The Rudolf Steiner Archive

Second Lecture

[ 1 ] Last time, we attempted to look back not only on the content of our reflections from the previous year, but also on the meaning and spirit of those reflections. In doing so, we pointed out that this spirit, which inspired us in our examination of, for example, the Christ problem from every possible angle, is precisely the spirit that must permeate the entire spiritual scientific movement and all spiritual scientific endeavors. For it has become clear to us that we approach a single subject from so many different angles precisely because human beings, in their quest for knowledge, must from the outset embody what is called true humility of knowledge. Let us speak a little more specifically about this humility of knowledge.

[ 2 ] I have often cited the analogy that we can depict an object by painting or photographing it from a particular angle, but that we must never claim that this image, taken from a single angle, represents the object’s entire form. One can form a rough idea of an object by depicting it from different angles, then holding these different images together and thereby attempting to form a picture of the object. Even when simply looking at an object, one must essentially walk around it to form a comprehensive idea of it. If someone were to say that in the spiritual world it must surely be possible, so to speak, to grasp an object with a single glance, with a single view, they would be very much mistaken. And many human errors arise from a failure to recognize what has just been said. In the accounts of the events in Palestine, one might say, provision has already been made to ensure that this perspective is not adopted by those who delve deeper. For there are four accounts of these events in Palestine: the accounts of the four evangelists. And for those who do not know that in spiritual life one must view an object, a being, or an event from various angles, for them—given how carelessly they must then approach the truth—nothing else will result from this fact than the appearance of contradictions between the individual evangelists. But we have repeatedly pointed out that one must view the four Gospel accounts as presenting the great Christ event from four different perspectives, and that they must be held together like the four images taken from four different sides of some object or being. If one then proceeds in a precise manner, as we have already attempted with regard to the Gospels of Matthew, John, and Luke, and as we will later attempt with regard to the Gospel of Mark, it becomes evident that the four accounts of the event in Palestine harmonize in the most beautiful way. Thus, the very fact that there are four Gospels provides the great lesson of the diversity of human perspectives on the truth.

[ 3 ] Last year I already pointed out that it is possible to seek different perspectives on the truth of any being. You will recall that last year, at our General Assembly, I attempted to supplement what is commonly called Theosophy with another perspective, which at that time was referred to as the perspective of Anthroposophy, and I explained how Anthroposophy should relate to Theosophy. I pointed out that there is a conventional science that is based on sensory phenomena and on the intellectual synthesis of the facts derived from sensory observation—and when it deals with human beings, this science is called anthropology. Anthropology encompasses everything that can be investigated through the senses and learned about human beings through intellectual observation. It thus examines the human sensory organization as it presents itself when investigated with the various instruments, the tools of the natural sciences. It examines, for example, the remains of prehistoric humans, the cultural artifacts and tools of such humans found in the earth’s strata, and seeks to form a conception of how the human race has developed over time. It also attempts to study the stages of development found among savage or uncivilized peoples, for it proceeds from the assumption that such peoples have preserved the stages of culture that more civilized peoples also went through in earlier times. In this way, anthropology constructs a picture of what humans have gone through to reach their present state.

[ 4 ] Much more could be said that would help shed light on the nature of anthropology. Last year, I compared anthropology to a person who acquires knowledge by walking around the plains, observing the market towns, cities, forests, and fields, and describing everything he has seen while walking around the plains. Now one can also view this person from another perspective. That is the perspective of theosophy. For all theosophy ultimately seeks to enlighten us about the nature and purpose of the human being. If you study my *Secret Science*, you will see that everything ultimately culminates in an understanding of human existence itself. If you compare anthropology to a person walking around in the plain, gathering and noting down individual facts in order to comprehend them with the intellect, then we can compare theosophy to an observer who climbs a mountain to its summit and surveys the surroundings from there—the market towns, cities, forests, and so on. He will see what spreads out on the plain as blurred, and some things only as individual points. This is essentially how it is with the spiritual contemplation of humanity, with theosophy. The spiritual vantage point taken here is a lofty one. It necessitates that, from this vantage point, certain insights are indeed gained—insights that make the ordinary human bustle, the immediate qualities and peculiarities of human beings that we encounter in everyday life, appear blurred, just as the villages and towns appear when viewed from the mountaintop.

[ 5 ] What I have just said may not be entirely clear to the beginner in theosophy. For what this beginner initially takes in regarding the nature of the human being—the division into physical body, etheric body, astral body, and so on—he will seek to understand; he will form certain ideas about it, but he will initially be far removed from the great difficulties that arise precisely when one advances further in the grasping of spiritual scientific truths. One might say: The further one goes, the more one realizes how infinitely difficult it is to find a connection between what is gained up there on the spiritual mountaintop of theosophy and what actually comes to light in everyday human life as characteristic human sensations, feelings, and so on. Now one might raise the question: Why do spiritual truths seem plausible and correct to many, even though they do not consider how little they are able to test what is said from the spiritual summit against what they themselves see in everyday life? — This stems from the fact that the human soul is in fact not inclined toward untruth, but toward truth; it is so constituted that it senses, as it were instinctively, when any truth is spoken. There is a feeling for truth. One must not fail to recognize that this sense of truth, this unbiased sense of truth in the soul, has infinite value. It has infinite value especially in our present age, and this is because, one might say, the spiritual summit from which even the most essential truths can truly be perceived by human beings is so infinitely high. If people first had to climb to this summit, they would have a long spiritual and soul-level journey to make, and all those who do not undertake this spiritual and soul-level journey would be unable to perceive the value of these truths for human life. Yet every soul is predisposed, when spiritual truths are communicated, to perceive them in their truth and to receive them in their truth.

[ 6 ] How, then, does a soul that absorbs these truths relate to a soul that discovers them on its own? One can use a very simple comparison to illustrate this. But as simple as it is, there is more to it than meets the eye. Any of us can put on a boot, but not everyone can make a boot; to do that, one must have learned the craft as a shoemaker. But what one gains from the boot, what the boot can be to one, does not depend on whether one can make it, but on whether one can use it in the right way. This is indeed the case with the spiritual truths given to us through Theosophy. First and foremost, even if we cannot create them ourselves through direct perception, we are called upon to use them in our lives. And when we take them in for use through our natural sense of truth, they serve us in such a way that we can orient ourselves in life through them; that we can know that we are not confined to the existence between birth and death, that we carry a spiritual being within us, undergo repeated earthly lives, and so on. These truths, as I said, can be used. We take them in. And just as boots protect us from the cold, so do these truths protect us from spiritual coldness, from spiritual impoverishment. For we must bear in mind that we grow spiritually cold, spiritually impoverished, if we rely solely on thinking, feeling, and sensing what the external sensory world presents to us. So we must say: Spiritual truths, drawn from a higher perspective, are there for all people to use. Perhaps only a few can find them—namely, those who walk the spiritual path described in the previous chapter.

[ 7 ] Now, however, every glance at the ordinary world that surrounds us through our senses—which, when it comes to human beings, is also the subject of anthropology—can show us how this world itself becomes the revealer of a world that lies beyond it, a world that is then perceived from the spiritual vantage point of theosophy. The sensory world itself, then, can become the revealer of another world when one proceeds to interpret this sensory world, when one does not merely accept its facts with the intellect but begins to interpret these facts; when, so to speak, one does not immediately go as far beyond the field of sensory perception as theosophy itself does, but rather remains, as it were, on the slope of the mountain, where the details have not yet completely blurred, but where an overview is already possible. Last year we characterized this standpoint in spiritual terms as that of anthroposophy, and we thereby showed that three views of the human being are possible: the anthropological, the anthroposophical, and the theosophical.

[ 8 ] Now, this year—following the General Assembly—in the lectures on Psychosophy, which are important in a very different sense than the lectures on Anthroposophy, we will have to show how the human soul itself, based on its immediate impressions and experiences, can be interpreted in such a way that it plays a role in spiritual life in a manner similar to that of Anthroposophy. And a future series of lectures on Pneumatosophy will then conclude these lectures in such a way that the reflections on Anthroposophy and Psychosophy will once again flow into Theosophy. All of this is done to evoke a sense of how manifold the truth is. For this is an experience of the earnest seeker of truth: the further he advances, the more humble he becomes—and all the more cautious about immediately translating the truths gained from higher vantage points into the language of ordinary life. For although we said last time that these truths actually have value only when they are translated into the language of everyday life, one must nevertheless be clear that this retranslation is precisely one of the most difficult tasks of spiritual scientific work. Making what is perceived on spiritual heights understandable in such a way that a sound sense of truth and sound logic can affirm it and grasp it presents great difficulties.

[ 9 ] It must be emphasized time and again that cultivating such feelings and sensations toward the truth is also part of our work in the various branches of spiritual science. We should not merely grasp with our intellect what is communicated from the spiritual world, but rather it is essential that we experience it through our senses and feelings, thereby acquiring the qualities that every truly spiritually seeking person should possess.

[ 10 ] When we consider the world as it unfolds around us, we can say: Everywhere, in every aspect, it offers us an outward expression, an outward manifestation of an inner, spiritual world. This is, of course, a phrase that has become quite hackneyed for us today. Just as human physiognomy is an expression of what is taking place in the human soul, so all phenomena of the external sensory world are, as it were, a physiognomic expression of a spiritual world weaving and existing behind them, and we only understand sensory experiences when we can see in them a physiognomic expression of the spiritual world. If a person is not yet able to ascend through their own path of knowledge to those heights where spiritual vision is possible, then they initially have only the sensory world before them, and they might then ask themselves: Is there nothing for me, through the observation of the sensory world itself, that serves as evidence or confirmation of what is communicated to me through spiritual vision?

[ 11 ] It is always possible to look for evidence, but one must proceed not carelessly, but with precision. If, to cite just one example, you follow the various lectures on spiritual science that I have given and look at what is written in my *Secret Science*, you will notice, for instance, that there was once a time in the course of Earth’s evolution when the Earth itself was united with the Sun, when Earth and Sun were a single body. It was only later that the Earth separated from the Sun. If you bring together everything you know from “The Secret Science” or from my lectures, you will have to conclude that the animal and plant forms we find on Earth today are the further development of what already existed back then, when the Earth was united with the Sun. But just as today’s animal forms are adapted to today’s earthly conditions, so too must the animal forms of that time, when the Sun and Earth were still united, have been adapted to that body which was both Earth and Sun. It follows, then, that those animal forms which have survived from that time have not merely survived, but are the continuation of beings that already existed back then, though they could not yet have had eyes, for example; for eyes only serve a purpose when light is present, such as that which shines from the Sun onto the Earth from outside. We would therefore have to find, among the diverse beings of the animal kingdom, those that have, as it were, developed eyes after the Sun had already separated from the Earth; and furthermore, we would have to find animal forms that are remnants from the time when the Sun was still united with the Earth—which would therefore have to be eyeless animals. This latter species of animal would have to belong to the lower animals. And they do indeed exist. In popular books, you can find that the possession of eyes ceases from a certain level onward. This provides evidence for what is stated from the perspective of spiritual science.

[ 12 ] We can thus imagine this vast world that surrounds us and in which we ourselves exist as the physiognomic expression of the spiritual life that underlies and weaves through it. If human beings were merely to face this sensory world, and if it revealed or indicated to them in no way that it points toward a spiritual world, then human beings would never be led to develop within themselves the urge, the longing for a spiritual world. Somewhere within the world itself—which spreads out around us as the sensory world—the longing for the spiritual must be able to arise; somewhere the spiritual must shine in, as it were, through a gate or a window from the spiritual realms into the world in which we live our daily lives. Where is this the case? Where does the spiritual shine directly upon us? — That is the case—and you have heard this in the various lectures given by myself and others—where we are able to experience our own “I.” At the very moment we experience our “I,” we truly experience something that stands in an immediate relationship to the spiritual world. But this experience of the “I” is at the same time something infinitely meager. It is, so to speak, a single point amidst the phenomena of the world. The single point that we express with the little word “I” does indeed denote something originally genuine and spiritual, but this spiritual element has, so to speak, shrunk down to a single point within the “I”-point. But what, nevertheless, can this spiritual element—which has shrunk down to a single point—teach us? After all, through the experience of our own “I,” we cannot know more about the spiritual world than what is, so to speak, contained within the “I”-point itself, unless we proceed to interpret it. Yet this point already contains something very important, namely that it tells us how we must perceive if we wish to perceive the spiritual world.

[ 13 ] What, then, distinguishes the experience of the self from all other experiences? That in the experience of the self, we are right in the midst of it. In all other experiences, we are not right in the midst of them; rather, they approach us from the outside. Someone might perhaps say: But my thinking, my willing, my desiring, my feeling—is that not also something in which I myself am immersed? —With regard to willing, a person can convince themselves through a very simple, so to speak, spiritual self-reflection of how little they need to be immersed in this willing. One need only consider that volition is something that appears as if it drives us, and as if the human being is often not at all within it, but merely acts as if some other force or some event were pushing him. And so it is also with feeling and with the greater part of what is thought in everyday life. One is not actually involved in it. How little one is involved in one’s thoughts in ordinary life, for example, one could convince oneself of if one were to carefully examine how ordinary thinking depends on upbringing and on what one has absorbed at any given time—what circumstances have simply brought one. That is why human thinking, feeling, and willing, as ordinary content, vary so much across nations and times. Only one thing must be the same. If it exists in human beings at all, one thing must be found to be the same in all nations, in all regions, and in all individual human communities: that is the experience of this individual I-point.

[ 14 ] But let us ask ourselves: What about the experience of this “I”? — The matter is not quite that simple. One might easily believe, for example, that one experiences the “I” itself. But that is not the case at all. One does not actually experience the “I” itself. What does one experience? One experiences, in essence, an idea of the “I,” a perception of the “I.” For if the experience of the “I” were to be precisely grasped, it would actually be contained within something radiating toward infinity, radiating toward universality. If the self could not face itself as if in a mirror image of itself—even if this image is merely a fleeting experience—then a person could not experience the self, nor could the self form a concept of itself. And this conception is what human beings first experience of the self. But this conception is also sufficient for them. For it is precisely this conception that differs from all other conceptions; it truly has a great difference from all other conceptions, namely that it must be identical to its original, cannot be other than its original. For when the ego conceives of itself, it has to do only with itself, and the conception is merely the return of the ego-experience into itself; it is, as it were, a stagnation, as if we were to hold it back so that it might return into itself, and in this return it were to encounter itself as a mirror image that is identical to the original. Such is the ego-experience.

[ 15 ] We may therefore say: We can recognize the experience of the “I” in the concept of the “I.” But this concept of the “I” differs significantly from all other concepts, from all other experiences we can have. It differs radically from all other concepts. For all other perceptions and all other experiences, we need something like an organ. In the case of an external sensory perception, it may be clear to you from the outset that we need an organ. To have a perception of a color, we need an eye, and so on. It is clearly evident that we need an organ for an ordinary sensory perception. One might now believe that no organ is needed for what is more intimately connected to our own inner being. But even there, you can easily convince yourself that we need organs—and you can find more detailed information on this in my lectures on anthroposophy. Here, you will now be offered the opportunity to receive, in a theosophical way, what was said there more generally for the public.

[ 16 ] Imagine that, at some point in your life, you grasp a thought, an idea, a concept. You understand something that presents itself to you as a concept. How is it possible for you to understand it? Only through the concepts you have already absorbed. You can see this from the fact that one person grasps a new concept that comes to them in one way, while another grasps it in another way. And this is because one person carries within them a greater sum of concepts they have already absorbed, while another carries a lesser sum. The old conceptual material resides within us and confronts the new, just as the eye confronts light. From our own old concepts, a kind of conceptual organ has been woven within us, and whatever we have not woven together from concepts in our present incarnation, we must seek in earlier incarnations. There it has been woven together, and we bring a conceptual organ to meet the concepts that now approach us. For all experiences that come from the external world, even if they are of the most spiritual nature, we must have an organ. We never, so to speak, stand spiritually naked before the things of the external world that approach us, but we are always dependent on what we have become. Only in a single case do we stand directly before the external world, namely when we gain our sense of self. This sense of self must therefore also—and this is a special proof of what has been said—be made again and again, must always be made anew. Every morning, when we get up, we essentially make our sense of self anew. The self is there; it is also there when we sleep. But the sense of self must be made anew every morning; it can be made here again and again. And if we were to take a journey to Mars at night, where our surroundings would look quite different from those on Earth—everything would be different there—the very perception of the self would remain the same. For it can be formed in the same way under all circumstances, because we need no external organ, not even a conceptual organ, for it. What confronts us there is an immediate perception of the self, albeit as a perception, but precisely in its true form. Everything else appears to us, as it were, like an image conditioned by a mirror and by the shape of the mirror. The perception of the self appears to us in its entirety and true form.

[ 17 ] When we consider this, we can truly say, in a certain sense: When we imagine the “I,” we are ourselves contained within it; it is something that is not at all outside of us. Now let us ask ourselves: How does the unique perception of the “I”—the “I”-perception—differ from all other perceptions and everything else that the “I” otherwise experiences? It differs in that in the perception of the self, in the conception of the self, we have this immediate imprint, this seal of the self, whereas in all other conceptions and perceptions we do not have such an immediate imprint of things. But images that, so to speak, can in a certain sense be compared to the perception of the self, we derive from everything around us: We transform everything through our ego into an inner experience. For the external world must become our concept if it is to have any meaning or value for us at all. We thus truly form images of the external world that then live on within the ego, regardless of which organ we use to perceive a sensory experience. We smell a certain substance; once we have passed by the substance and no longer have direct contact with it, we still carry within us the image of what we have smelled. Likewise, we carry within us the image of a color we have seen. The images that arise from such experiences remain in our ego. The ego preserves them, so to speak. But if we wish to describe these images with their characteristic features, we must say: It is part of them that they have approached us from the outside. All images that we can unite with our ego are, as long as we stand as human beings within the sensory world, the remnants of impressions from the sensory world itself that have remained in the ego. There is only one thing the sensory world cannot give us: ego-perception. That arises within us. In self-perception, then, we have an image—even if it is as punctual as a single point, shrunk down to a single point—an image that arises within us.

[ 18 ] Now imagine other images alongside this one: Images that did not arise through stimulation by the external senses, but that arise just as freely in the ego as the ego-concept itself, and are thus formed in the same way as the ego-concept itself: then you have the kind of images that appear in what we call the astral world. That is, images that arise in the ego without any impression being made upon us from the outside, from the sensory world.

[ 19 ] What, then, distinguishes the images we have from the sensory world from our other inner experiences? We can only carry these sensory images around with us as images of experiences once we have come into contact with the external world; at that point, they have become inner experiences, but ones stimulated by the external world. What kinds of experiences of the self are not directly stimulated by the external world? As such, we have our feelings, our desires, drives, instincts, and so on. These are not stimulated by the external world. Even if we do not, in this sense, dwell within our feelings, drives, and so on, as was discussed earlier, we must still say: an element forces its way into our inner being through the feelings, drives, and desires. How do the drives, desires, and so on differ from the sensory images that we carry with us following sensory perceptions? You can sense how they differ. The sensory image is something that remains calm within us, something we try to carry with us as faithfully as possible once we have engaged with the external world. Our drives, desires, and instincts are something that works within us, and thus represent a force.

[ 20 ] If the external world does not play a role in the emergence of astral images, then other forces must be involved in this process. For what is not driven by a force does not exist and cannot come into being. In the case of sensory images, the driving force is the impression of the external world. In the case of the astral image, the driving force is initially that which underlies desires, drives, feelings, and so on. However, in ordinary human life as it is today, the human being is protected from desires and drives developing such a force that images arise through them—images that are experienced just as the image of the “I” itself is. This is, one might say, the significant characteristic of the present-day human soul: that the drives and desires do not act strongly enough to stimulate into image form that which the ego sets against them. When the ego opposes the powerful forces of the external world, it is stimulated to form images. If it lives within itself, the normal human being has only a single opportunity to receive a rising image, and that is when this image is the image of the ego itself.

[ 21 ] Thus, the drives, desires, and so on do not exert a strong enough influence to become images in the same way as the sole experience of the self. If they do exert a strong enough influence, however, they must also take on a characteristic that all external sensory experiences inherently possess. This characteristic is of extraordinary importance. Sensory experiences do not do us the favor of conforming to our will. If, for example, someone is in a room where an unpleasant noise is heard, they cannot make it go away through their drives and desires. No one can, let’s say, turn a yellow flower—which they would prefer to be red—red through mere impulse or mere desire. This is the defining characteristic of the sensory world: it occurs entirely independently of us. Our impulses, desires, and passions certainly do not do this. They are entirely governed by our personal lives. What, then, must happen to them in that elevation they are to experience toward becoming images? They must become like the external world, which does us no favors regarding its structure and the formation of sensory images, but which compels us to shape the sensory image we create in accordance with the impression of the external world. Just as independent as the human being is from the external world in the formation of his sensory images, so must he be independent of himself, of his own personal sympathies and antipathies, if the images of the astral world are to take shape correctly. It must, so to speak, be entirely irrelevant to him what he wishes, desires, and so on. Last time I told you that the requirement thus imposed could be formulated as follows: One must be unselfish. But one must not take this lightly. It is not so easy to be unselfish.

[ 22 ] But we must consider the following: How different is our interest in what appears to us from the outside compared to what confronts us from within? The interest that people take in their inner lives is immensely greater than that in the world outside. You know, of course, that for many people, even the external world—once they have transformed it into an image—is sometimes shaped by their subjective feelings. For you know that people often tell tall tales, even when they are not lying and actually believe what they are saying. Sympathy and antipathy always play a role here, obscuring what is actually given from the outside and causing it to appear altered in the resulting image. But these are the exceptions, one might say, for a person would not get very far if they were to deceive themselves in everyday life. Something would be amiss with external life everywhere; but it would do him no good—he must ‘admit the truth to himself regarding the outside world; reality corrects him.’ This is how it is with ordinary sensory experiences; there, external reality is simply a good regulator. But this function is lost in this form when we begin to have inner experiences. There, so to speak, a person cannot so easily allow external reality to exert its corrective influence. Therefore, they let their interests prevail, allowing their sympathies and antipathies to take hold.

[ 23 ] We must therefore tell ourselves: This is the main thing that matters when we think about entering the spiritual world to some extent—that, above all, we learn to regard ourselves with the same indifference with which we regard the external world. In the ancient Pythagorean school, this truth was formulated in a rigorous manner, specifically in relation to a crucial aspect of human knowledge: the question of immortality. Just look around and see how many people are interested in the question of immortality! It is common in life for people to long for immortality, for a life beyond birth and death. But this is a personal interest, a personal longing. You would be relatively unconcerned if you broke a water glass, but if people had a personal interest in the continued existence of a water glass, even if it were broken, just as they have an interest in the immortality of the human soul, then you can be sure that most people would also believe in the immortality of a water glass.

[ 24 ] For this reason, the Pythagorean school formulated the stated requirement as follows: Only those who could bear it if the opposite were true—who could bear it if the question of immortality were answered in the negative—are ready to recognize the truth of immortality. If one wishes to discern something about immortality in the spiritual world, the teachers of the ancient Pythagorean schools said, then one must not yearn for immortality, for as long as one yearns, what one says is not objective. And all authoritative judgments about life beyond birth and death can come only from those who could lie down in the grave in peace, even if there were no immortality. This was told to the students of the ancient Pythagorean schools because they were to be made to understand how difficult it is to prepare oneself for any truth.

[ 25 ] To be ready for a truth, to be able to assert it of one’s own accord, requires a very specific kind of preparation, which must consist in being completely uninterested in the truth in question. Now, with regard to immortality in particular, one might say: It is utterly impossible that there are many people who are uninterested in immortality; there simply cannot be that many! — Those who are not uninterested are precisely the ones to whom one speaks of reincarnation and the eternal nature of human existence—even though they are not uninterested. To receive the truth and use it to gain something for one’s life—this is something everyone can do, even those who cannot claim it for themselves. It is no reason not to receive the truth simply because one does not feel ready. On the contrary, it is entirely sufficient for what one needs in life to receive the truth and place one’s life at its service.

[ 26 ] But what is the necessary counterpart to accepting truths? One can readily accept them even if one is not yet ready. The necessary counterpart to this, however, is this: to the same extent that one yearns for truth in order to attain peace and satisfaction, and security in life, to that same extent one must prepare oneself to be ready for the truth, and at the same time be careful in one’s own discovery of higher truths—such truths that can only be discerned in the spiritual world.

[ 27 ] This, however, gives rise to an important principle for our spiritual life. One should be receptive to everything one needs and apply it in life; but one should be as skeptical as possible regarding one’s own determination of truths, especially when it comes to one’s own astral experiences. This is why one must guard against one thing above all else: applying these astral experiences in any way where one stands at a point where one cannot remain uninvolved—namely, where one’s own life is at stake. Let us suppose that someone, through their astral development, has reached a point where they can discern something that will be their fate tomorrow, something they will experience tomorrow. This is a personal experience. Let them be careful not to delve into the book of their personal life; for there they cannot remain uninvolved. People might easily ask, for example: Why don’t clairvoyants investigate the exact time of their own death? — They do not do so for this very reason: because they can never remain entirely uninvolved in it and must keep everything that relates to their own person at a distance. Everything that does not pertain to one’s own person—and only that which one can be certain does not pertain to one’s own person—is to be investigated in the spiritual worlds in such a way that the results possess objective validity. It is simply impossible to express anything objectively valid where one has a personal interest. Whoever therefore wishes to limit themselves to presenting what is objectively valid—that which holds true without their own interest—cannot speak at all, based on research or impressions from a higher world, about anything that concerns them personally. If there are such things that concern them personally, they would have to be absolutely certain that they have not brought these things about through their own interests. But to investigate whether one has, for example, brought about anything that concerns oneself through one’s own interests—that is extraordinarily difficult in such matters.

[ 28 ] So you see that there must be a fundamental principle for any endeavor to enter the spiritual world: one must not regard anything related to one’s own personality as authoritative. One must completely exclude one’s own personality. And then I need only add that this exclusion of one’s own personality is, in fact, extraordinarily difficult, and that one often believes one has excluded this own personality—and has by no means done so! That is why most of the astral images brought about for this or that person are nothing more than a kind of reflection of their own desires and passions. As long as one is strong enough in the spiritual realm to tell oneself: You must be suspicious of your own spiritual experiences!—as long as that is the case, these spiritual experiences do absolutely no harm. Only from the moment one lacks this strength, when one declares one’s experiences to be authoritative for one’s life, does one begin to lose one’s bearings. This is just like wanting to get out of a room where there is no door and running headfirst into the wall. Therefore, one must always keep the following principle in mind: to be extremely cautious when examining one’s own supersensory experiences. And this caution is truly in full force when one attributes no other value to such personal experiences than a value of knowledge, a value of enlightenment, when one does not base one’s personal life on them, but allows them only to enlighten one. If one approaches it with this attitude: “You only want to be enlightened!”—then that is good, for then one is in a position where, the moment a contrary idea arises, one can also correct it.

[ 29 ] Everything I have said today will, of course, constitute only a part of the various reflections we will be undertaking this winter. But I wanted to say something that might prepare you to enter into a reflection on the life of the human soul, which will occupy us in the week following the General Assembly: the reflections on psychosophy.