The Art of Lecturing
GA 339
11 October 1921, Dornach
Lecture I
I am of the opinion, that, in this course we are now starting, it is [a question of] a discussion of what is necessary in order really to connect one's self responsibly with the movement of Anthroposophy and the Threefold Idea. The course will therefore not be arranged for lecturers in general, but as a kind of orientation course for the personalities, who have made it their task to work in the direction indicated.
Personalities who receive what can come from Anthroposophy simply as a kind of information will not get much from this course.
Indeed, at present, we definitely need activity within our movement. It seems to be difficult to kindle this activity. It seems difficult to spread the insight that this activity is really necessary in our time.
Hence, it will not be a matter of a formal course in lecturing, but rather, of just those things which are necessary for someone who would like to accomplish a quite definite task, I mean the one just indicated.
On the whole, the Anthroposophical Movement has no use for general talk. Indeed, this is exactly the mark of our present culture and civilization that there is general talk around things—that people do not pick up concrete tasks—that they have, by preference, interest for talking in general terms.
Hence, I do not intend to treat the things in this course, (which I shall discuss as regards content), in such a way that they might serve as information. But I shall try to treat these things so—and this must indeed be the case in such an orientation course because it is intended as the very basis for a definite task—so that they can then link up directly with the spoken word. And I shall treat this spoken word so as to take into consideration, that he who sets himself the task of delivering a lecture for Anthroposophy is perhaps not working under conditions in which interest is already present, but is working to awaken interest by the first few lectures. Thus, I should like to shape this course in this quite concrete sense.
And, even the large points of view which I shall discuss today are to be meant entirely in this quite concrete sense. One would be reporting what is incorrect if—as is so popular nowadays—one set down what I shall say both today and in the next days as abstract sentences.
Today I intend to speak of certain set of rules.
Whenever through a lecture one sets out upon the task of bringing something near to one's fellow man, a responseful interchange will naturally take place between the person who has something to communicate, something to work for, something to be enthusiastic about, and the persons who listen to him. An interplay of soul-forces occurs. And to this interplay of soul-forces we propose at first to turn our attention.
These soul-forces live, as you know, in thinking, feeling and willing. And never is just a single soul-force in abstract form active by itself. But, into each soul-force the other soul-forces play, so that when we think, there are also feeling and willing always active in our thinking, likewise in our feeling, thinking and willing, and again in willing, thinking and feeling.
But still, one cannot consider the soul life—both by itself and in its responseful interchange between people—save from the point of view of this tending on the one side to thinking, and on the other to willing. And so, in the sense of our task today, we must know the following:
What we think interests nobody else, and whoever believes that his thoughts—insofar as they are thoughts—interest any other person, will not be able to put himself to the task of lecturing. (We intend to speak more precisely about these things.) The willing to which we would like to fire a gathering, or even one other person, this willing that we wish to put into our lecture, this annoys people, this they instinctively reject.
When one approaches people as a lecturer, then one has to do chiefly with the workings of various instincts: The thinking which one kindles in one's self does not interest people, willing annoys them. This, if some one were called upon for this or that act of will, we would find that we had called up, not his willing, but his annoyance. And if we were to sketch our most beautiful and ingenious ideas in a monologue before people, they would walk out. That must be the fundamental guiding line for the lecturer.
I do not say that this is so when we consider a general conversation among people, a gossip session or the like. For I am not speaking here about how these two are to be treated. Rather am I speaking of what should fill our souls, of what should live in us as proper impulse for lecturing, if the lecture is to have a purpose precisely in the direction I now mean. I am speaking of the guiding line one needs to set one's self: Our thoughts do not interest an audience—our will annoys every audience.
Now, we must take a further matter into consideration: When someone lectures, the fact is that he lectures for the most part not only out of his own being, but out of all kinds of situations. For instance, he lectures on some affair that has perhaps for weeks been discussed by, or described to many of the people who will be listening to him. He then naturally meets with quite a different interest than he does if his first sentences touch on something that, until now, had not occupied his hearers in the slightest. When someone lectures here in the Goetheanum, it is naturally something quite different from what it is when one lecturesat a hotel in Kalamazoo. I mean, even setting aside the fact, that in the Goetheanum one is likely to lecture to people who have for some time occupied themselves with the material, have read or heard about it, whereas this is probably not the case in Kalamazoo. I mean the whole surroundings: The fact that one comes to a building such as the Goetheanum makes it possible to turn to the public in quite another manner than is possible when one lectures at a hotel in Kalamazoo. And so there are countless circumstances out of which one lectures which must always be considered.
This however, establishes the necessity, especially in our time, to take one's lead somewhat from what should not be to what should be. Let us take an extreme case. A typical, average professor was supposed to give a lecture. At first he deals with his thoughts about the object, and, if he is a typical, average professor, he also deals with the conviction, that these thoughts which he thinks, are on the whole, the very best in the world on the subject in question. Everything else has at first no interest for him.—He writes these thoughts down.—And of course, when he commits these thoughts to paper, then they become fixed. He then sticks this manuscript into his left side pocket, goes off, unconcerned as to whether it is to the Goetheanum or to the hotel in Kalamazoo, finds a lecturer's desk that is set up in a suitable way, at the right distance for his eyes, lays his manuscript thereon and reads. I do not say that every one does it in this way. But it is a frequent occurrence and a characteristic procedure in our time. And it points to the horror one can have towards lecturing today. It is the type of lecturing for which one should have the greatest aversion.
And, since I have said that our thoughts interest nobody else, and our will annoys everybody, then it seems that it is the feelings upon which lecturing depends,—that an especially significant cultivation of feeling must be basic for lecturing. Hence it becomes of significance, of perhaps remote, yet fundamental significance, that we have acquired this proper aversion for the extreme type of lecture-reading just mentioned.
Once I heard a lecture by the renowned Helmholtz at a rather large meeting that was certainly given in this manner: The manuscript, taken out of the left side pocket and read off. Afterwards a journalist came to me and said: “Why wasn't this lecture printed, a copy slipped into the hand of each one there? And then Helmholtz could have gone about and extended his hand to each one!” The latter would have been more valuable perhaps to the hearers, than the terrible experience of sitting on the hard chairs to which they were condemned in order to have read to them the manuscript, which required more time than it would have taken them to read it themselves. (Most of them would have needed a very long time indeed if they wanted to understand it, but listening for a short time didn't help them at all.)
One must by all means reflect on all these concrete things if one wishes to understand how the art of lecturing can, in all truth and honesty, be striven for.
At the Philosophers' Congress in Bologna the most significant lecture was delivered in the following way: It lay on each chair, three copies, one in each of three languages. One had first to pick them up in order to be able to sit down on the empty chair. And then the lecture was read aloud from the printed copy, requiring somewhat more than an hour. Through such procedure even the most beautiful lecture is no longer a lecture, for understanding gained through reading is something essentially different from the understanding gained through listening. And these things must be considered if one wants to familiarize one's self in a vivid way with such tasks.
Certainly, even a novel can so move us that we shed tears at definite passages. I mean of course, that a good novel can do this only at definite passages, not from the beginning to the end. But what then is really present during reading so that we are carried away by what we read? Whenever we are carried away by what we read, we have to accomplish a certain work that coincides, that is connected very strongly, with the inner side of our humanity. This inner work which we accomplish when we read consists in this, that while we turn our glance to the single letters, we actually carry out what we have learned in the putting together of the letters. Through this activity of looking at the letters, putting them together and thinking about them, we draw forth a meaning. That is a process of receiving which occurs in our ether body and yet strongly engages the physical body in the perceiving.
But all this simply falls away when only listening. This whole activity does not occur when simply listening. Nevertheless, this listening activity is bound up in a definite way with the grasping of a thing. The person is in need of this activity whenever he wishes to grasp a thing. He needs the cooperation of his ether body and in part, even of his physical body. Not only of the sense organ of the ear! Moreover, when listening, he needs a soul life so active that it is not exhausted in the astral body, but brings the ether body to pulsation, and then this ether body also brings the physical body to swing along with it.
That which must take place as activity during reading, must also be developed while listening to a lecture, but—should like to say—in quite another form when listening, because that activity cannot be there in the same way it is for reading. What is called up in reading is transformed feeling, feeling that has been pressed into the ether body and the physical body. This feeling becomes a force. As lecturers we must be in a position to bring up feeling as feeling content, even in the most abstract of lectures.
It is really a fact that our thoughts as such do not interest people, our will impulses annoy everybody, and only our feelings determine the impression, the effect—in a justified sense, of course—of a lecture.
Hence, there arises the most important question. How shall we be able to have something in our lecture which in a sufficiently strong way, will enable the listener to bring forth the needed shade of feeling, the needed permeation with feeling—and yet not press him, lest we hypnotize or suggest.
There cannot be abstract rules by which one learns how to speak with feeling. For, in the person who has hunted in all sorts of manuals for the rules for speaking with feeling, one will notice that his lecturing most surely does not come from his heart, that it stems from quite another place than his heart. And truly, all lectures should come from the heart. Even the most abstract lecture should come from the heart. And that it can! And it is precisely this which we must discuss, how even the most abstract lecture can come from the heart.
We must understand quite clearly what is really stirring in the soul of the listener when he gives us his ear, not perhaps when we tell him something he is eager to hear, but when we expect him to want to listen to our words. Essentially it is indeed always a kind of attack on our fellow men when we fire a lecture at them. And that too is something of which we must be thoroughly aware, that it is an attack on the listeners, when we fire a lecture at them.
Everything which I say—I must ever and again add parenthetically—is to be considered as guide for the lecturer, not as characteristic for social intercourse or the like. Were I to speak in reference to social intercourse, I could naturally not formulate the same sentences. They would be so much foolishness. For, when one speaks concretely, such a sentence as “Our thoughts interest no one” can be either something very clever or very stupid. Everything we say may be foolishness or good sense according to its whole human connection. It depends solely upon the way it is placed into the context. Hence, the lecturer needs quite other things than instructions in the formal art of lecturing.
Thus, it is a matter of recognizing what is really active in the listener. Sympathy and antipathy are active in the listener. These assert themselves more or less unconsciously when we attack the listener with a lecture. Sympathy or antipathy! For our thoughts however, he surely has no sympathy at first. Also not for our will impulses, for that which we, so to speak, want of him, for that to which we want to exhort him.
If we want somehow to approach the art of lecturing, we must have a certain understanding for the listener's sympathy and antipathy toward what we say. Sympathy and antipathy have in reality to do neither with thinking nor with the will, but operate here in the physical world exclusively for the feelings, for what has to do with feeling. A conscious awareness in the listener of sympathy and antipathy has the effect of obstructing the lecturer's approach to him—our awareness of sympathy and antipathy must be of such a kind that it never comes to the consciousness of the listener, especially during the lecture. Working to rouse sympathy and antipathy has the effect of making it seem that we fall over ourselves. Such, approximately, is the effect of a lecture when we want to arouse sympathy and antipathy.
We must have the finest understanding for sympathy and antipathy in the listener. During the lecture however, his sympathy or antipathy should not concern us in the least. All that has an effect upon the sympathy and antipathy, if I may say so, we must bring into the lecture indirectly, beforehand, during the preparation.
Just as little as there can be instructions of an abstract kind for painting or sculpting, just so little can there be rules of an abstract kind for lecturing. But, just as one can stimulate the art of painting, so too it is possible to stimulate the art of lecturing. And it is chiefly a matter of taking in full earnestness the things that can be pointed out in this direction.
In order to start from an example, let us first take the teacher speaking to children. As far as his speaking is concerned, actually the very least depends upon his genius and wisdom. As to whether we can teach mathematics or geography well, the very, very least will depend upon whether we ourselves are good mathematicians, or good geographers. We can be outstanding geographers, but poor teachers of geography. The intrinsic worth of the teacher, which surely rests in large measure upon his speaking, depends upon what he has previously felt and experienced about the things to be presented, and the kinds of feelings which are again stirred up by the fact that he has a child before him.
Thus it is for example, that Waldorf School pedagogy amounts to knowledge of man, that is of the child—not to a knowledge of the child resulting from abstract psychology, but one that rests upon a fully human comprehension of the child. So far does this comprehension go that through feeling intensified to loving devotion, the teacher manages to experience with the child. Then there results—from this experiencing with the child and from what one has previously felt and experienced in the field in which one has to express something—from all this, there results quite instinctively the manner in which one has to speak and handle the class.
It doesn't serve at all, for instance, in instructing a slow child, to use the wisdom of the world which one has. Wisdom helps one in the case of a dull child, if one acquired the wisdom yesterday and used it in one's preparation. At the moment of instruction of the dull child, one must have the genius to be as slow as the child himself, and just have the presence of mind to remember the way in which one was wise yesterday, during the preparation. One must be able to be slow with the slow child, naughty, at least in feeling, with the naughty child, good with the good child, and so forth. As teacher one must be—I hope that this word will not arouse too great antipathy because it is directed too strongly towards thoughts or will impulses—one must really be a kind of chameleon, if one wishes to instruct rightly.
What many Waldorf teachers have, out of their genius, been able to do to increase discipline has pleased me very much. For example, a teacher is speaking about Jean Paul. The children start writing notes and passing them to each other. This teacher doesn't start reprimanding them; instead, he moves into the situation, and with great patience finds out what it's all about. He then dissolves the threatened disturbance with some instruction on postal affairs. That is more effective than any reminder. The note-writing stops. This result rests naturally upon a concrete grasping of the moment. But of course, one must have the presence of mind. One must know that sympathy and antipathy which one wishes to stir, sit more deeply in the human being than one is accustomed to think.
And so it is extraordinarily important, whenever the teacher has to deal with some chapter in class, that he first of all call up vividly into consciousness during the preparation how he himself approached this chapter when he was the same age as his children are, how he felt then,—not in order to become pedantic, of course, not in order when he treats it on the next day to succeed in feeling again as he once did! No, it is enough when this feeling is brought up during the preparation, when it is experienced in the preparation, and then it is a matter of working on the very next day with the knowledge of man just described.
Thus, also here, in teaching, it is a question of finding within ourselves the possibility of shaping the lecture-material which is part of one's teaching material, out of feeling.
How these things can work we can best become aware of, if we bring also the following before our soul's eye: whenever something of a feeling character is to work into what pulses through our lecture, then naturally we may not speak thoughtlessly, although thoughts do not really interest our listeners, and we may not lecture without will, albeit our will annoys them. We shall very often even want to speak in such a way that what we say goes into the will impulses of the people, that in consequences of our lecture our fellow-men want to do something. But we must not under any circumstances so organize the lecture that we bore the listeners through our thought content and arouse their antipathy through the will impetus we seek to give.
So it is a matter of establishing the thinking for the lecture, completely establishing it, as long as possible before we lecture; that we have beforehand absolutely settled the thought element within ourselves. This has nothing to do with whether we then speak fluently, or whether we speak haltingly. The latter, as we shall see, depends upon quite other circumstances. But what must, to a degree, work unconsciously in the lecture, is connected with our having settled the thought content within ourselves much, much earlier. The thought monologue which should be as lively as possible we must have rehearsed earlier, letting it take form out of the arguments for and against, which we ourselves bring forward during this preparation, anticipating all objections as much as possible.
Through this manner of experiencing our lecture in thoughts beforehand, we take from it the sting it otherwise has for the audience. We are, to a degree, bound to sweeten our lecture by having gone through the sourness of the logical development of the train of thought beforehand,—but, as much as possible in such a way that we do not formulate the lecture word for word. Of course, matters cannot be taken literally,—namely, that we have no idea of how we shall formulate the sentences when we begin to lecture. But the thought content must be settled. To have the verbal formulation ready for the whole lecture is something which can never lead to a really good lecture. For that already comes very near to having written the lecture down, and we need but to imagine that a phonograph instead of us stood there and gave it out automatically. When the lecture is given word for word, from memory, then is the difference between this and a machine that turns it out automatically even smaller than it is between a lecture read from a manuscript and the machine that turns it out automatically. Moreover, if we have formulated a lecture beforehand, so that it is worked out in such a way that it can be spoken by us verbatim, then we are indeed not differentiating ourselves very strongly from a machine by which we have recorded the lecture and then let it be played back. There is not much difference between listening to a lecture that is spoken word for word as it was worked out and reading it oneself,—aside from the fact that in reading one is not continually disturbed by the lecturer, as one is continually when listening to him deliver a lecture that he has memorized.
The thought preparation is experienced in the correct manner when it is carried to the point at which the thoughts have become absolutely part of oneself, and this all well before the lecture. One must be finished with what one would present.
To be sure, there are some exceptions for ordinary lectures which one delivers to an audience until then unknown to one. Whenever, before such an audience, one begins immediately with what one has to a degree worked out meditatively in thoughts, and speaks from the first sentence on under direct inspiration, if I may say so, then one does not do something really good for the listeners. At the beginning of a lecture one must make one's personality somewhat active. At the beginning of a lecture one should not immediately entirely extinguish one's personality, because the vibration of feeling must first be stirred.
Now, it is not necessary to proceed as did, for example, Michael Bernays, Professor of History of German Literature, at one time very famous in certain circles. He once came to Weimar to give a lecture on Goethe's Color Theory, and wanted to form his first sentences in such a way that certainly the feeling of the listeners would be engaged very, very intensively—but, to be sure, it happened quite otherwise than he had intended. He arrived in Weimar several days before the lecture. Weimar is a small city where one can go about among the people, (some of whom will be in the hall), and make propaganda for one's lecture. Those who hear about the lecture directly, tell others about it, and the whole hall is really “tuned up” when one delivers one's lecture. Now Prof. Michael Bernays actually went about in Weimar for several days and said: “Oh, I have not been able to prepare myself for this lecture, my genius will surely prompt me correctly at the right moment.” He was to deliver this lecture in the Recreation Hall in Weimar. It was a hot summer day. The windows had to be opened. And, directly in front of this Recreation Hall there was a poultry yard. Michael Bernays took his place and waited for his genius to begin suggesting something to him. For indeed, all Weimar knew that his genius must come and suggest his lecture to him. And then, at this moment, while Bernays was waiting for his genius, the cock outside began: cock-a-doodle-doo! Now every one knew: Michael Bernays' genius has spoken for him!—Feelings were strongly stirred. To be sure, in a different way from what he wanted. But there was a certain atmosphere in the hall.
I do not recount this in order to tell you a neat anecdote, but because I must call your attention to the following: the body of a lecture must have been so formed that it is well worked through meditatively in thoughts, and later formulated freely,—but the introduction is really there for the purpose of making oneself a bit ridiculous. That inclines the listeners to listen to one more willingly. If one does not make oneself a wee bit, ridiculous—to be sure, so that its not too obvious, so that it flows down only into the unconscious—one is unable to hold the attention in the right way when delivering a single lecture. Of course, it should not be exaggerated, but it will surely work sufficiently in the unconscious.
What one should really have for every lecture is this—that one has verbally formulated the first, second, third, fourth, and at most, the fifth sentences. Then one proceeds to the development of the material that has been worked out in the way I have just indicated. And one should have verbally formulated the closing sentences. For, in winding up a lecture, if one is a genuine lecturer, one should really always have some stage fright, a secret anxiety that one will not find one's last sentence. This stage fright is necessary for the coloring of the lecture; one needs this in order to captivate the hearts of the listeners at the end:—that one is anxious about finding the last sentence. Now, if one is to meet this anxiety in the right way, after one has perspiringly completed one's lecture, let one add this to all the rest of the preparation, that one bear in mind the exact formulation of the last one, two, three, four—at most, five—sentences. Thus, a lecture should really have a frame: The formulation of the first and last sentences. And, in between, the lecture should be free. As mentioned, I give this as a guiding principle.
And now perhaps, many of you will say: yes, but if one is not able to lecture just that way? One need not therefore immediately say that it would be so difficult, that one should not lecture at all. It is indeed quite natural that one can lecture a bit better or a bit worse, just so long as one does not let oneself be deterred from lecturing because of all these requirements: but one should make an effort to fulfill these requirements, at the same time as one makes such guiding principles as we develop here prevade all that he strives to do.
And there is indeed a very good means for becoming at least a bearable lecturer, even if at first one is no lecturer, even the opposite of a lecturer. I can assure you that when the lecturer has made himself ridiculous fifty times, that his lecture will come out right the fifty-first time. Just because he made himself ridiculous fifty times. And he for whom fifty times do not suffice, can undertake to lecture a hundred times. For one day it comes right, if one does not shy away from public exposure. One's last lecture before dying will naturally never be good if one has previously shied away from public exposure. But, at least the last lecture before one's death will be good if one has previously, during life, made oneself ridiculous an x number of times. This is also something about which one should really always think. And one will thus surely, without doubt, train oneself to be a lecturer! To be a lecturer requires only that people listen to one, and that one come not too close to them, so to speak; that one really avoid anything that comes too close to the people.
The manner in which one is accustomed to talk in social life when conversing with other people, that one will not find fitting to use when delivering a lecture in public, or generally speaking, to an audience. At most, one will be able to insert sentences such as one speaks in ordinary life only now and then. It is well to be aware that what one has as formulation of one's speaking in ordinary life, is, as a rule, somewhat too subtle or too blunt for a lecture to an audience. It just does not set quite right. The way in which one formulates one's words in the usual speaking, when addressing another person, varies; it always swings between being somewhat crude and, on the other hand, somewhat untruthful or impolite. Both must be entirely avoided in a lecture delivered to an audience, and, if used, then only in parenthesis, so to speak. Otherwise the listener has the secret feeling: while the lecturer begins to speak as one does in a lecture, suddenly he starts declaiming, or speaking dialoguewise,—he must intend either to offend us a bit or to flatter us.
We must also bring the will element into the lecture in the right way. And this can only be accomplished by the preparation, but by such preparation as uses one's own enthusiasm in thinking through the material, enthusiasm which to a certain extent lives with the material.
Now consider the following: first one has completed the thought content, made it one's own. The next part of the preparation would be to listen, so to speak, to oneself inwardly lecturing on this thought content. One begins to listen attentively to these thoughts. They need not be formulated verbatim, as I have already said, but one begins to listen to them. It is this which puts the will element into the right position, this listening to oneself. For while we listen to ourselves inwardly, we develop enthusiasm or aversion, sympathy or antipathy at the right places, as these responses follow what we wish to impart. What we prepare in this will-like way also goes into our wills, and appears during our lecturing in tone variation. Whether we speak intensively or more softly, whether we accentuate brightly or darkly, this we do solely as the result of the feeling-through and willing-through of our thought content in the meditative preparation.
All the thought content we must gradually lead over into the forming of a picture of the composition of our lecture. Then will the thinking be embedded in the lecture,—not in the words, but between the words: in the way in which the words are shaped, the sentences are shaped, and the arrangement is shaped. The more we are in a position to think about ‘the how’ of our lecture, the more strongly do we work into the will of the others. What people will accept depends upon what we put into the formulation, into the composition of the lecture.
Were we to come to them and say: “When all is said, every one of you who does not do his utmost in order to realize the Threefold Order tomorrow is a bad fellow”—that would annoy people. However, when we present the sense of the Threefold Order in a lecture that is composed in accordance with the nature of its content, that it is inwardly organized so that it is itself even a kind of intimate 'threefolding', and especially even if it is so fashioned that we ourselves are convinced of the necessity for the Threefold Order, convinced with all our feeling and all our will impulses—then this works upon the people, works upon the will of the people.
What we have done in the way of developing our thoughts, in order to make our lecture into a work of art, this affects the will of the people. What springs from our own will, what we ourselves want, what fills us with enthusiasm, what enraptures us, this affects more the thinking of the listeners, this stimulates them more easily in their thoughts.
Thus it is that a lecturer who is enthusiastic about his subject is easily understood. A lecturer who composes artistically will more easily stir the will of his listeners. But the main principle, the chief guide line must still be this: That we deliver no lecture that is not well prepared.
Yes, but when we are compelled to deliver a lecture on the so-called spur of the moment: when, for example, we are challenged and have to answer immediately; then we certainly cannot turn back in time to the preceding day when we brought the argument to mind, in order to meditate on its counter-argument—that cannot be done! And yet, it can be done! It can be done in just such a moment by being absolutely truthful. Or we are attacked by a person who accosts us in a terribly rude manner, so that we must answer him immediately. Here we have a strong feeling-fact at the outset! Thus, the feeling is already stirred in a corresponding way. Here is a substitute for what we otherwise use in order to experience with enthusiasm what we first represent to ourselves in thought. But then, if we say nothing else in such a moment except that we as whole man can say at each moment when we are attacked in this manner, then we are nevertheless prepared in a similar way in this situation too.
Just in such things it is a question of the unwavering decision to be only, only, only truthful and when the attack is not such that we are challenged to a discussion, then there are present, as a rule, all the conditions for understanding. ( About this I shall speak later.) It is then actually a question not of delivering mere lectures, but of doing something quite different, which will be particularly important for us if we wish to complete this course rightly. For indeed, in order to be active in the sense that I indicated today at the beginning, we shall have not merely to deliver lectures, but every man of us, and of course every woman, will also have to stand his ground in the discussion period, come what may. And about this, much will have to be said, in fact, very much.
Now I beg you above all, to look at what I have said today from the point of view that it indicates perhaps a bit the difficulty of acquiring the art of lecturing. But it is quite especially difficult when it is necessary not only to lecture, but even to have to lecture about lecturing. Just think if one were to paint painting, and sculpture sculpturing!
Thus, the task is not altogether easy. But we shall nevertheless try in some way to complete it within the next days.
Erster Vortrag
Ich habe die Meinung, daß es sich bei diesem Kursus handelt um eine Besprechung dessen, was notwendig ist, um dann wirklich für die Bewegung für Anthroposophie und Dreigliederung, insofern sie heute in Betracht kommt, einzutreten. Der Kursus wird also nicht so eingerichtet sein, daß er etwa ein Rednerkursus oder dergleichen im allgemeinen sein sollte, sondern als eine Art Orientierungskursus für die Persönlichkeiten, die es sich zur Aufgabe machen, eben in der angedeuteten Richtung zu wirken.
Persönlichkeiten, welche einfach wie eine Art von Mitteilung entgegennehmen, was von Anthroposophie kommen kann, werden nicht viel haben können von diesem Kursus. Wir brauchen ja in der Gegenwart durchaus Wirksamkeit innerhalb unserer Bewegung. Diese Wirksamkeit, sie scheint schwer zu entfachen zu sein. Es scheint sich die Einsicht schwer zu verbreiten, daß diese Wirksamkeit in unserer Gegenwart wirklich notwendig ist.
Es wird sich daher hier nicht um einen formalen Redekursus handeln, sondern gerade um dasjenige, was für jemanden notwendig ist, der eine ganz bestimmte, eben die angedeutete Aufgabe erfüllen möchte. Von einem Herumreden im allgemeinen sollte überhaupt auf dem Boden der anthroposophischen Bewegung nicht Gebrauch gemacht werden. Das ist ja gerade das Kennzeichen unserer gegen wärtigen Kultur und Zivilisation, daß im allgemeinen über die Dinge herumgeredet wird, daß konkrete Aufgaben wenig erfaßt werden, daß man auch vorzugsweise Interesse für ein Herumreden im allgemeinen hat.
Ich werde daher in diesem Kursus auch nicht die Dinge zu behandeln haben, die ich inhaltlich auseinandersetzen werde, wie sie einer Information dienen können, sondern ich werde versuchen, sie so zu behandeln - und das muß ja in einem solchen orientierenden Kursus der Fall sein, weil er eben Unterlage für eine bestimmte Aufgabe sein soll —, wie sie dann eingehen können in die mündliche Rede. Und ich werde diese mündliche Rede so behandeln, daß Rücksicht darauf genommen wird, daß derjenige, welcher sich eine solche mündliche Rede zur Aufgabe stellt, nicht etwa innerhalb eines Rahmens wirkt, wo schon Interesse vorhanden ist, sondern wirkt in ein, zwei oder drei Vorträgen, durch die er erst das Interesse wecken soll.
Also in diesem ganz konkreten Sinne möchte ich diesen Kursus gestalten. Und schon die allgemeinen Gesichtspunkte, die ich heute besprechen werde, sollen durchaus in diesem ganz konkreten Sinne gemeint sein, so daß man Unzutreffendes sagen würde, wenn man das, was ich heute oder in den nächsten Tagen sagen werde — wie es heute beliebt ist -, als abstrakte Sätze hinstellen würde. Von den Formalien werde ich heute zu sprechen haben.
Jedesmal, wenn man sich die Aufgabe stellt, in der mündlichen Rede etwas an seine Mitmenschen heranzubringen, wird sich ja selbstverständlich eine Wechselwirkung abspielen zwischen dem Menschen, der etwas mitzuteilen, für etwas zu wirken, zu etwas zu befeuern hat, und zwischen den Menschen, die ihm zuhören. Ein Wechselspiel der Seelenkräfte findet statt. Und auf dieses Wechselspiel der Seelenkräfte wollen wir zunächst unsere Aufmerksamkeit lenken.
Diese Seelenkräfte leben ja in Denken, Fühlen und Wollen, und niemals ist beim Menschen nur eine einzige Seelenkraft für sich in abstrakter Form tätig, sondern in jede einzelne Seelenkraft spielen die anderen Seelenkräfte hinein, so daß, wenn wir denken, in unserem Denken immer auch das Fühlen und das Wollen wirkt, ebenso in unserem Fühlen das Denken und das Wollen und im Wollen wiederum das Denken und das Fühlen. Dennoch aber kann man das seelische Leben auch in seiner Wechselwirkung zwischen den Menschen -— nicht anders betrachten, als indem man dieses Tendieren auf der einen Seite nach dem Denken und auf der anderen Seite nach dem Wollen ins Auge faßt. Und da müssen wir im Sinne unserer Aufgabe von heute nun sagen: Was wir denken, das interessiert keinen Menschen; und wer glaubt, daß seine Gedanken, insofern sie Gedanken sind, irgendeinen Menschen interessieren, der wird sich eine rednerische Aufgabe nicht stellen können. — Wir werden über diese Dinge dann noch genauer zu sprechen haben. — Und das Wollen, zu dem wir etwa eine Versammlung oder vielleicht auch nur einen einzelnen anderen Menschen befeuern wollen, das Wollen also, das wir etwa in unsere Rede hineinlegen wollen, das ärgert die Menschen, das weisen sie instinktiv zurück.
Man hat es zunächst mit dem Wirken verschiedener Instinkte zu tun, wenn man rednerisch an die Menschen herantritt. Das Denken, das man selber in sich entfaltet, interessiert die Menschen nicht, das Wollen ärgert sie. Wenn also jemand etwa aufgefordert würde, dieses oder jenes zu wollen, so würden wir zunächst sein Ärgernis hervorrufen, und wenn wir unsere schönsten und genialsten Gedanken wie Monologe vor den Menschen entrollen würden, so würden sie gehen. Das muß Grundsatz für den Redner sein.
Ich sage nicht, daß das so ist, wenn wir etwa eine allgemeine Unterhaltung unter Menschen oder einen Kaffeeklatsch oder dergleichen charakterisieren. Denn ich rede nicht darüber, wie diese Dinge zu charakterisieren sind, sondern ich rede von dem, was uns beseelen soll, was in uns leben soll als richtiger Antrieb für das Reden, wenn das Reden gerade in der Richtung, wie ich es hier meine, einen Zweck haben soll. Was man sich als Maxime vorsetzt: Unsere Gedanken interessieren kein Publikum, unser Wollen ärgert jedes Publikum — das braucht nicht eine Charakteristik zu sein.
Nun müssen wir ja berücksichtigen: Wenn jemand redet, so redet er meistens nicht aus der Wesenheit des Redens allein heraus, sondern er redet aus allerlei Situationen heraus. Er redet vielleicht aus irgendeiner Angelegenheit heraus, die schon wochenlang an dem Orte, wo er redet, besprochen oder beschrieben wird. Er begegnet natürlich einem ganz anderen Interesse, als wenn er einen ersten Satz zu sagen hat, der etwas berührt, was seine Zuhörer bisher nicht im geringsten beschäftigt hat. Wenn jemand hier im Goetheanum redet, ist es natürlich etwas ganz anderes, als wenn er in einem Wirtshaus in Buchs redet. Ich meine jetzt sogar, davon absehen zu können, daß man vielleicht im Goetheanum vor Leuten redet, die sich schon längere Zeit mit dem Stoff befaßt haben, die etwas darüber gelesen oder gehört haben, während das vielleicht in Buchs nicht der Fall ist. Ich meine die ganze Umgebung: Die Tatsache, daß man in einen Bau kommt wie das Goetheanum, macht es möglich, in ganz anderer Weise sich an das Publikum zu wenden, als wenn man in einem Wirtshaus in Buchs spricht. Und so sind unzählige Umstände, aus denen heraus man redet, die immer berücksichtigt werden müssen.
Das aber begründet insbesondere in unserer Zeit die Notwendigkeit, an dem, was nicht sein soll, ein wenig sich zu orientieren über das, was sein soll. Nehmen wir den extremsten Fall: Ein richtiger Durchschnittsprofessor habe eine Rede zu halten. Er hat es zunächst mit seinen Gedanken über den Gegenstand zu tun; und wenn er ein richtiger Durchschnittsprofessor ist, hat er es zu tun auch mit der Überzeugung, daß diese Gedanken, die er denkt, überhaupt die allerbesten der Welt sind über den betreffenden Gegenstand. Alles übrige interessiert ihn zunächst nicht. Er schreibt sich diese Gedanken auf. Und selbstverständlich, wenn er diese Gedanken zu Papier bringt, sind sie gut zu Papier gebracht. Dann steckt er sich dieses Manuskript in seine linke Seitentasche, geht hin, gleichgültig ob ins Goetheanum oder ins Wirtshaus zu Buchs, findet irgendein Rednerpult, das in entsprechender Weise in richtiger Entfernung von den Augen aufgestellt ist, legt das Manuskript darauf und liest ab. Ich sage nicht, daß es jeder so macht, aber es ist ein häufig vorkommender und für unsere Gegenwart doch charakteristischer Fall, und er weist uns auf das Grauen, das man heute haben kann vor dem Reden. Es ist der Fall, vor dem man am allermeisten Abscheu haben sollte.
Und da ich gesagt habe, daß unsere Gedanken eigentlich niemanden interessieren, unser Wollen eigentlich jeden ärgert, dann scheint es auf das Fühlen anzukommen; es scheint also eine besonders bedeutsame Ausbildung des Fühlens zugrunde liegen zu müssen für das Reden. Also werden schon solche Gefühle, wenn auch vielleicht von einer entfernten, so doch in einem gewissen Sinne fundamentalen Bedeutung sein: daß wir uns den richtigen Abscheu angeeignet haben vor diesem extremen Fall. Ich habe einmal in einer größeren Versammlung einen Vortrag des berühmten Helmholtz gehört, der allerdings in dieser Weise gehalten worden ist: das Manuskript aus der linken Seitentasche herausgezogen — abgelesen! Nachher kam ein Journalist zu mir und sagte: Warum ist eigentlich dieser Vortrag nicht gedruckt worden und ein Exemplar jedem, der da war, in die Hand gedrückt worden? — und Helmholtz wäre dann herumgegangen und hätte jedem die Hand gereicht! — Diese Handreichung wäre vielleicht den Zuhörern wertvoller gewesen als das schreckliche Sitzen auf den harten Stühlen, zu dem sie verurteilt waren, um in einer längeren Zeit, als sie es selber hätten lesen können, sich irgend etwas vorlesen zu lassen. Die meisten hätten ja wohl, wenn sie es hätten verstehen wollen, überdies sehr lange dazu gebraucht; aber denen hat auch das kurze Anhören nichts geholfen.
Man muß schon über alle diese konkreten Dinge durchaus nachdenken, wenn man verstehen will, wie in Wahrheit und Ehrlichkeit die Kunst des Redens angestrebt werden kann.
Auf dem Philosophenkongreß in Bologna wurde die bedeutsamste Rede so gehalten, daß sie in drei Sprachen in je drei Exemplaren auf jedem Stuhl lag. Man mußte sie erst in die Hand nehmen, um sich darauf setzen zu können, auf den leeren Stuhl. Und dann wurde aus diesem Gedruckten die Rede, die etwas länger als eine Stunde dauerte, vorgelesen. Durch einen solchen Vorgang ist selbst die schönste Rede eben keine Rede mehr, denn das Verstehen im Lesen ist etwas wesentlich anderes als das Verstehen im Hören. Und diese Dinge müssen durchaus berücksichtigt werden, wenn man sich in lebensvoller Weise in solche Aufgaben hineinfinden will.
Gewiß, auch ein Roman kann uns so rühren, daß wir Tränen vergießen an bestimmten Stellen. Ich meine selbstverständlich ein guter Roman, aber er kann das nur an bestimmten Stellen, kann es nicht vom Anfang bis zum Ende. Aber was liegt denn da eigentlich vor beim Lesen, daß wir hingenommen werden vom Gelesenen? Wenn wir von dem Gelesenen hingenommen werden, haben wir eine gewisse Arbeit zu verrichten, die sehr stark mit dem Inneren unserer Menschenwesenheit zusammenhängt. Denn derjenige, der nicht lesen kann, kann diese Arbeit gar nicht verrichten. Es wird eine innere Arbeit verrichtet, wenn wir lesen. Diese Arbeit, die wir da verrichten, die besteht ja darin, daß wir, indem wir den Blick auf einzelne Buchstaben lenken, wirklich das, was wir gelernt haben im Zusammenfassen der Buchstaben, ausführen, um aus diesem Ansehen und Zusammenfassen und Überdenken einen Sinn herauszubekommen. Das ist ein Vorgang, welcher in unserem Ätherleib vor sich geht, im Aufnehmen, und noch stark den physischen Leib in Anspruch nimmt, in der Wahrnehmung.
Das alles fällt aber beim bloßen Zuhören einfach weg. Beim bloßen Zuhören findet diese ganze Tätigkeit nicht statt. Aber diese ganze Tätigkeit ist in einer bestimmten Weise doch verbunden mit dem Aufnehmen einer Sache. Der Mensch bedarf ihrer, wenn er eine Sache aufnehmen will. Er braucht ein Mittun seines Ätherleibes und teilweise sogar seines physischen Leibes nicht bloß im Sinnesorgan, also im Ohr, sondern er braucht im Zuhören ein so reges Seelenleben, daß sich dieses Seelenleben nicht im Astralleib erschöpft, sondern den Ätherleib in Schwingungen bringt, und dieser Ätherleib dann noch den physischen Leib mit in Schwingungen bringt. Dasjenige nämlich, was sich beim Lesen an Aktivität vollziehen muß, das muß sich auch beim Anhören einer Rede entwickeln, aber, ich möchte sagen, in einer ganz anderen Form, weil es ja so nicht da sein kann, wie es beim Lesen ist. Und was da beim Lesen aufgewendet wird, das ist umgewandeltes Gefühl, in den Ätherleib und in den physischen Leib hinuntergedrängtes Fühlen, das Kraft wird. Als Gefühl, als Gefühlsinhalt müssen wir es selbst bei der abstraktesten Rede in der Lage sein, aufzubringen.
Es ist wirklich so, daß unsere Gedanken als solche keinen Menschen interessieren, unsere Willensimpulse jeden ärgern und allein unsere Gefühle dasjenige ausmachen, wovon der Eindruck, die Wirkung im berechtigten Sinne natürlich — einer Rede abhängt.
Es entsteht daher als wichtigste Frage diese: Wie werden wir in unserer Rede etwas haben können, was in genügend starker Weise . ohne aufdringlich zu sein, weil wir ja sonst hypnotisieren oder suggerieren würden — eine solche Gefühlstingierung, eine solche Gefühlsdurchsetzung wird hervorbringen können?
Es kann nicht abstrakte Regeln geben, durch die man lernt, wie man mit Gefühl sprechen kann. Denn jemand, der sich in allerlei Anleitungen solche Regeln aufgesucht hat, nach denen man mit Gefühl sprechen kann, eindrucksvoll sprechen kann, dem wird man schon irgend etwas davon anmerken, daß seine Rede ihm ganz gewiß nicht aus dem Herzen kommt, daß sie ganz anderswo herstammt als aus dem Herzen. Und eigentlich müßte jede Rede durchaus aus dem Herzen kommen. Auch die abstrakteste Rede müßte aus dem Herzen kommen, und sie kann es. Und gerade das ist es, was wir besprechen müssen: wie auch die abstrakteste Rede durchaus aus dem Herzen kommen kann.
Wir müssen uns nur klar sein darüber, was eigentlich im Gemüte des Zuhörers rege ist, wenn er uns zuhört. Nicht, wenn er uns zuhört und wenn wir ihm irgend etwas sagen, was er begierig ist zu hören, sondern wenn wir ihm zumuten, daß er uns als Redner anhören soll. Denn eigentlich ist es ja immer eine Art Attacke auf unsere Mitmenschen, wenn wir mit einer Rede auf sie losgehen. Und auch das ist etwas, dessen wir uns durchaus bewußt sein müssen, daß es eine Attacke ist auf die Zuhörer, wenn wir mit einer Rede auf sie losgehen.
Alles das, was ich sage - ich muß das immer wieder in Parenthese hinzufügen -, gilt als Maxime für Redner, nicht als Charakteristik des sozialen Verkehrs oder sonst für etwas; es gilt als Maxime für Redner. Wenn ich in bezug auf den sozialen Verkehr sprechen würde, so könnte ich natürlich nicht dieselben Sätze prägen. Da würde ich Torheiten sagen. Denn wenn man im Konkreten spricht, so kann ein solcher Satz wie: Unsere Gedanken interessieren keinen Menschen — entweder etwas sehr Kluges sein oder aber eine große Dummheit. Alles, was wir sagen, kann eine Dummheit sein im ganzen menschlichen Zusammenhang oder eine Klugheit; es kommt nur darauf an, in welcher Art es sich in den Zusammenhang hineinstellt. Daher sind für einen Redner ganz andere Dinge notwendig als Anleitungen zur formalen Redekunst.
Es handelt sich also darum, zu erkennen: Was ist denn eigentlich in dem Zuhörer wirksam? Im Zuhörer ist wirksam Sympathie und Antipathie. Die machen sich, mehr oder weniger unbewußt, durchaus geltend, wenn wir ihn mit einer Rede attackieren. Sympathie oder Antipathie! Aber mit unseren Gedanken hat er sicherlich zunächst keine Sympathie. Auch nicht mit unseren Willensimpulsen, mit dem, was wir von ihm gewissermaßen wollen, mit dem, wozu wir ihn ermahnen wollen. Für Sympathie oder Antipathie zu dem, was wir sagen, muß man ein gewisses Verständnis haben, wenn man irgendwie an die Redekunst herantreten will. Sympathie und Antipathie haben eigentlich weder mit dem Denken noch mit dem Willen etwas zu tun, sondern wirken hier in der physischen Welt lediglich für die Gefühle, für das Gefühlsmäßige. Und ein bewußtes Verständnis beim Zuhörer für Sympathie und Antipathie wirkt so, als ob wir uns den Weg zu ihm versperren würden — es muß durchaus dieses Verständnis für Sympathie und Antipathie etwas sein, das namentlich während der Rede durchaus nicht zum Bewußtsein des Zuhörers kommt. Und ein Hinarbeiten auf die Sympathie und Antipathie wirkt so, wie wenn wir jeden Schritt so machen würden, daß der Boden, auf den wir auftreten, dabei der andere Fuß ist, als ob wir immer mit dem einen Fuß auf den anderen treten würden. So ungefähr wirkt es in der Rede, wenn wir die Sympathie oder Antipathie abfangen wollen. Wir müssen das feinste Verständnis haben für Sympathie und Antipathie des Zuhörers, aber es darf uns während der Rede nicht das geringste an seiner Sympathie oder Antipathie liegen! Wir müssen alles das, was in Sympathie und Antipathie hineinwirkt, wenn ich so sagen darf, auf Umwegen, in der Vorbereitung, in die Rede hineinbringen.
Geradesowenig wie es Anleitungen abstrakter Art fürs Malen geben kann oder fürs Bildhauern, ebensowenig kann es Regeln abstrakter Art fürs Reden geben. Aber ebenso wie man die Kunst des Malens anregen kann, so auch die Kunst der Rede. Und es handelt sich nur darum, daß man die Dinge, die in dieser Richtung vorgebracht werden können, völlig ernst nimmt.
Nehmen wir zunächst, um von einem Beispiel auszugehen, den Lehrer, der zu Kindern spricht. Von der Genialität und Weisheit des Lehrers hängt eigentlich für das Sprechen im Unterrichten das allerwenigste ab. Das allerallerwenigste hängt dabei, ob wir gut Mathematik oder Geographie lehren können, davon ab, ob wir selbst ein guter Mathematiker oder ein guter Geograph sind. Wir können ein ausgezeichneter Geograph, aber ein schlechter Lehrer der Geographie sein und so weiter. Es hängt die Güte beim Lehren, das ja doch zum größten Teil auch im Sprechen besteht, davon ab, was man einmal über die Dinge, die man vorzubringen hat, gefühlt, empfunden hat, und was für Empfindungen wieder angeregt werden dadurch, daß man das Kind vor sich hat. Deshalb läuft zum Beispiel die Pädagogik der Waldorfschule auf Menschenkenntnis hinaus, das heißt auf Kindeskenntnis; nicht auf eine Kindeskenntnis, die durch abstrakte Psychologie vermittelt ist, sondern die auf einem vollmenschlichen Begreifen des Kindes beruht, so weit, daß man es durch das bis zum unmittelbaren liebevollen Hingeben verdichtete Gefühl dazu bringt, das Kind nachzuempfinden. Dann ergibt sich aus dieser Nachempfindung, die man gegenüber dem Kinde hat, und aus dem, was man selber einmal gefühlt und empfunden hat an dem, was man vorzubringen hat, aus alledem ergibt sich ganz instinktiv die Art, wie man zu sprechen oder auch zu hantieren hat.
Es nützt zum Beispiel gar nichts, ein blödes Kind so zu unterrichten, daß man die Weisheit der Welt, die man selber hat, anwendet. Weisheit hilft einem bei einem blöden Kinde nur, wenn man sie gestern gehabt und zur Vorbereitung gebraucht hat. In dem Augenblick, wo man das blöde Kind unterrichtet, muß man die Genialität haben, selber so blöde zu sein wie das Kind, und nur die Geistesgegenwart haben, sich zu erinnern an die Art, wie man gestern weise war bei der Vorbereitung. Man muß mit dem blöden Kind blöde, mit dem nichtsnutzigen Kinde — im Gemüt wenigstens — nichtsnutzig, mit dem braven Kind brav sein können und so weiter. Man muß wirklich als Lehrer - ich hoffe, daß dieses Wort nicht allzustarke Antipathien erweckt, weil es zu stark nach Gedanken oder Willen gerichtet ist -, man muß wirklich eine Art Chamäleon sein, wenn man richtig unterrichten will.
Es gefiel mir daher zum Beispiel ganz gut, was manche Waldorflehrer zur Erhöhung der Disziplin aus ihrer Genialität heraus gefunden haben. So fängt zum Beispiel unser Freund Walter Johannes Stein, wenn sich die Kinder, während erJean Paul tradiert, Briefchen schreiben, die sie sich reichen, nicht an mit Ermahnungen und dergleichen, sondern er geht hin, schaut sich die Sache in aller Geduld an und macht dann eine Unterrichtsparenthese: er fügt in den Unterricht ein ganz kleines Kapitel über das Postwesen ein! Das wirkt viel besser als alle Ermahnungen. Das Briefeschreiben während der Stunde hört dann auf in der Klasse. Das beruht natürlich auf einem ganz konkreten Ergreifen des Augenblickes. Aber diese Geistesgegenwart muß man selbstverständlich haben. Man muß wissen, daß Sympathien und Antipathien, die man erregen will, tiefer sitzen, als man gewöhnlich meint.
Und so ist es außerordentlich wichtig, daß der Lehrer - in der Vorbereitung vor allen Dingen, wenn er irgendein Kapitel in der Klasse zu behandeln hat - sich völlig gegenwärtig macht, wie er selber an dieses Kapitel herangetreten ist, als er in demselben Lebensalter war, wie seine Kinder sind, wie er da gefühlt hat. Nicht, um jetzt wiederum pedantisch zu werden und sich am nächsten Tag, wenn er es behandelt, so zu arten, daß er nun etwa wieder so fühlt! Nein, es ist schon genügend, wenn in der Vorbereitung dieses Gefühl heraufgeholt wird, wenn es in der Vorbereitung durchgemacht wird. Und dann handelt es sich darum, daß man nun eben am nächsten Tage mit der eben geschilderten Menschenkenntnis wirkt.
Also auch da handelt es sich darum, daß wir selbst in uns die Möglichkeit finden, aus dem Gefühl heraus den Redestoff, der ja, wie gesagt, ein Teil des Unterrichtsstoffes ist, zu gestalten.
Wie die Dinge wirken können, machen wir uns am besten gegenwärtig, wenn wir auch noch das Folgende ins Seelenauge fassen: Wenn also etwas Gefühlsmäßiges wirken muß in dem, was unsere Rede durchpulst, so können wir natürlich nicht gedankenlos sprechen, obwohl die Gedanken eigentlich unsere Zuhörer nicht interessieren, und wir können auch nicht willenlos sprechen, obschon das Wollen sie ärgert; wir werden sogar sehr häufig so sprechen wollen, daß es in die Willensimpulse der Menschen hineingeht, daß infolge unserer Rede unsere Mitmenschen etwas tun. Aber wir dürfen jedenfalls die Rede nicht so einrichten, daß wir durch unseren Gedankeninhalt den Zuhörern langweilig und durch den Willensanstoß, den wir geben wollen, ihnen antipathisch werden.
Daher wird es sich darum handeln, daß wir das Denken über die Rede ganz mit uns abmachen, möglichst lange, bevor wir sie halten, daß wir also das Denkerische ganz und gar zunächst mit uns selbst abgemacht haben. Das hat nichts damit zu tun, ob wir dann geläufig reden, ob wir holperig reden. Das letztere hängt, wie wir sehen werden, von ganz anderen Umständen ab. Aber das, was gewissermaßen unbewußt in der Rede wirken muß, das hängt damit zusammen, daß wir den Gedankeninhalt viel, viel früher mit uns selbst abgemacht haben. Den Gedankenmonolog, der möglichst lebhaft sein soll, den müssen wir vorher abgemacht haben, jenen Gedankenmonolog, der sich so gestaltet, daß wir uns selber während dieser Vorbereitung in Rede und Gegenrede bewegen, daß wir möglichst alle Einwände vorausnehmen. Denn allein dadurch, daß wir in dieser Weise unsere Rede vorher in Gedanken erleben, nehmen wir unserer Rede den Stachel, den sie sonst unter allen Umständen für die Zuhörerschaft hat. Wir müssen gewissermaßen unsere Rede dadurch versüßen, daß wir das Saure der Gedankenfolge, des logischen Ausbaues, vorher durchgemacht haben, aber möglichst so durchgemacht haben, daß wir uns den wortwörtlichen Inhalt der Rede nicht formulieren, daß wir keine Ahnung davon haben - ich muß natürlich in Maximen reden, die Dinge können ja natürlich nicht in dieser Extremheit hingenommen werden -, daß wir keine Ahnung davon haben, wenn wir zu reden beginnen, wie wir uns die Sätze formulieren werden. Die Gedankeninhalte aber müssen abgemacht sein. Die wortwörtliche Formulierung gar für die ganze Rede zu haben, ist etwas, was schließlich niemals zu einer wirklich guten Rede führen kann. Denn das kommt schon sehr nahe dem Aufgeschriebenhaben, und wir brauchen uns da bloß vorzustellen, daß statt unser ein Phonograph dastünde, der die Sache von selbst von sich gäbe; dann ist der Unterschied noch kleiner zwischen dem Aufgeschriebenhaben und der Maschine, die das von sich gibt. Aber wenn wir eine Rede vorher formuliert haben, so daß sie so ausgearbeitet ist, daß sie wortwörtlich von uns gesprochen werden kann, so unterscheiden wir uns ja nicht sehr stark von einer Maschine, der wir das eingekurbelt haben und die wir dann abkurbeln. Da ist schon gar nicht viel Unterschied zwischen dem Anhören einer Rede, die wortwörtlich so gesprochen wird, wie sie schon wortwörtlich ausgearbeitet wurde, und dem Lesen, außer dem, daß einen beim Lesen nicht der Redner fortwährend stört, während einen beim Anhören einer also eingelernten Rede, die man wortwörtlich spricht, der Redner ja fortwährend stört. Die Gedankenvorbereitung also wird dadurch in der richtigen Weise gepflogen, daß sie ganz bis zum absoluten Einigwerden mit sich selbst, aber in Gedanken, dem Halten der Rede vorangeht. Fertig muß man sein mit dem, was man vorbringen will.
Allerdings, einige Ausnahmen sind da für gewöhnliche Reden, die man vor einer sonst unbekannten Zuhörerschaft hält. Wenn man nämlich vor einer solchen Zuhörerschaft gleich damit beginnt, daß man dasjenige, was man so in Gedanken gewissermaßen meditativ ausgearbeitet hat, vom ersten Satz an nun auch unter der unmittelbaren, wenn ich mich so ausdrücken darf, Inspiration vorbringt, dann tut man doch wiederum den Zuhörern nicht etwas recht Gutes. Im Beginne einer Rede nämlich muß man schon etwas seine Persönlichkeit wirksam machen; im Beginne der Rede darf man nicht gleich seine Persönlichkeit ganz auslöschen, weil, ich möchte sagen, erst das Vibrierende des Gefühls angeregt werden muß.
Man braucht es nun ja nicht gleich so zu machen wie zum Beispiel der einstmals in gewissen Kreisen sehr berühmte Professor der deutschen Literaturgeschichte Michael Bernays, der, als er einmal nach Weimar kam, um dort eine Rede über Goethes Geschichte der Farbenlehre zu halten, die ersten Sätze so gestalten wollte, daß allerdings das Gefühl der Zuhörer in sehr, sehr intensiver Weise in Anspruch genommen wurde; allerdings anders, als er wollte. Er kam nach Weimar schon ein paar Tage früher. Weimar ist eine kleine Stadt; da kann man bei den Leuten herumgehen, die zum Teil dann im Saal sein werden, und kann Stimmung machen für seine Rede. Diejenigen, die es so unmittelbar hören, die sagen es dann den anderen, und es ist eigentlich dann der ganze Saal «gestimmt», wenn man die Rede hält. Da ging denn nun wirklich der Professor Michael Bernays ein paar Tage lang in Weimar herum und sagte: Ach, ich habe mich nicht vorbereiten können auf diese Rede; der Genius wird mir im rechten Augenblick schon das Richtige eingeben. Ich werde warten, was der Genius mir eingibt. — Nun hatte er diese Rede im Weimarer «Erholungssaal» zu halten. Es war ein heißer Sommertag. Die Fenster mußten aufgemacht werden, und unmittelbar vor den Fenstern dieses «Erholungssaales» war ein Hühnerhof. Michael Bernays stellte sich hin und wartete, bis der Genius anfing, ihm etwas einzugeben. Denn das wußte ja ganz Weimar: Der Genius muß kommen und muß Michael Bernays seine Rede eingeben. Und siehe da, in diesem Momente, als Bernays auf den Genius wartete, fing draußen der Hahn an: Kikeriki! — Jeder Mensch wußte: Jetzt hat der Genius gesprochen für Michael Bernays! — Die Gefühle waren stark angeregt, allerdings in anderer Weise, als er es gewollt hatte. Aber es war eine gewisse Stimmung schon im Saal.
Ich sage das nicht, um Ihnen eine nette Anekdote zu erzählen, sondern weil ich darauf aufmerksam machen muß: Der Hauptteil der Rede soll schon so gestaltet sein, daß er in Gedanken meditativ gut durchgearbeitet ist und nachher frei formuliert wird. Aber der Anfang ist ja eigentlich sogar dazu da, daß man sich ein bißchen lächerlich macht, denn das stimmt die Zuhörer so, daß sie einem dann lieber zuhören. Wenn man sich nicht ein ganz klein wenig lächerlich macht allerdings so, daß die Sache nicht stark bemerkt wird, daß sie nur im Unterbewußten abläuft —, dann kann man doch nicht in der richtigen Weise fesseln, wenn man irgendwo eine einzelne Rede zu halten hat. Es darf natürlich nicht stark aufgetragen sein, aber es wirkt schon genügend im Unterbewußten.
Was man eigentlich für jede einzelne Rede haben sollte, ist dies, daß man den ersten, zweiten, dritten, vierten, höchstens noch den fünften Satz wörtlich formuliert hat. Dann geht man zu dem über, was in der Weise angeordnet, orientiert ist, wie ich das eben angedeutet habe. Und den Schluß sollte man wiederum wörtlich formuliert haben. Denn am Schluß sollte man eigentlich immer, wenn man ein richtiger Redner ist, etwas Lampenfieber haben, sollte man immer so eine geheime Angst haben davor, daß man seinen letzten Satz nicht findet. Das ist nötig zur Färbung der Rede. Man braucht das, um die Herzen der Zuhörer zu fesseln am Schlusse, daß man etwas ängstlich ist, den letzten Satz zu finden. Damit man also, nachdem man nun schwitzend seine Rede absolviert hat, dieser Angst in der richtigen Weise entgegenkommt, füge man zu aller übrigen Vorbereitung dieses hinzu, daß man sich merkt die genaue Formulierung auch der letzten ein, zwei, drei, vier, höchstens fünf Sätze. Also einen Rahmen müßte eigentlich eine Rede haben: Formulierung der ersten und der letzten Sätze, und dazwischen müßte die Rede frei sein. Wie gesagt, als Maxime sage ich das.
Nun werden vielleicht manche von Ihnen sagen: Ja, aber wenn nun einer eben nicht so reden kann? - Man wird deshalb nicht gleich sagen müssen, die Sache sei so schlimm, daß er nun überhaupt nicht reden solle. Es ist ja ganz natürlich, daß man ein bißchen besser oder ein bißchen schlechter reden kann, so daß man sich nicht abhalten lassen soll vom Reden, wenn man nicht alle Bedingungen erfüllen kann. Aber man sollte sich bestreben, diese Bedingungen zu erfüllen, indem man solche Maximen zu seinen Lebensmaximen macht, wie wir sie hier entwickeln können. Und dann gibt es ja ein sehr gutes Mittel, um wenigstens ein erträglicher Redner zu werden, wenn man auch ganz und gar zuerst kein Redner ist, selbst wenn man das Gegenteil eines Redners ist. Ich kann Ihnen versichern, wenn er sich fünfzigmal blamiert hat, das einundfünfzigste Mal wird es gehen, gerade deshalb, weil er sich fünfzigmal blamiert hat. Und derjenige, bei dem fünfzig nicht genug sind, der kann ja hundertmal auf sich laden, aber einmal geht es, wenn man Blamagen nicht scheut. Natürlich, niemals wird die letzte Rede vor dem Tode gut sein, wenn man vorher Blamagen gescheut hat. Aber mindestens die letzte Rede vor dem Tode wird gut sein, wenn man sich vorher x-mal im Reden blamiert hat. Das ist auch etwas, woran man eigentlich immer denken sollte. Und man wird sich zum Redner ganz zweifellos heranbilden. Denn man hat ja nichts nötig zum Redner, als daß einem die Leute zuhören, und daß man ihnen gewissermaßen nicht allzu nahe tritt, daß man wirklich vermeidet, was den Menschen zu nahe tritt.
So wie man gewohnt ist, im sozialen Leben zu reden, wenn man mit einem anderen Menschen spricht, so wird man in der öffentlichen oder überhaupt in der vor Zuhörern gehaltenen Rede nicht sprechen können. Höchstens wird man zuweilen solche Sätze, wie man sie auch im gewöhnlichen Leben spricht, einfügen können. Denn es ist gut, wenn man sich dessen bewußt ist, daß dasjenige, was man im gewöhnlichen Leben als Formulierung der Rede hat, für die Rede vor einem Zuhörerkreis in der Regel etwas zu fein oder etwas zu grob ist. Ganz stimmt es in der Regel nicht. Die Art, wie man im gewöhnlichen Leben seine Worte formuliert, wenn man einen anderen Menschen anredet, die variiert, die pendelt ja immer zwischen etwas Grobsein und etwas Unwahrsein oder Nichthöflichsein. Beides muß in der vor Zuhörern gehaltenen Rede durchaus vermieden und nur in Parenthese gewissermaßen angewendet werden. Der Zuhörer hat dann das geheime Gefühl: Während der sonst so redet, wie man eben in einer Rede redet, apostrophiert er einen da plötzlich; er redet wie im Dialog. Da hat er im Sinne, uns entweder ein bißchen zu verletzen oder aber uns süßlich zu kommen.
Wir müssen aber auch das Willenselement in der richtigen Weise in die Rede hineinbringen. Und das kann wiederum nur durch die Vorbereitung geschehen, aber durch diejenige Vorbereitung, die im Durchdenken der Sache den eigenen Enthusiasmus anwendet, gewissermaßen mit der Sache lebt. Was meine ich damit eigentlich? Sehen Sie, zunächst ist man fertig mit dem Gedankeninhalt. Man hat sich ihn zu eigen gemacht. Jetzt würde der nächste Teil der Vorbereitung der sein: Man hört sich gewissermaßen im Vortragen dieses Gedankeninhaltes innerlich selber zu. Man fängt an, seinen Gedanken zuzuhören. Sie brauchen nicht wortwörtlich formuliert zu sein, wie ich schon sagte, aber man fängt an, ihnen zuzuhören. Das ist es, was das Willenselement in die richtige Lage bringt, dieses sich selbst innerlich Anhören. Denn dadurch, daß wir uns innerlich anhören, entwickeln wir an den richtigen Stellen Enthusiasmus oder Abscheu, Sympathie oder Antipathie, wie es sich anknüpfen muß an das, was wir da tradieren. Was wir so erleben, in dieser willensmäßigen Weise, das geht auch in unseren Willen hinein und erscheint, wenn wir reden, in der Variation der Töne. Ob wir intensiv oder schwächer reden, ob wir heller oder dunkler betonen, das haben wir lediglich von dem Durchfühlen und dem Durchwollen unseres eigenen Gedankeninhaltes in der meditativen Vorbereitung. Und was wir im Denken haben, das müssen wir allmählich dazu überleiten, ein Bild zu bekommen von der Gestaltung unserer Rede. Dann ist auch das Denken in der Rede drinnen, aber nicht in den Worten, sondern zwischen den Worten, wie die Worte gestaltet, die Sätze gestaltet, die Disposition gestaltet werden. Je mehr wir in der Lage sind, über das Wie unseres Vortrags zu denken, desto stärker wirken wir auf den Willen der anderen. Das nehmen die Menschen nämlich hin, was wir in die Formulierung und in die Komposition der Rede hineinlegen.
Wenn wir ihnen kommen und sagen: Jeder von euch ist im Grunde genommen ein schlechter Kerl, der nicht morgen alles tut, um die Dreigliederung zu verwirklichen — das ärgert die Leute. Wenn wir aber die Vernunft der Dreigliederung in einer solchen Rede vorbringen, die naturgemäß komponiert ist, die innerlich gegliedert ist, so daß sie vielleicht selbst sogar eine Art intimer Dreigliederung ist, namentlich aber, wenn sie so gestaltet ist, daß wir selber in uns von der Notwendigkeit der Dreigliederung überzeugt sind, mit allem Gefühl und mit allen Willensimpulsen überzeugt sind, dann wirkt das auf die Menschen, dann wirkt es auf den Willen der Menschen.
Was wir an Gedankenentfaltung angewendet haben, um unsere Rede zu einem Kunstwerk zu machen, das wirkt auf den Willen der Menschen unbemerkt in der Rede; was aus unserem eigenen Willen hervorgeht, was wir selber wollen, was uns begeistert, was uns hinreißt, das wirkt viel mehr auf das Denken der Zuhörer; das regt in ihnen viel leichter die Gedanken an. Daher wird ein für seine Sache begeisterter Redner leicht verstanden. Ein künstlerisch bildender Redner wird leichter den Willen der Zuhörer anregen können. Aber der oberste Grundsatz, die oberste Maxime muß denn doch diese sein: daß wir keine Rede anders halten, als gut vorbereitet.
Ja, aber wenn wir nun gezwungen sind, eine Rede aus dem sogenannten Stegreif zu halten, wenn wir zum Beispiel angeredet werden und gleich darauf zu antworten haben, da können wir doch nicht erst die Zeit zurückgehen lassen zum vorhergehenden Tage, um da den Gegentoast zu meditieren und ihn in Erinnerung bringen, wie ich das jetzt eben angedeutet habe; das geht doch nicht! — Und doch geht es! Es geht nämlich in der Weise, daß wir gerade in einem solchen Moment absolut wahr sind. Oder wir werden in dieser Weise attackiert, daß uns ein Mensch so schrecklich grob kommt, daß wir ihm gleich darauf antworten müssen — dann ist das schon ein starkes Gefühlsfaktum. Also das Gefühl wird schon in einer entsprechenden Weise angeregt. Da ist ein Ersatz da für das, was wir sonst brauchen, um in Begeisterung und so weiter zu beleben, was wir uns erst in Gedanken vorstellen. Dann aber, wenn wir in einem solchen Momente nichts anderes sagen als dasjenige, was wir als ganzer Mensch in jedem Augenblicke sagen können, wenn wir in dieser Weise attackiert werden, dann sind wir doch in einer ähnlichen Weise vorbereitet.
Gerade bei solchen Dingen handelt es sich eben um den Gesamtentschluß, nur, nur, nur wahr zu sein. Es sind dann ja auch in der Regel alle Bedingungen des Verstehens da, wenn die Attacke nicht gerade darin besteht, daß wir in einer Diskussion herausgefordert werden. Darüber will ich dann noch sprechen. Denn es handelt sich dann eigentlich darum, überhaupt nicht eigentliche Reden zu halten, sondern etwas ganz anderes zu tun, was für uns wohl, wenn wir diesen Kursus mit Recht absolvieren wollen, ganz besonders wichtig sein wird. Denn wir werden ja, um in dem Sinne zu wirken, wie ich es heute im Anfang angedeutet habe, nicht bloß Reden zu halten haben, sondern auch in der Diskussion unseren Mann — selbstverständlich auch unsere Dame - zu stellen haben. Und darüber muß also durchaus auch gesprochen werden, und sogar sehr viel gesprochen werden. Nun bitte ich Sie vor allen Dingen, das, was ich heute gesagt habe, von dem Gesichtspunkte aus ins Auge zu fassen, daß es vielleicht ein bißchen darauf hinweist, wie schwierig man es hat mit dem Aneignen der Redekunst. Aber ganz besonders schwierig hat man es, wenn nicht nur geredet, sondern sogar über das Reden geredet werden soll. Denken Sie sich, wenn man das Malen malen, das Bildhauern bildhauern sollte! Also, die Aufgabe ist nicht ganz leicht. Aber wir werden versuchen, sie doch in irgendeiner Weise in den nächsten Tagen zu absolvieren.
First Lecture
I believe that this course is a discussion of what is necessary in order to truly advocate for the movement for anthroposophy and threefolding, insofar as it is relevant today. The course will therefore not be structured as a public speaking course or anything of that nature, but rÄther as a kind of orientation course for individuals who have made it their task to work in the direction indicated.
Individuals who simply accept what can come from anthroposophy as a kind of message will not be able to gain much from this course. We certainly need effectiveness within our movement at present. This effectiveness seems difficult to ignite. It seems difficult to spread the insight that this effectiveness is really necessary in our present time.
This will therefore not be a formal speech course, but rÄther something that is necessary for someone who wants to fulfill a very specific task, namely the one indicated. There should be no room for vague talk in general within the anthroposophical movement. It is precisely the hallmark of our present culture and civilization that people generally talk around issues, that concrete tasks are rarely grasped, and that people tend to be more interested in vague talk in general.
In this course, therefore, I will not have to deal with the things I will be discussing in terms of their content and how they can serve as information, but I will try to deal with them in such a way — and this must be the case in such an orientational course, because it is intended to be a basis for a specific task — that they can then be incorporated into oral speech. And I will treat this oral speech in such a way that consideration is given to the fact that the person who sets himself the task of such an oral speech does not work within a framework where interest already exists, but works in one, two, or three lectures through which he must first arouse interest.
So it is in this very concrete sense that I would like to structure this course. And even the general points that I will discuss today are meant to be understood in this very concrete sense, so that it would be inaccurate to present what I will say today or in the coming days — as is popular today — as abstract statements. Today I will talk about formalities.
Whenever one sets oneself the task of communicating something to one's fellow human beings in oral speech, there will of course be an interaction between the person who has something to communicate, to work for, to inspire, and the people who are listening to them. An interplay of soul forces takes place. And we want to focus our attention first on this interplay of soul forces.
These soul forces live in thinking, feeling, and willing, and never is a single soul force active in abstract form in human beings, but rÄther the other soul forces play into each individual soul force, so that when we think, feeling and willing are always at work in our thinking, just as thinking and willing are at work in our feeling, and thinking and feeling in our willing. Nevertheless, however, one cannot view the soul life in its interaction between human beings other than by considering this tendency toward thinking on the one hand and toward willing on the other. And here, in the spirit of our task today, we must say: what we think is of no interest to anyone; and anyone who believes that their thoughts, insofar as they are thoughts, are of any interest to anyone else will not be able to set themselves the task of public speaking. We will have to talk about these things in more detail later. — And the will that we want to inspire in an assembly or perhaps even in a single other person, the will that we want to put into our speech, annoys people; they instinctively reject it.
When approaching people rhetorically, one is initially dealing with the effects of various instincts. People are not interested in the thoughts you develop within yourself; your desires annoy them. So if someone were asked to want this or that, we would initially provoke their annoyance, and if we were to unfold our most beautiful and ingenious thoughts as monologues in front of people, they would leave. This must be a principle for the speaker.
I am not saying that this is the case when we characterize, for example, a general conversation among people or a coffee klatch or the like. For I am not talking about how these things are to be characterized, but I am talking about what should inspire us, what should live within us as the right motivation for speaking, if speaking is to have a purpose in the direction I mean here. What one sets as a maxim: our thoughts do not interest an audience, our desires annoy every audience — that need not be a characteristic.
Now we must take into account that when someone speaks, they usually do not speak solely out of the essence of speaking, but rÄther out of all kinds of situations. They may be speaking out of some matter that has been discussed or described for weeks in the place where they are speaking. They naturally encounter a very different interest than when they have to say a first sentence that touches on something that has not concerned their listeners in the least until now. When someone speaks here at the Goetheanum, it is naturally quite different than when they speak in a tavern in Buchs. I even think I can disregard the fact that at the Goetheanum one may be speaking to people who have been dealing with the subject matter for some time, who have read or heard something about it, whereas this may not be the case in Buchs. I am referring to the entire environment: the fact that one enters a building such as the Goetheanum makes it possible to address the audience in a completely different way than when speaking in a pub in Buchs. And so there are countless circumstances surrounding one's speech that must always be taken into account.
But this is what makes it necessary, especially in our time, to orient ourselves a little toward what should be, rÄther than what should not be. Let's take the most extreme case: a typical professor has to give a speech. First, he has to deal with his thoughts on the subject; and if he is a typical professor, he also has to deal with the conviction that his thoughts are the very best in the world on the subject in question. Nothing else interests him at first. He writes down these thoughts. And, of course, when he puts these thoughts on paper, they are well put on paper. Then he puts this manuscript in his left side pocket, goes to the Goetheanum or the pub in Buchs, finds a lectern that is set up at the right distance from his eyes, puts the manuscript on it, and reads from it. I am not saying that everyone does this, but it is a common and, for our present time, characteristic case, and it points to the horror that one can have today of speaking. It is the case that one should abhor most of all.
And since I have said that our thoughts are of no interest to anyone, and our desires annoy everyone, then it seems that what matters is our feelings; it seems, therefore, that a particularly significant development of our feelings must underlie our speech. So even such feelings, though perhaps of a distant, yet in a certain sense fundamental significance, will be important: that we have acquired the proper abhorrence of this extreme case. I once heard a lecture by the famous Helmholtz in a large gÄthering, which was indeed given in this manner: the manuscript was pulled out of his left side pocket — and read aloud! Afterwards, a journalist came up to me and said: Why wasn't this lecture printed and a copy handed out to everyone who was there? — and Helmholtz would then have gone around and shaken everyone's hand! This handout would perhaps have been more valuable to the audience than the terrible sitting on hard chairs to which they were condemned in order to have something read to them for longer than they could have read it themselves. Most of them would have taken a very long time to understand it if they had wanted to, but even listening to it briefly did not help them.
One must certainly think about all these concrete things if one wants to understand how the art of speaking can be pursued in truth and honesty.
At the philosophers' congress in Bologna, the most important speech was delivered in such a way that three copies in three languages were placed on each chair. One had to pick them up first in order to sit down on the empty chair. And then the speech, which lasted a little over an hour, was read aloud from these printed copies. Through such a process, even the most beautiful speech is no longer a speech, because understanding through reading is something fundamentally different from understanding through listening. And these things must be taken into account if one wants to engage in such tasks in a meaningful way.
Certainly, a novel can also move us to tears at certain points. I am referring, of course, to a good novel, but it can only do so at certain points, not from beginning to end. But what is it about reading that makes us so absorbed by what we read? When we are absorbed by what we read, we have a certain task to perform that is very closely connected with the innermost core of our human nature. For those who cannot read are unable to perform this task. An inner task is performed when we read. This task that we perform consists in directing our gaze to individual letters and really carrying out what we have learned in summarizing the letters in order to derive meaning from this viewing, summarizing, and thinking. This is a process that takes place in our etheric body, in our perception, and still strongly engages the physical body.
But all this simply falls away when we are merely listening. When we are merely listening, this whole activity does not take place. But this whole activity is nevertheless connected in a certain way with the absorption of a subject. Human beings need it if they want to absorb a subject. They need the cooperation of their etheric body and, in part, even their physical body, not only in the sense organ, i.e., in the ear, but they also need such an active soul life in listening that this soul life is not exhausted in the astral body, but causes the etheric body to vibrate, and this etheric body then also causes the physical body to vibrate. For what must take place in reading must also develop in listening to a speech, but, I would say, in a completely different form, because it cannot be there as it is in reading. And what is used in reading is transformed feeling, feeling pushed down into the etheric body and the physical body, which becomes power. As feeling, as emotional content, we must be able to muster it even in the most abstract speech.
It is really the case that our thoughts as such do not interest anyone, our impulses of will annoy everyone, and only our feelings constitute what the impression, the effect in the justified sense, of course, of a speech depends on.
This raises the most important question: How can we have something in our speech that is strong enough—without being intrusive, because otherwise we would be hypnotizing or suggesting—to produce such an emotional tinge, such an emotional impact?
There can be no abstract rules for learning how to speak with feeling. For anyone who has sought out all kinds of instructions on how to speak with feeling, how to speak impressively, will be noticed for the fact that their speech certainly does not come from the heart, that it originates from somewhere else entirely. And actually, every speech should come from the heart. Even the most abstract speech should come from the heart, and it can. And that is precisely what we need to discuss: how even the most abstract speech can come from the heart.
We just need to be clear about what is actually going on in the mind of the listener when they listen to us. Not when they listen to us and we say something they are eager to hear, but when we expect them to listen to us as a speaker. Because actually, it is always a kind of attack on our fellow human beings when we launch into a speech at them. And that is also something we must be very aware of, that it is an attack on the listeners when we launch into a speech at them.
Everything I say – I must add this again and again in parentheses – is considered a maxim for speakers, not a characteristic of social interaction or anything else; it is considered a maxim for speakers. If I were to speak in relation to social interaction, I could not, of course, use the same phrases. I would be saying foolish things. For when one speaks in concrete terms, a sentence such as “No one is interested in our thoughts” can be either something very clever or something very stupid. Everything we say can be foolishness in the whole human context or wisdom; it just depends on how it fits into the context. Therefore, a speaker needs something completely different than instructions on formal rhetoric.
So it is a matter of recognizing: What actually has an effect on the listener? Sympathy and antipathy are effective in the listener. These come into play, more or less unconsciously, when we attack them with a speech. Sympathy or antipathy! But they certainly have no sympathy for our thoughts at first. Nor for our impulses of will, for what we want from them, so to speak, for what we want to admonish them to do. In order to feel sympathy or antipathy for what we say, one must have a certain understanding if one wants to approach the art of speech in any way. Sympathy and antipathy actually have nothing to do with thinking or will, but rÄther affect only the feelings, the emotional realm, in the physical world. And a conscious understanding of sympathy and antipathy on the part of the listener has the effect of blocking our way to him — this understanding of sympathy and antipathy must be something that does not come to the listener's consciousness, especially during the speech. And working toward sympathy and antipathy has the same effect as if we took each step in such a way that the ground we step on is the other foot, as if we were always stepping on one foot with the other. This is roughly how it works in speech when we want to intercept sympathy or antipathy. We must have the finest understanding of the listener's sympathy and antipathy, but during the speech we must not care in the slightest about their sympathy or antipathy! We must bring everything that influences sympathy and antipathy, if I may say so, into the speech in a roundabout way, in the preparation.
Just as there can be no abstract instructions for painting or sculpting, there can be no abstract rules for speaking. But just as one can stimulate the art of painting, so too can one stimulate the art of speech. And it is simply a matter of taking the things that can be put forward in this direction completely seriously.
Let us first take, as an example, the teacher who speaks to children. The genius and wisdom of the teacher actually has very little to do with speaking in the classroom. Whether we can teach mathematics or geography well depends very little on whether we ourselves are good mathematicians or good geographers. We can be an excellent geographer but a poor teacher of geography, and so on. The quality of teaching, which for the most part consists of speaking, depends on what one has once felt and sensed about the things one has to convey, and what feelings are stimulated again by having the child in front of one. That is why, for example, the pedagogy of the Waldorf school boils down to knowledge of human nature, that is, knowledge of children; not a knowledge of children that is conveyed through abstract psychology, but one that is based on a fully human understanding of the child, to the extent that one is led to empathize with the child through a feeling that has been condensed into immediate loving devotion. Then, from this empathy that one has towards the child, and from what one has oneself once felt and experienced in what one has to convey, from all this, the way in which one has to speak or even act arises quite instinctively.
For example, it is of no use to teach a stupid child by applying the wisdom of the world that you yourself possess. Wisdom only helps you with a stupid child if you had it yesterday and used it in preparation. When you teach a stupid child, you must have the genius to be as stupid as the child yourself, and only have the presence of mind to remember how wise you were yesterday when you were preparing. You have to be stupid with the stupid child, useless with the useless child—at least in your mind—good with the good child, and so on. As a teacher, you really have to be – I hope this word does not arouse too much antipathy, because it is too strongly directed towards thoughts or will – you really have to be a kind of chameleon if you want to teach properly.
For example, I really liked what some Waldorf teachers came up with out of their ingenuity to improve discipline. For example, when the children write notes to each other while he is teaching Jean Paul, our friend Walter Johannes Stein does not start with admonitions and the like, but goes over, looks at the matter with great patience, and then makes a teaching parenthesis: he inserts a very small chapter on the postal system into the lesson! This works much better than any admonitions. The letter writing during class then stops. Of course, this is based on seizing the moment in a very concrete way. But you have to have this presence of mind, of course. You have to know that the sympathies and antipathies you want to arouse are deeper than you usually think.
And so it is extremely important that the teacher—especially when preparing to teach a particular chapter in class—fully recalls how he himself approached this chapter when he was the same age as his children, how he felt at that time. Not in order to become pedantic again and behave in such a way the next day, when he is teaching the chapter, that he feels the same way again! No, it is enough if this feeling is brought up during the preparation, if it is worked through during the preparation. And then it is a matter of applying the knowledge of human nature just described the next day.
So here, too, it is a matter of finding within ourselves the possibility of shaping the subject matter of our speech, which, as I said, is part of the teaching material, out of our feelings.
We can best visualize how things can work if we also take the following into account: If something emotional is to have an effect in what we say, we cannot, of course, speak thoughtlessly, even though our listeners are not really interested in our thoughts, and we cannot speak without will, even though our will annoys them. we will very often want to speak in such a way that it enters into people's impulses of will, so that as a result of our speech our fellow human beings do something. But in any case, we must not arrange our speech in such a way that we become boring to our listeners through the content of our thoughts and antipathetic to them through the impulse of will that we want to give them.
Therefore, it will be a matter of settling our thoughts about the speech completely within ourselves as long as possible before we deliver it, so that we have first settled the intellectual aspect entirely within ourselves. This has nothing to do with whether we then speak fluently or awkwardly. The latter, as we shall see, depends on entirely different circumstances. But what must, so to speak, unconsciously influence the speech depends on our having settled the content of our thoughts with ourselves much, much earlier. We must have settled beforehand the monologue of thoughts, which should be as lively as possible, that monologue of thoughts which is structured in such a way that we move ourselves during this preparation in speech and counter-speech, that we anticipate all objections as far as possible. For it is only by experiencing our speech in this way in our thoughts beforehand that we take away the sting that it would otherwise have for the audience under all circumstances. We must, so to speak, sweeten our speech by having gone through the sourness of the train of thought, of the logical development, beforehand, but in such a way that we do not formulate the literal content of the speech, that we have no idea — I must of course speak in maxims, as things cannot be accepted in such extremes — that we have no idea, when we begin to speak, how we will formulate the sentences. But the content of the thoughts must be settled. Having the literal wording for the entire speech is something that can never lead to a really good speech. For that comes very close to having it written down, and we need only imagine that instead of us there was a phonograph that would deliver the speech by itself; then the difference between having it written down and the machine delivering it is even smaller. But if we have formulated a speech in advance so that it is so elaborate that it can be spoken verbatim by us, then we are not very different from a machine that we have wound up and then wind down. There is not much difference between listening to a speech that is spoken word for word as it has been word for word prepared, and reading it, except that when reading, the speaker does not constantly disturb you, whereas when listening to a speech that has been learned and is spoken word for word, the speaker constantly disturbs you. The preparation of thoughts is therefore done in the right way when it precedes the speech, leading to absolute agreement with oneself, but in thought. You must be ready with what you want to say.
However, there are some exceptions for ordinary speeches given to an otherwise unknown audience. If, in front of such an audience, one begins by presenting what one has worked out in one's mind, in a meditative manner, so to speak, from the very first sentence, under the direct inspiration, if I may express it that way, then one is not doing the audience any good. At the beginning of a speech, you have to make your personality effective; at the beginning of a speech, you must not immediately erase your personality completely, because, I would say, the vibrancy of emotion must first be stimulated.
You don't have to do it the way Michael Bernays, the professor of German literary history who was once very famous in certain circles, did when he came to Weimar to give a speech on Goethe's theory of colors and wanted to structure the first sentences in such a way that the audience's emotions were engaged in a very, very intense way—though not in the way he intended. He arrived in Weimar a few days early. Weimar is a small town, so you can go around to the people who will be in the hall and get them in the mood for your speech. Those who hear it firsthand will then tell the others, and by the time you give your speech, the whole hall will be “in the mood.” So Professor Michael Bernays spent a few days in Weimar saying: Oh, I haven't been able to prepare for this speech; genius will inspire me with the right words at the right moment. I will wait and see what genius inspires me with. — Now he had to give this speech in Weimar's “recreation hall.” It was a hot summer day. The windows had to be opened, and right outside the windows of this “recreation hall” was a chicken coop. Michael Bernays stood there and waited for genius to start telling him what to say. Because everyone in Weimar knew that genius had to come and tell Michael Bernays what to say in his speech. And lo and behold, at that moment, as Bernays waited for the genius, the rooster outside began to crow: Cock-a-doodle-doo! Everyone knew: Now the genius had spoken for Michael Bernays! Emotions were running high, albeit in a different way than he had intended. But there was already a certain mood in the hall.
I am not saying this to tell you a nice anecdote, but because I must point out that the main part of the speech should be so well thought out that it is meditatively worked through and then freely formulated. But the beginning is actually there so that you can make yourself look a little ridiculous, because that puts the audience in the right mood to listen to you. If you don't make yourself look a little ridiculous, but in such a way that it is not strongly noticed, that it only happens in the subconscious, then you cannot captivate your audience in the right way when you have to give a single speech somewhere. Of course, it must not be overdone, but it has enough effect in the subconscious.
What you should actually have for every single speech is that you have formulated the first, second, third, fourth, and at most the fifth sentence verbatim. Then you move on to what is arranged and oriented in the way I have just indicated. And the conclusion should again be formulated verbatim. Because at the end, if you are a real speaker, you should always have a little stage fright, you should always have a secret fear that you won't be able to find your last sentence. This is necessary to add color to the speech. You need this in order to captivate the hearts of your listeners at the end, to be a little anxious about finding the last sentence. So, after you have completed your speech, sweating profusely, in order to counter this anxiety in the right way, add this to all your other preparations: memorize the exact wording of the last one, two, three, four, at most five sentences. So a speech should actually have a framework: the wording of the first and last sentences, and in between, the speech should be free. As I said, I say this as a maxim.
Now, some of you may say: Yes, but what if someone can't speak like that? - That doesn't mean you have to say that the situation is so bad that they shouldn't speak at all. It is quite natural that some people are better at speaking than others, so you shouldn't be discouraged from speaking if you can't meet all the requirements. But you should strive to meet these requirements by making the maxims we are developing here your maxims for life. And then there is a very good way to become at least a tolerable speaker, even if you are not a speaker at all at first, even if you are the opposite of a speaker. I can assure you that if he has embarrassed himself fifty times, the fifty-first time will go well, precisely because he has embarrassed himself fifty times. And those for whom fifty times is not enough can take on a hundred times, but it will work once if you are not afraid of embarrassment. Of course, the last speech before death will never be good if you have been afraid of embarrassment before. But at least the last speech before death will be good if you have embarrassed yourself x times before while speaking. That is also something one should always keep in mind. And one will undoubtedly develop into a speaker. For all one needs to be a speaker is for people to listen to you and, in a sense, not to offend them too much, to really avoid what offends people.
Just as you are accustomed to speaking in social life when talking to another person, you will not be able to speak in public or in any speech given in front of an audience. At most, you will occasionally be able to insert sentences such as those you would use in everyday life. It is good to be aware that the way you express yourself in everyday life is usually either too refined or too crude for a speech in front of an audience. As a rule, it is not quite right. The way we formulate our words in everyday life when addressing another person varies, always oscillating between being somewhat coarse and somewhat untrue or impolite. Both must be avoided in speeches given in front of an audience and only used in parentheses, so to speak. The listener then has the secret feeling: while the speaker otherwise speaks as one speaks in a speech, he suddenly addresses you directly; he speaks as in a dialogue. His intention is either to hurt us a little or to come across as sweet.
But we must also bring the element of will into the speech in the right way. And that, in turn, can only be done through preparation, but through the kind of preparation that applies one's own enthusiasm in thinking through the matter, living with the matter, so to speak. What do I actually mean by that? You see, first of all, one is finished with the content of the thought. You have made it your own. Now the next part of the preparation would be: you listen to yourself internally, as it were, as you present this content of thought. You begin to listen to your thoughts. They do not need to be formulated word for word, as I have already said, but you begin to listen to them. This is what puts the element of will in the right position, this listening to yourself internally. For by listening to ourselves inwardly, we develop enthusiasm or aversion, sympathy or antipathy in the right places, as it must be linked to what we are conveying. What we experience in this way, in this volitional manner, also enters into our will and appears in the variation of tones when we speak. Whether we speak intensely or more weakly, whether we emphasize more brightly or more darkly, we have this solely from feeling through and willing through the content of our own thoughts in meditative preparation. And what we have in our thinking, we must gradually transfer to get a picture of the form of our speech. Then our thinking is also present in our speech, but not in the words themselves, rÄther between the words, in the way the words are shaped, the sentences are shaped, the disposition is shaped. The more we are able to think about the how of our presentation, the stronger our effect on the will of others. People accept what we put into the formulation and composition of our speech.
If we come to them and say: Each of you is basically a bad person who is not doing everything tomorrow to realize the threefold social order — that annoys people. But if we present the rationale for threefold society in a speech that is composed naturally, that is structured internally, so that it is perhaps even a kind of intimate threefold society itself, but especially if it is designed in such a way that we ourselves are convinced of the necessity of threefold society, convinced with all our feelings and all our impulses of will, then it has an effect on people, then it has an effect on people's will.
What we have applied in terms of thought development to make our speech a work of art has an unnoticed effect on people's will in the speech; what emerges from our own will, what we ourselves want, what inspires us, what enthralls us, has a much greater effect on the thinking of the listeners; it stimulates their thoughts much more easily. Therefore, a speaker who is enthusiastic about his cause is easily understood. An artistically skilled speaker will find it easier to stimulate the will of his listeners. But the highest principle, the highest maxim, must be this: that we do not give a speech unless we are well prepared.
Yes, but if we are forced to give a speech off the cuff, if, for example, we are addressed and have to respond immediately, we cannot first go back in time to the previous day to meditate on the counter-toast and bring it to mind, as I have just suggested; that is not possible! — And yet it is possible! It works in such a way that we are absolutely true in such a moment. Or we are attacked in such a way that a person is so terribly rude to us that we have to respond immediately — then that is already a strong emotional fact. So the feeling is already stimulated in a corresponding way. There is a substitute for what we otherwise need to enliven in enthusiasm and so on, what we first imagine in our minds. But then, when we say nothing else in such a moment than what we can say as a whole person at any moment, when we are attacked in this way, then we are prepared in a similar way.
It is precisely in such matters that the overall decision is to be only, only, only true. As a rule, all the conditions for understanding are then in place, unless the attack consists precisely in our being challenged in a discussion. I will talk about that later. For then it is actually a matter of not giving speeches at all, but of doing something completely different, which will be particularly important for us if we want to complete this course correctly. For in order to work in the sense I indicated at the beginning today, we will not only have to give speeches, but also have to stand our ground in the discussion — and of course our ladies too. And so we must definitely talk about this, and talk about it a lot. Now, above all, I ask you to consider what I have said today from the point of view that it perhaps points out a little how difficult it is to acquire the art of public speaking. But it is particularly difficult when you not only have to speak, but also talk about speaking. Imagine if you had to paint painting or sculpt sculpture! So, the task is not an easy one. But we will try to accomplish it in some way over the next few days.