria and is extremely useful in this regard, Otto Willmann's “History of Idealism,” a book that stands out among many books dealing with similar problems in the present. One can judge such things impartially, even if they arise from opposing views, as long as they lead to something that promotes spiritual life.

In Greek culture, there is the unity of art and science on the one hand, and on the other hand, the religious life to which the Greeks devote themselves, which they express in images in popular religion, but which they receive in a deeper sense through initiation into mystery religion. But everywhere we can see that religion does not play a part in the soul forces that develop in science and art, but that in order to enter into religious life, the soul must first enter into that pious mood, that universal love, in which it can grasp what is revealed from the divine-spiritual and with which the human being can unite in religious devotion.

But let us turn to the Orient. The further back we go in time, the more we find that spiritual life is something completely different. And here, too, what we ourselves achieve in modern spiritual training can guide us: When we ascend from the experience of the living concept to those inner pains and sufferings that we must overcome in order to become wholly sensory or spiritual organs as whole human beings and cease to experience the world in the mere physical body, standing in the world independently of the physical body, then we stand in the world in such a way that we learn to experience a reality outside of space and time. Then we also experience the reality of the spiritual-soul, as it works into the temporal, in the way I have described. But when we attain spiritual vision, which is achieved by overcoming inner pain and suffering, we have already brought something of the element into our knowledge that leads us continuously into knowledge, in that it remains true knowledge, true wisdom, in the spirit, in religious experience. And by experiencing what has remained from ancient times in venerable traditional ideas as religious content, we also experience something newer of a similar spiritual content when we strive to attain such knowledge, which can now live in the sphere of religious piety.

But then we understand from what human depths sprang what lived in the world of the ancient East as a unity of religion, art, and science. They were once a unity. What man recognized, what he took into his world of ideas, was another side of what he placed before him so that it would shine down on him in artistic beauty; and what they thus recognized and grasped and allowed to shine in beauty was also a spiritual entity to which they offered their cultic acts, in relation to which they also moved with their actions as devoted to a higher order. Here we see religion, art, and science realized as a unity.

But this takes us back to a time when human thought itself did not just live on the waves of words, but when people experienced that thought lived in even deeper regions than words themselves, that thought was connected with the most intimate fibers of what human nature is. That is why the Indian yogi drew thoughts from breathing, from what is more deeply grounded than the word. Thought only gradually rose to the level of the word and then, in modern culture, beyond the word. But thought was originally connected with a more intimate, 'deeper human experience, and that was at a time when the unity of religious, artistic, and scientific life could unfold in a thoroughgoing harmony.

What I have described to you as the harmonious unity of religion, art, and philosophy, as we encounter it in the Vedas, for example, still echoes in the Orient today. But it is an echo that we must understand, which we cannot easily understand if we merely rise to what lives in Western culture as a separation of religion, art, and science, but which we understand in the full sense of the word when we rise through a newer spiritual science to a view that in turn produces a harmony of religion, art, and science. But in the Orient we still have the remnants of that ancient unity before us. Let us look over there: even where it has spread to Europe, we still have it before us in an echo. What was an earlier historical epoch has, in a certain way, remained present in a certain place on earth. And we can perceive this presence in a great philosopher of the European East, in Soloviev.

This philosopher of the second half of the 19th century has a very special effect on us. If we turn to the philosophers of the West, John Stuart Mill or Herbert Spencer or others, we find that their point of view has grown out of the scientific thinking that I have described today. In Soloviev, however, there is still something that presents religion, art, and science as a unity. When reading Soloviev, however, it is clear that he uses the philosophical language found in Kant and Comte; he has completely mastered the forms of expression of these Western and Central European philosophers. But when one immerses oneself in his meaning, in what he expresses through these forms of expression, one experiences him differently. He gives one a sense of history: he seems like a person who has risen again from the discussions that took place before the Council of Nicaea. One can literally feel the tone that prevailed in the discussions of the early Christian fathers, and in those first centuries of Christianity there was still an echo of the unity of religion and science—that unity in which the will still flows together with thought. All of this flows and ripples through Soloviev's Eastern European worldview.

And when we look today at what surrounds us as culture and civilization, we find that in the more Western regions we have precisely that separation of religion and art, and science, but that what truly belongs to our historical moment, what truly is the basis from which we must act and shape the structures of the world, is that science which is strictly built on the natural scientific thinking described above, while we adopt old traditions in artistic styles and religious content. Today we see how unproductive art is in new styles, how old styles are reviving everywhere. What is alive in our time is what lives in scientific thought. We must first wait for a time that, in the way I have described, has the lively, imaginative thinking that in turn leads to the living, which in turn can also become artistically creative in new stylistic forms without becoming straw-like, allegorical, or inartistic.

We therefore see scientific thought as the driving force of the immediate present, and all the more so the further west we go. And we see in the East an echo of what was once the unity of religion, art, and science.

This basic religious element, this nuance, is in the minds of Eastern Europeans. They look at the world with this basic nuance. They can only understand the West by way of such spiritual development as is present here in our spiritual-scientific movement; they do not have an immediate understanding of the West, because in the West, in particular, there is a desire to clearly separate the religious and the artistic from scientific thought.

And in the middle—we cannot close our eyes to this—human beings must allow the external sensory world to impose itself on them and experience the thoughts that are appropriate for the external sensory world; but they cannot help but look back on themselves and experience their inner life, and for the inner life they need religious experience. But I would like to say that deeper hidden in human nature than the religious experience that one needs inwardly and the scientific experience that one needs for observing the outer world is the link between the two, the artistic experience.

This artistic experience is therefore also something that exists in life today in such a way that it is not primarily asserted as a requirement of life. We see how Western culture is carried by scientific ideas and Eastern culture by religious ideas. We see how we are part of an artistic culture, but how we cannot fully settle into it, how artistic culture is often a renaissance. Nevertheless, it must be said that the longing for such a balance is definitely present in the middle between East and West. And we see it when we look at Goethe, for example.

What was Goethe's great longing when he was confronted with the mysteries of nature, I would say, out of his immediate artistic talents? His artistic sensibility naturally shaped his scientific view. And one might say that in Goethe, the representative Central European, we find art and science shaped as one, and we find it further shaped as one when we follow Goethe's life in its development and when we understand Goethe in the context of the development of modern times. Goethe lives himself into this interaction of art and science. This gave rise to a longing in him that can only be understood in historical terms: the urge to go to Italy, to southern culture. And from his observation of the works of art that presented themselves to him in the south, he wrote to his friends in Weimar something that was based on what he had learned there in Weimar as philosophy and science. In Spinoza, he had found the divine rule represented in a philosophical way. That was not enough for him. He wanted a broader, more spiritual immersion in the world and in spirituality. And when viewing the southern works of art, he wrote to his friends: “There is necessity, there is God!” And: “I suspect that the Greeks proceeded according to the very laws that nature itself proceeds according to and which I am tracing.” Here Goethe wants to merge science and art into one.

If I mention something personal at the end, it is only to indicate to you how a single symptom can reveal the way in which the middle world can position itself between East and West. I experienced this symptom here in Vienna about forty years ago. In my youth, I got to know Karl Julius Schröer; at that time, he was reading about the history of German poetry since Goethe's first appearance. In his introductory lecture, he said various meaningful things, but then he uttered a word that is so characteristic of the Central European longing of the best minds, from which they spoke more instinctively. Schröer also spoke more instinctively. In fact, however, he expressed the longing for a connection between art and science, for a connection between Western scientific thought and Eastern religious thought in artistic vision, by summarizing what he wanted to say in words that were meaningful to me: “The German has an aesthetic conscience.”

This certainly does not express an immediate general reality. But it does express a longing, a longing to look at art and science together. And then, when one can look at them together, another Central European, whom I have just characterized, had the feeling that he expressed in beautiful words: that when one can look at science and art together, one can also rise to a religious experience, if only in Goethe's sense, when real spirituality is found in science and art. In this sense, he spoke the words:

Those who possess science and art,
Also have religion;
Those who do not possess those two,
Let them have religion.

Those who have aesthetic conscience also come to scientific and religious conscientiousness. And that can show us where we stand today.

Today, I do not like to use the often-quoted phrase “transitional period”; every period is a transitional period, but today, in a transitional period, it depends on what the transition in time consists of. In our time, we have experienced the separation of religion, art, and science, which has developed to its highest triumph. But what must be sought, and what can bring about understanding between East and West, is harmonization, the inner unity of religion, art, and science. And the worldview and philosophy of life that has been discussed here and will continue to be discussed is intended to lead to this inner unity.