Schiller, Of the Sublime http://members.aol.com/abelard2/buendler.

htm Of the Sublime ~ Toward the further elaboration of some Kantian Ideas This may be the first, and only, n!lish translation of this essay by "riedrich Schiller, which pro#ides #aluable insi!hts into the process by which he composed some of his most famous poems. Of the Sublime may perhaps ha#e been eclipsed by the better $nown On the Sublime, by the same author. It is posted here by permission of the translator.

Sublime we name an ob%ect, at whose conceptuali&ation our sensuous nature feels its limits, but our rational nature its superiority, its freedom from limits' in the face of this we thus deri#e physically our bre#ity, which we surmount but morally, i.e. throu!h ideas. Only as sensuous bein!s are we dependent, as rational bein!s we are free. The sublime sub%ect matter !i#es us firstly, as bein!s of (ature, to feel our dependence, while secondly ac)uaintin! us with the independence, that we as rational bein!s maintain o#er (ature, within oursel#es as well as without oursel#es. *e are dependent, in so far as somethin! outside us contains the reason, why somethin! inside us becomes possible. So lon! as (ature outside us conforms to the conditions, under which somethin! within us becomes possible, we cannot feel our independence. If we are to become conscious of same, then must (ature be concei#ed of as conflictin! with that, which to us is a re)uirement, and only throu!h her cooperation possible, or, to say %ust as much, she must be found in contradiction to our impulses. +ence, all impulses, that are efficient in us as sensuous bein!s, can be attributed to two basic impulses. "irstly we possess an impulse to chan!e our circumstances, to !i#e e,pression to our e,istence, to be efficient, which all amounts to !ainin! conceptions, and can thus be called conception-dri#e, co!nition-dri#e. Secondly we possess an impulse to maintain our circumstances, to continue our e,istence, which impulse is named self-preser#ation. The conception-dri#e !oes with co!nition, the self-preser#ation-dri#e with feelin!s, hence with inner perceptions of e,istence. *e stand thus throu!h these two $inds of dri#es in double dependence on (ature. The first becomes palpable to us, when (ature is found wantin! in the conditions under which we attain co!nition' the second becomes palpable to us, when it contradicts the conditions, under which it is possible for us to continue our e,istence. .recisely thus do we maintain throu!h our /eason a twofold independence from (ature, firstly in that we 0 in the theoretical sense 1 transcend natural conditions, and can concei#e of more, than we percei#e' secondly in that we 0 in the practical sense 1 brush aside natural conditions, and can contradict our desires throu!h our will. 2 sub%ect matter, at whose perception we e,perience the first is !reat in theory, a sublimity of co!nition. 2 sub%ect matter, that allows us to internali&e the independence of our will, is !reat in practice, a sublimity of consciousness. In the case of the theoretical-sublime, (ature stands as the ob%ect of co!nition in contradiction to the conception-dri#e. In the practical- sublime, it stands as the ob%ect of perception, in contradiction to the preser#ation-dri#e. In the one it were considered mainly as a sub%ect matter, that ou!ht to e,tend our co!nition' in the other it is concei#ed of as a power, that can determine our own circumstances. 2ccordin!ly Kant names the practical-sublime the sublime of power, or the dynamic-sublime as opposed to the mathematical-sublime. 3ecause

the concepts dynamic and mathematical can shed no li!ht on whether the sphere of the sublime is e,hausted throu!h these classifications, I ha#e !i#en preference to the classification into theoretical- and practical-sublime. In what way we are dependent on natural conditions in co!nition, and this dependence becomes conscious for us, shall be sufficiently elaborated with the de#elopment of the theoretical-sublime. That our e,istence as sensuous bein!s is made dependent on natural conditions outside oursel#es, will hardly re)uire its own proof. 2s soon as (ature outside us chan!es the determinate relationship to us, upon which our physical well-bein! is founded, then immediately our e,istence in the sensuous world, which is tied to this physical well-bein!, is challen!ed and placed in dan!er. (ature thus has the conditions in her power, under which we e,ist' and so that we should pay heed to this relationship to nature, so indispensable to our bein!, a #i!ilant !uardian has been !i#en our physical life by way of the self-preser#ation dri#e, and by way of pain is a sentry !i#en to this dri#e. +ence, as soon as our physical circumstances suffer a chan!e, that threatens to ordain those circumstances to their opposite, then pain reminds of the dan!er, and the impulse of self-preser#ation is summoned to resistance. If the dan!er is of the $ind, to which resistance were futile, then must fear ensue. Thus an ob%ect, whose e,istence conflicts with the re)uirements for ours, is, if we do not feel that our power measures up to it, an ob%ect of fear, fearsome. 3ut it is only fearsome for us as sensuous bein!s, for only as such are we dependent on (ature. That in us, which is not sub%ect to (ature, to (ature4s law, has no commerce with (ature outside us, considered as a power. (ature, concei#ed of as a power, that admittedly can determine our state, but holds no sway o#er our will, is dynamically or practically sublime. The practical-sublime differentiates itself thus from the theoretical-sublime, in that the one conflicts with the conditions for our e,istence, the other only with the conditions for co!nition. The theoretical-sublime is a sub%ect matter, in so far as it bears with itself the conception of infinity, whose representation the power of ima!ination feels itself une)ual to. The practical-sublime is a sub%ect matter, in so far as it bears with itself the conception of a dan!er, which our physical stren!th feels itself unable to o#ercome. *e succumb to the temptation, to form for oursel#es a conceptuali&ation of the first. *e succumb to the temptation, to oppose the power of the second. 2n e,ample of the first is the ocean at rest, the ocean in storm an e,ample of the second. 2 collossally tall tower or mountain can produce a sublimity of co!nition. If it bends down to us, then it will be transformed into a sublimity of consciousness. 3oth ha#e that a!ain in common with one another, that directly throu!h their contradiction to the conditions of our bein! and functionin! do they e,pose that power in us, that feels bound to none of these conditions, hence a power that on the one hand can concei#e of more than sense can !rasp, and on the other fears no threat to its independence and in its manifestations suffers no #iolence, if its material carria!e should fall #ictim to the fri!htful force of (ature. If both $inds of sublime ha#e an e)ual relationship to our power of reason, they stand none the less in a completely distinct relationship to our sensuousness, which establishes an important difference between them, of intensity as well as interest. The theoretical- sublime contradicts the conception-dri#e, the practical-sublime the preser#ation-dri#e. *ith the first is but a sin!le manifestation of the sensuous conceptual power challen!ed, but with the second is challen!ed the final basis of all possible manifestations of same, namely the e,istence. (ow, admittedly each aborti#e endea#or toward co!nition is lin$ed to a#ersion, since an acti#e impulse is thereby contradicted. 3ut this a#ersion can ne#er intensify to the point of

pain, so lon! as we $now our e,istence to be independent of the success or failure of such a co!nition, and our self-esteem does not thereby suffer. 2 sub%ect matter howe#er, that conflicts with the re)uirements for our bein!, that throu!h its immediate perception would !i#e rise to pain, !i#es rise to terrors in the ima!ination' for nature had to ma$e entirely different arran!ements for the preser#ation of her stren!th, than she found necessary for the maintainence of her functionin!. Our sensuousness is thus )uite differently interested in the fri!htful sub%ect matter as in the infinite' for the dri#e for self-preser#ation raises a much louder #oice than the conception-dri#e. It is somethin! entirely different, if we are concerned o#er the possession of a sin!le conception, or o#er the basis for all possible conceptions, our e,istence in the sensuous world - if we ha#e 3ein! itself to fear for, or a sin!le e,pression of same. 3ut precisely on this account, because the fri!htful sub%ect matter acts upon our sensuous nature more forcefully than the infinite one, so the !ap between the sensuous and the transcendental capability is also felt all the more ardently, so the superiority of /eason and the inner freedom of the heart become all the more prominent. That the entire essence of the sublime is founded upon the consciousness of this, our rational freedom, and all deli!ht in the sublime is !rounded directly on this consciousness alone, so it follows 0 as e,perience also teaches 1, that the fri!htful must needs touch the aesthetic ima!ination more ardently and pleasantly than the infinite, and that therefore the practical-sublime ta$es a #ery !reat priority o#er the theoretical in stren!th of feelin!. The theoretically-!reat e,pands in essence only our sphere, the practically-!reat, the dynamically-!reat our stren!th -- we e,perience our true and perfect independence from (ature only throu!h the latter' for it is somethin! entirely different, to feel oneself independent from natural conditions in the mere scenarios of the ima!ination and in one4s entire inner bein!, than to feel oneself obli#ious and ele#ated abo#e fate, abo#e all coincidence. (othin! is closer to home to man as sensuous bein! than the concern for his e,istence, and no dependency is more oppressi#e to him as this, to consider (ature as that power, that has command o#er his bein!. 2nd he feels himself free of this dependency throu!h contemplation of the practical-sublime. 5The irresistible power of (ature,5 says Kant, 5!i#es us, as sensuous bein!s, admittedly to reco!ni&e our impotence, but re#eals in us simultaneously a capability to pass %ud!ment as independent from her, and a superiority o#er (ature, upon which is based a self-preser#ation of an entirely different $ind as that, which can be challen!ed and placed in dan!er by (ature outside us, whereby humanity in our person remains unbowed, althou!h the man must needs be o#ercome by that force. In such ways,5 he continues, 5is the fri!htful power of (ature %ud!ed aesthetically by us as sublime, because it arouses in us our stren!th, that is not (ature, in order to #iew all that concerns us as sensuous bein!s, !oods, health, and life, as small, and thereby to consider that power of (ature - to which we are surely sub%ect to in #iew of these !oods - as no force for oursel#es and our personality, under which we should ha#e bowed, were it a matter of our hi!hest principles and their upholdin! or abandonment. Thus,5 he concludes, 5is (ature called sublime, because it ele#ates the power of ima!ination to the depiction of those cases, in which the heart can ma$e palpable its own sublimity of disposition.5 - This sublimity of our rational disposition - this our practical independence from (ature must well be differentiated from that superiority, that we $now can hold its own in particular instances a!ainst (ature as a power either throu!h our bodily stren!th or our understandin!, and which admittedly has to it somethin! of the 6reat, but in no way the Sublime. 2 man, for e,ample, who stru!!les with a wild animal and o#ercomes it throu!h the stren!th of his arm or also throu!h cunnin!' a torrential stream li$e the (ile, whose power is bro$en by dams, and that human intellect transforms from a harmful thin! into a useful one, in that its o#erflow is collected in canals and arid fields are irri!ated therewith' a ship upon the sea, that throu!h its man-made ri!!in! is in shape to defy all the

#iolence of the wild elements: in short, all of those instances, where man, throu!h his in!enious intellect, has compelled (ature, where she is superior to him as a power and is armed to his demise, to obey him and ser#e his purposes - all of these instances, I say, arouse no feelin! of the sublime, e#en if they do ha#e somethin! analo!ous and are pleasin! to the aesthetic %ud!ment. 3ut why are they not sublime, when they none the less ma$e the superiority of 7an o#er (ature concei#able8 +ere we must return to the concept of the sublime, wherein the reason may easily be disco#ered. In #iew of this concept only that sub%ect matter is sublime, a!ainst which we succumb as bein!s of (ature, but from which we as bein!s of /eason, as bein!s not belon!in! to (ature, feel absolutely independent. Thus all natural materials, that man employs, in order to withstand (ature4s mi!ht, are e,cluded from this concept of the sublime' for this concept demands by all means, that we ou!ht not to be a match for the sub%ect matter as natural bein!s, but that throu!h that, which in us is not (ature 0 and this is nothin! other than pure /eason 1, we should feel independent from it. 3ut now all those aforementioned means, throu!h which man becomes superior to (ature 0 s$ill, cunnin!, and physical stren!th 1, are ta$en out of (ature, and befit him therefore as a natural bein!' he withstands these thin!s not as intelli!ence, but rather as a sensuous bein!, not morally throu!h his inner freedom, but rather physically throu!h the employment of natural stren!th. Therefore he is also not o#ercome by these thin!s, but rather he is already superior to them as a sensuous bein!. 3ut where he suffices with his physical powers, there is nothin! there, which could obli!e him to ta$e refu!e in his intelli!ent self, in the inner self-reliance of his power of /eason. To e,perience the sublime it is thus absolutely re)uired, that we see oursel#es fully isolated from e#ery physical means of resistance, and see$ succor in our non-physical self. Such a sub%ect matter must therefore be fri!htful to our sensuousness, and it is that no more, as soon as we feel we are a match for it throu!h natural stren!ths. This is also confirmed by e,perience. The mi!hty power of (ature is less sublime %ust to that de!ree, that it appears tamed by men, and it becomes )uic$ly sublime a!ain, as soon as it shames the artifice of men. 2 horse, that still runs about free and untamed in the woods, is fri!htful to us as a natural power superior to us, and can pro#ide sub%ect matter for a sublime portrayal. 9et this horse, tamed, at the yo$e or teamed before a wa!on, loses his fri!htfulness, and with it also e#erythin! sublime. 3ut tear the bridle from this tamed horse, it rears furiously under its rider, it !i#es itself #iolently its freedom once more, thus is its fri!htfulness there a!ain, and it becomes sublime anew. The physical superiority of men o#er the power of (ature is thus so little !round for the sublime, that almost e#erywhere it is encountered, it wea$ens or entirely destroys the sublimity of the sub%ect matter. *e can admittedly dwell with considerable pleasure upon the contemplation of human adroitness, that has $nown how to o#ercome the wildest powers of (ature, but the source of this pleasure is lo!ical and not aesthetic' it is a result of reflection and is not infused throu!h the immediate ima!ination. (ature is thus nowhere sublime, but where she is fri!htful. 3ut now the )uestion arises: is this also so in re#erse8 Is it e#erywhere, where it is fri!htful, also practically sublime8 +ere we must return a!ain to the concept of the sublime. To this end it is such an essential re)uirement, that we feel oursel#es dependent upon the sub%ect matter as sensuous bein!s, while on the other hand it is essential, that as rational bein!s we feel independent of same. *here the first is not present, where the sub%ect matter has nothin! whatsoe#er fri!htful for our sensuousness, there no sublimity is possible. *here the second is lac$in!, where it is merely fri!htful, where we do not feel superior to it as rational bein!s, there is sublimity %ust as little possible.

Inner freedom of the heart belon!s by all means thereto, in order to find the fri!htful sublime and ta$e deli!ht in it' for it can indeed be sublime, merely by !i#in! us to e,perience our independence, our freedom of the heart. 3ut at this point real and serious fear nullifies all freedom of the heart. The sublime ob%ect must therefore indeed be fri!htful, but it may not arouse !enuine fear. "ear is a circumstance of sufferin! and force' the sublime can please in free contemplation and throu!h the feelin! of inner acti#ity alone. ither the fri!htful ob%ect may not therefore direct its mi!ht a!ainst us at all, or if this comes to pass, then our spirit must remain free, while our sensuousness is o#erwhelmed. 3ut this latter case occurs e,ceedin!ly seldom and re)uires an ele#ation of human nature, that can hardly be thou!ht possible in a sub%ect. "or there, where we find oursel#es really in dan!er, where we oursel#es are the ob%ect of a hostile power of (ature, then it is all o#er for the aesthetic %ud!ment. 2s sublime as a tempest may be, considered from the shore, those who find themsel#es upon the ship, that is demolished by same, may be to the same de!ree little disposed to pronounce this aesthetic %ud!ment o#er it. *e ha#e thus to do merely with the first case, where the fri!htful ob%ect lets us indeed see its mi!ht, but it is not directed a!ainst us, where we $now oursel#es to be secure from same. *e put oursel#es therefore merely in our ima!ination in the case, where this mi!ht could stri$e oursel#es and all resistance were futile. The terrifyin! is thus merely in the ima!inin!, but already the mere ima!inin! of dan!er, when it is in some measure fer#ent, brin!s the preser#ation-dri#e as well into action, and there ensues somethin! analo!ous to what the real e,perience would !enerate. 2 shudder !rips us, a feelin! of uneasiness is aroused, our sensuousness is %olted. 2nd without this be!innin! of real sufferin!, without this serious attac$ upon our e,istence we would merely play with the sub%ect matter' and it must be serious, at least in the perception, if /eason is to ta$e refu!e in the idea of its freedom. The consciousness of our inner freedom can also only be #alid and ha#e some worth, in so far as it is therewith serious' but it cannot therewith be serious, if we merely play with ima!inin! of dan!er. I ha#e said, that we must find oursel#es in security, if the fri!htful is to please us. 3ut now there are accidents and dan!ers, from which one can ne#er $now oneself to be safe, and that can yet be sublime in the ima!ination and are also actually so. The concept of security can thus not be restricted to that, whereby one $nows oneself to be physically remo#ed from the dan!er, li$e for e,ample when one loo$s down from a hi!h a well-fastened balustrade into a !reat depth, or from a hei!ht upon the stormy sea. +ere to be sure the fearlessness is based upon the con#iction of the impossibility that one can be affected. 3ut upon what would one base his security from fate, from the omnipresent mi!ht of the :i#inity, from painful illnesses, from acute berea#ements, from death8 +ere there is no physical basis whatsoe#er for reassurance at hand' and when we contemplate fate in its fri!htfulness, then we must at the same time say to oursel#es, that from this we are anythin! but remo#ed. There is thus a twofold basis for security. "rom such e#ils, from which it stands within our physical capability to flee, we can ha#e outer physical security' but from such e#ils, that we are not in shape to withstand in a natural way, nor e#ade, we can ha#e merely inner or moral security. This difference is especially important in relation to the sublime. .hysical security is an immediate basis for reassurance to our sensuousness, without any relation to our inner or moral circumstances. There is hence absolutely nothin! re)uired thereto, to contemplate without fear an ob%ect, before which one finds oneself in this physical security. +ence one obser#es amon! men a far !reater unanimity of %ud!ment on the sublimity of such ob%ects, whose #iewin! is lin$ed to this physical security, than on those, from which one has only moral security. The cause is before our eyes. .hysical security does well for each of us in the same way' moral security, on the other hand, presupposes a disposition, that is not found in all sub%ects. 3ut because this physical security applies only to

sensuousness, it possesses nothin! that could please /eason, and its influence is merely ne!ati#e, in that it merely pre#ents, that the self-preser#ation-dri#e be startled and the freedom of the heart nullified. It is entirely different with the inner or moral security. This is admittedly also a basis for reassurance to sensuousness 0otherwise it were itself sublime1, but is can only be mediated throu!h ideas of /eason. *e #iew the fri!htful without fear, because we feel oursel#es beyond its power o#er us, either throu!h the consciousness of our innocence, or throu!h the thou!ht of the indestructibility of our essence. This moral security thus postulates, as we see, ideas of reli!ion, for only reli!ion, but not morality, lays a basis for the reassurance of our sensuousness. 7orality follows the presciption of /eason ine,orably and without any re!ard for the interests of our sensuousness' but it is reli!ion, that see$s to establish a reconciliation, a compromise between the demands of /eason and the concerns of sensuousness. Thus for moral security it in no way suffices, that we possess a moral consciousness, but rather it is still re)uired that we conceptuali&e (ature as in accord with moral law, or what is here one and the same, that we conceptuali&e her as under the influence of a bein! of pure /eason. :eath, for e,ample, is one such sub%ect matter, before which we ha#e only moral security. The li#ely ima!inin! of all the terrors of death, combined with the certainty that we cannot flee it, would ma$e for most men, since the ma%ority are far more sensuous- than rational-bein!s, thorou!hly impossible to combine with this ima!inin! as much calm as is re)uired for an aesthetic %ud!ment -- were the faith of /eason in immortality, e#en for sensuousness itself as well, not ade)uately informed otherwise. 3ut one must not so understand this, as if the ima!inin! of death, when it is lin$ed to sublimity, had secured this sublimity throu!h the idea of immortality. -- (othin! could be farther from the truth. -- The idea of immortality, as I ta$e it here, is a basis for reassurance for our impulse toward continuance, hence for our sensuousness, and I must obser#e once and for all, that for e#erythin!, that should ma$e a sublime impression, sensuousness with its demands would ha#e to ha#e been absolutely dismissed, and all !rounds for reassurance sou!ht only in /eason. +ence this idea of immortality, with which security still finds accommodation to a certain e,tent 0 as it is established in all positi#e reli!ions 1, can in no way contribute toward ma$in! the ima!inin! of death into a sublime sub%ect matter. 7ore so must this idea only stand, so to spea$, in the bac$!round, in order to merely come to the aid of sensuousness, whene#er this should feel disconsolately and defenselessly placed before all terrors of annihilation, and should threaten to succumb to this furious attac$. If this idea of immortality becomes the dominant one in the heart, then death loses its fri!htfulness, and the sublime #anishes. :i#inity, conceptuali&ed in its omniscience, that illuminates e#ery noo$ and cranny of the human heart, in its holiness, that tolerates no impure emotion, and in its mi!ht, that has our physical fate in its power, is a fri!htful conception, and can thereby become a sublime conception. *e can ha#e no physical security from the effects of this mi!ht, since it is e)ually impossible for us to e#ade it or resist it. Thus there remains to us only moral security, that we base upon the ri!hteousness of this bein! and on our innocence. *e #iew the terrible #isions, throu!h which it !i#es us to reco!ni&e its mi!ht, without terror, because the consciousness of our !uiltlessness $eeps us safe from them. This moral security ma$es it possible for us, at the ima!inin! of this boundless, irresistible and omnipresent power, not to fully lose our freedom of heart, for when this is lost, then the heart is disposed to no aesthetic %ud!ment. 3ut it cannot be the cause of the sublime, because this feelin! of security, if it does rest similarly upon moral bases, ultimately pro#ides none the less only a basis of reassurance for sensuousness and !ratifies the impulse of self-preser#ation' but the sublime ne#er bases itself on the !ratification of our impulses. If the conceptuali&ation of di#inity is to become practically 0 dynamically 1 sublime, then we may relate the feelin! of our security not to our bein!, but

rather to our principles. It must be indifferent to us, how we fare as bein!s of (ature, if we feel oursel#es independent of the effects of its power only as intelli!ences. 3ut we feel oursel#es as bein!s of /eason independent of the 2lmi!hty itself, in so far as the 2lmi!hty itself cannot nullify our autonomy, cannot direct our will a!ainst our principles. +ence only in so far as we deny the :eity all natural influence o#er the disposition of our will, is the conceptuali&ation of its power dynamically sublime. To feel oneself independent from the :eity in one4s disposition of will, means nothin! other than to be self-conscious, that the :eity could ne#er wor$ upon our will as one power. 3ut because the pure will must at all times coincide with the will of the :eity, the case can thus ne#er arise, that we direct oursel#es out of pure /eason a!ainst the will of the :eity. *e deny it therefore merely the influence o#er our will, in so far as we are self-conscious, that throu!h nothin! other than its unanimity with the pure law of /eason within us, hence not throu!h authority, not throu!h reward or punishment, not throu!h re!ard for its mi!ht could it bear upon the disposition of our will. Our /eason #enerates nothin! in the :eity but its holiness, and fears also nothin! from it but its disappro#al - and this too only in so far as it reco!ni&es in !odly /eason its own laws. 3ut it does not lie within the di#ine discretion, to appro#e or disappro#e of our persuasions, but rather that is determined by our own rec$onin!. +ence in that sole case, where the :eity could become fri!htful for us, namely in its disappro#al, we do not depend upon it. Thus the :eity, concei#ed of as a power, that can admittedly cancel our e,istence, but as lon! as we still ha#e this e,istence, can ha#e no influence o#er the actions of our /eason, is dynamically sublime - and also only that reli!ion, which !i#es us this conception of the :eity, bears in itself the seal of sublimity.; ; < 5*ith this analysis of the concept of dynamic sublime,5 says Kant, 5it appears to conflict, that we tend to concei#e of 6od in thunderstorms, earth)ua$es, etc. as a ra!in! power and none the less sublime, at which it would be from our side folly as well as blasphemy, to ima!ine a superiority of the heart o#er the effects of such a power. +ere there appears to be no feelin! of the sublimity of our own nature, but rather much more despondency and sub%u!ation of our spirits, that is fittin! frame of mind for the appearance of such a sub%ect matter. In reli!ion o#erall it appears to be prostration, adoration with contrite, fearful !estures that are the only proper conduct in the presence of the :eity, which conse)uently most peoples ha#e adopted. 3ut,5 he continues, 5this frame of mind is by far not so necessarily lin$ed to the idea of the sublimity of a reli!ion. 2 man, who is conscious of his !uilt and thus has cause to fear, is in no way in the frame of mind for mar#ellin! at the di#ine !reatness - only then, when his conscience is pure, do those effects of !odly power ser#e to !i#e him a sublime idea of the :eity, while on the other hand superstition feels mere fear and dread of the :eity, without esteemin! it hi!hly, out of which only propitiation and fawnin! can arise, ne#er a reli!ion of !ood transformation. K2(T4S =/ITI>? O" T+ 2 ST+ TI= .O* / O" @?:6 7 (T. 2(2A9SIS O" T+ S?3AI7 . B The sub%ect matter of the practical-sublime must be fri!htful for sensuousness' an e#il must threaten our physical circumstances, and the conceptuali&ation of the dan!er must set our self-preser#ation-dri#e in motion. Our intelli!ible self, that in us, which is not (ature, must at that affection of the preser#ation-dri#e differentiate itself from the sensuous part of our bein!, and its autonomy, its independence from all, that physical (ature can affect, in short, its freedom, must become self-conscious. 3ut this freedom is absolutely only moral, not physical. (ot throu!h our natural stren!ths, not throu!h our understandin!, not as sensuous bein!s, may we feel oursel#es superior to the fri!htful sub%ect matter' for then our security would be determined always only throu!h physical causes, hence empirical, and thus remain always still a dependency on (ature. /ather it must be entirely indifferent to us, how we fare as sensuous bein!s, and our freedom

must consist merely in that we rec$on our physical circumstances, that can be determined throu!h (ature, in no way as our sel#es, but rather consider them as somethin! e,ternal and forei!n, that has no influence upon our moral person. 6reat is he, who con)uers the fri!htful. Sublime is he, who, while succumbin! to it, fears it not. +annibal was theoretically !reat, for he pioneered a passa!e to Italy o#er the impassable 2lps' practically !reat or sublime was he only in misfortune. 6reat was +ercules, for he undertoo$ and completed his twel#e tas$s. Sublime was .rometheus, for he, chained to =aucausus, did not rue his deed, and did not admit his wron!. One can appear !reat in fortune, but sublime only in misfortune. .ractically sublime is thus e#ery sub%ect matter, that !i#es us admittedly to mar$ our impotence as bein!s of (ature -- but at the same time re#eals in us a capability for resistance of an entirely different $ind, which admittedly does not remo#e the dan!er from our physical e,istence, but 0 which is infinitely more 1 detaches our physical e,istence itself from our personality. It is thus no material security concernin! merely one sin!le case, but rather an ideal one encompassin! all possible cases, of which we become conscious at the conception of the sublime. This is !rounded hence in no way whatsoe#er in the con)uest or cancellation of a dan!er threatenin! us, but rather upon the clearin! away of the last conditions, under which alone there can be a dan!er for us, in that it teaches us to consider the sensuous part of our bein!, that alone is sub%ect to the dan!er, as an e,ternal thin! of (ature, that has nothin! to do with our true person, our moral self. The incoronation scene from 5The Cir!in of Orleans5 2fter establishin! the concept of the practical-sublime we are in position, after the di#ersity of sub%ects, throu!h which it is called forth, and after the di#ersity of relationships, in which we stand to these sub%ects, to cate!ori&e it. In the conceptuali&ation of the sublime we differentiate three ways. "irstly a sub%ect matter of (ature as power. Secondly a bearin! of this power on our physical capacity for resistance. Thirdly a bearin! of same on our moral person. The sublime is thus the effect of three consecuti#e conceptuali&ations: D1 an ob%ecti#e physical power, 21 our sub%ecti#e physical impotence, E1 our sub%ecti#e moral predominance. 3ut if immediately at each conceptuali&ation of the sublime these three components must essentially and necessarily unite, then it is nonetheless coincidental, how we arri#e at the conception of same, and thereupon a twofold ma%or distinction of the sublime of power is now founded. I. ither a sub%ect matter as power, the ob%ecti#e cause of sufferin!, but not sufferin! itself, is !i#en as an illustration, and it is the %ud!in! sub%ect, who produces the conception of sufferin! in himself, and transforms the !i#en sub%ect matter throu!h reference to the preser#ation-dri#e into an ob%ect of fear, and throu!h reference to his moral person into a sublime one. II. Or outside of the sub%ect matter as power, sufferin! itself is ob%ecti#ely conceptuali&ed at the same time as its fri!htfulness for humans, and nothin! remains to the critical sub%ect, but to ma$e application thereof on his moral circumstances, and to produce the sublime out of the fri!htful. 2n ob%ect of the first class is contemplati#e-, of the second class pathetic-sublime. I. T+ =O(T 7.A2TIC -S?3AI7 O" .O* / Sub%ect matters, which show us nothin! further than a power of (ature, that is far superior to ours, but otherwise lea#e it to our discretion, whether we want to ma$e application thereof on our physical circumstances or on our moral person, are merely contemplati#ely sublime. I name them thusly on this account, because they do not !rip the heart so forcefully, that it could not persist in a condition of peaceful contemplation thereby. "or the

contemplati#e-sublime the !reater part depends on the self-acti#ation of the heart, because only one re)uirement is fulfilled from the outside, but the two others must be fulfilled by the sub%ect himself. "or this reason the contemplati#e-sublime is neither of such intensi#ely stron! effect, nor of such e,tensi#e effect as the pathetic-sublime. (ot so e,tensi#e, because not all humans ha#e sufficient power of ima!ination, to !enerate a li#ely conceptuali&ation of the dan!er, not all ha#e sufficient autonomous moral stren!th, not to prefer to a#oid such a conceptuali&ation. (ot of such stron! effect, because the conceptuali&ation of the dan!er, as well when it is %ust as li#elily aroused, is in this case none the less free-willed, and the heart remains master more easily o#er a conception, that it compelled throu!h its own acti#ity. The contemplati#e-sublime conse)uently pro#ides an inferior, but also less mi,ed pleasure. (ature yields nothin! to the contemplati#e-sublime, but a sub%ect matter as power, out of which it remains to the power of ima!ination to ma$e somethin! fri!htful for man$ind. To the de!ree that the portion is lar!e or small, that "antasy has in the !eneration of this fri!htfulness, to the de!ree that she conducts her business more candidly or !uardedly, so must the sublime also #ariously turn out. 2n abyss, that yawns beneath our feet, a thunderstorm, a burnin! #olcano, a mass of roc$s, that looms o#er us, as if it would %ust want to tumble down, a storm upon the sea, a harsh winter of the polar re!ion, a summer of the hot &one, rapacious or poisonous beasts, a flood and the li$e are such powers of (ature, a!ainst which our capacity for resistance is rec$oned for nothin!, and which stand indeed in opposition to our physical e,istence. =ertain ideal sub%ect matters themsel#es, as for e,ample time, considered as a power, that wor$s silently, but ine,orably, necessity, whose stern law no bein! of (ature can e#ade, the moral idea of duty itself, that not seldom conducts itself as a hostile power a!ainst our physical e,istence, are fri!htful sub%ect matters, as soon as the power of ima!ination applies them to the preser#ation-dri#e' and they become sublime, as soon as reason applies them to its hi!hest laws. 3ut because in all of these instances "antasy first introduces the fri!htful into the combination, and it is entirely within our power, to suppress an idea, that is our own wor$, thus these sub%ect matters belon! to the classification contemplati#e-sublime. 3ut the conceptuali&ation of dan!er has nonetheless here a real basis, and it re)uires merely the simple operation connectin! the e,istence of these thin!s with our physical e,istence in one conception, then there is the fri!htful. "antasy needs to contribute nothin! from her own material, but rather holds only to that, which is !i#en her. 3ut not seldom are sub%ect matters of (ature, indifferent in and of themsel#es, transformed throu!h the inter#ention of "antasy sub%ecti#ely into fri!htful powers, and it is "antasy herself, that not merely disco#ers the fri!htful throu!h comparison, but rather, without ha#in! a sufficient basis thereto, independently creates it. This is the case with thin!s e,traordinary and indeterminate. To man in the circumstances of childhood, where the power of ima!ination wor$s in the most unrestrained way, e#erythin! is fri!htenin!, that is unusual. In e#ery une,pected #ision of (ature he belie#es he !limpses an enemy, that is armed a!ainst his bein!, and the preser#ation-dri#e is busy at once, to counter the attac$. The preser#ation-dri#e is in this period his unlimited ruler, and because this dri#e is an,ious and timid, the rei!n of same is a re!ime of terror and fear. The superstition, that forms in this epoch, is conse)uently blac$ and terrible, and the customs also bear this hostile, dar$ character. One finds man sooner armed than clothed, and the first thin! he reaches for is the sword, when he encounters a forei!ner. The practice of the ancient Taurians, of sacrificin! to :iana e#ery newcomer, that misfortune led to their coast, had scarcely any other ori!in but fear, for only the badly de#eloped man, not the unde#eloped one, is so unculti#ated, that he ra!es a!ainst that, which cannot harm him.

The fear of all, that is out of the ordinary, is now admittedly lost in the circumstances of culture, but not so entirely, that in the aesthetic contemplation of (ature, where man de#otes himself willin!ly to the play of "antasy, no trace should remain. The poets $now that #ery well, and conse)uently do not ne!lect to employ the e,traordinary at least as an in!redient of the fri!htful. 2 deep stillness, a !reat #oid, a sudden illumination of dar$ness are in and of themsel#es #ery indifferent thin!s, that distin!uish themsel#es throu!h nothin! but the e,traordinary and unusual. (e#ertheless they e,cite a feelin! of terror, or at least intensify an impression of same, and are conse)uently suitable for the sublime. *hen Cir!il wants to fill us with dread o#er the realm of +ell, he ma$es us e,)uisitely aware of the emptiness and stillness of same. +e calls it AO=2 (O=T A2T T2= (TI2, far-silent fields of the ni!ht, :O7OS C2=?2S :ITIS T I(2(I2 / 6(2, empty habitations and hollow realms of .luto. *ith the initiation into the mysteries of the ancients, especially !reat store was set by a fri!htful solemn impression, and to that end one also a#ailed oneself especially of silence. 2 deep stillness !i#es the power of ima!ination free latitude, and raises the e,pectations of somethin! fri!htful to come. *ith the practice of de#otion the silence of an entire assembla!e is a #ery effecti#e means, to !i#e #itality to fantasy and put the heart in solemn spirits. "ol$-superstition itself ma$es use of the re#eries thereof, for as e#eryone $nows a deep stillness must be obser#ed, when one has a treasure to e,alt. In the enchanted palaces, that are found in fairytales, a deathly silence rei!ns, that arouses dread, and it belon!s to the natural history of the enchanted woods, that nothin! li#in! stirs therein. 2lso solitude is somethin! fri!htful, as soon as it is sustained and in#oluntary, li$e for e,ample an e,ile to an uninhabited island. 2 #ast e,panse of desert, a lonely, many-miles-lon! forest, wanderin! astray on the boundless sea, are clear conceptions, which e#o$e dread, and may be employed in poetry toward the sublime. 3ut here 0 with solitude 1 these is nonetheless already an ob%ecti#e basis for fear, because the idea of !reat solitude carries with it the idea of helplessness as well. "antasy pro#es herself far more industrious still, in ma$in! out of the mysterious, indeterminate and inscrutable, a sub%ect matter of the terrifyin!. +ere she is properly in her element, for reality sets her no limits here, and her operations are in no particular case constrained, for the wide realm of possibilities is open to her. 3ut that she !ra#itates directly to the terrible and of the unfamiliar more fears than hopes, lies in the nature of the preser#ation-dri#e, that leads her. Aoathin! wor$s far faster and more powerfully than desire, and conse)uently it happens, that we suspect more bad than !ood awaits behind the unfamiliar. :ar$ness is terrible and precisely on that account suitable for the sublime. 3ut it is not terrible in and of itself, but rather because it conceals from us the sub%ect matters, and thus deli#ers us o#er to the entire sway of the power of ima!ination. 2s soon as the dan!er is distinct, a #ery !reat portion of the fear #anishes. The sense of si!ht, the first sentry of our bein!, denies us its ser#ices in dar$ness, and we feel oursel#es placed before the concealed dan!er unarmed and na$ed. On that account superstition sets all !hostly #isitations at the hour of midni!ht, and the realm of death is ima!ined as a realm of eternal ni!ht. In the poetic wor$s of +omer, where humanity still spea$s its most natural lan!ua!e, dar$ness is portrayed as one of the !reatest e#ils. Thereat lies the land and the town o4th4 =immerian people. These do !rope without restin! in ni!ht and fo!, and not once doth 6a&e upon them beamin! the 6od of radiant sunli!ht, /ather terrible ni!ht doth #eil the pitiful people. 0Odyssey, first canto1 5@upiter,5 cries the #aliant 2%a, i4th4 dar$ness of 3attle, 5deli#er the 6ree$s from this utter !loominess,

Aet it be dayli!ht, let these my eyes behold it, and then, *hen thou willst, let me then fall in bri!htness.5 0Iliad1 2lso the indeterminate is an in!redient of the terrible, and out of no other reason, than that it !i#es the power of ima!ination freedom, to embroider the ima!e at its own discretion. The determinate on the contrary leads to more distinct co!nition, and depri#es the sub%ect matter of the arbitrary play of fantasy, in that it sub%ects it to the understandin!. +omer4s portrayal of the underworld becomes precisely throu!h this, that it swims in a fo! so to spea$, the more fri!htful, and the !hostly forms in Ossian are nau!ht but comical cloud-shapes, to which "antasy !i#es contour at random. #erythin!, that is #eiled, e#erythin! mysterious, contributes to the terrible, and is therefore capable of sublimity. Of this #ariety is the le!end, that one read at Sais in !ypt abo#e the temple of Isis. 5I am e#erythin!, that is, that has been, and that will be. (o mortal man has lifted my #eil.5 -- .recisely this uncertainty and mysteriousness !i#es man4s conceptions of the future after death somethin! of the dreadful' these feelin!s are #ery well e,pressed in the well-$nown solilo)uy of +amlet. The description, that Tacitus ma$es for us of the solemn procession of the !oddess +ertha, becomes throu!h the dar$ness, that shrouds it, fri!htfully sublime. The #ehicle of the !oddess disappears in the innermost part of the forest, and none of those, that are needed for this mysterious ser#ice, return ali#e. One as$s oneself with a shudder, what it mi!ht be, that costs him, who sees it, his life, >?O: T2(T?7 7O/IT?/I CI: (T. 2ll reli!ions ha#e their mysteries, which maintain a holy dread, and so as the ma%esty of :eity dwells behind the curtain of the inner sanctum, so the ma%esty of $in!s tends to surround itself with mystery, in order to maintain the re#erence of their sub%ects in continual tension throu!h this artificial in#isibility. These are all superior subspecies of the contemplati#e-sublime of power, and since they are !rounded in the moral disposition of man, which is common to all men, one is %ustified, in e,pectin! a recepti#ity thereto with all human sub%ects, and the shortcomin!s of same cannot be e,cused as with merely sensuous emotions throu!h a frea$ of (ature, but rather may be attributed to the sub%ect as an imperfection. 2t times one finds the sublime of co!nition lin$ed to the sublime of power, and the effect is all the !reater, when not merely the sensuous resistance-capability, but also the descripti#e capability finds its limits at an ob%ect, and sensuousness with its double demands meets with refusal. II.T+ .2T+ TI=-S?3AI7 *hen a sub%ect matter is !i#en us not merely as a power in !eneral, but rather at the same time ob%ecti#ely as a power fatal to man -- when it thus not merely shows its force, but actually hostilely ma$es it felt, then it is no lon!er up to the power of ima!ination, to refer to the preser#ation-dri#e, but rather it must, it is ob%ecti#ely compelled thereto. 6enuine sufferin! permits no aesthetic %ud!ment, because it nullifies the freedom of the spirit. Therefore it may not be the %ud!in! sub%ect, upon which the fri!htful sub%ect matter manifests its destructi#e power, i.e., we may not suffer oursel#es, but rather sympathetically. 3ut the sympathetic sufferin! is also already too ta,in! for sensuousness, when the sufferin! has e,istence outside us. The participatory pain outwei!hs all aesthetic pleasure. Only then, when the sufferin! is either mere illusion and fabrication, or 0 in the case, that it would ha#e ta$en place in reality 1 when it is not presented immediately to the senses, but rather to the power of ima!ination, can it become aesthetic, and arouse a feelin! of the sublime. The conceptuali&ation of a forei!n sufferin!, bound to an affecti#e state and the consciousness of our inner moral freedom, is pathetically sublime. Sympathy or participatory 0 imparted 1 passion is no free manifestation of our temperament, that we would first ha#e to spontaneously !enerate in oursel#es, but rather an

in#oluntary affection of the emotional faculty, determined throu!h natural law. It depends in no way on our will, whether we want to sympathi&e with a creature4s sufferin!. 2s soon as we ha#e a conception thereof, we must. (ature, not our freedom proceeds, and the stirrin! of emotion presses on to the resolution. Thus as soon as we ob%ecti#ely attain the conceptuali&ation of some sufferin!, then by #irtue of the in#ariant natural law of sympathy an after-feelin! of the sufferin! must ensue in oursel#es. Throu!h this we ma$e it our own, so to spea$. *e suffer alon! < 5*ir leiden mit.5 The 6erman word 57itleid,5 usually translated as 5compassion,5 mi!ht be more literally rendered as 5co-sufferin!.5 B (ot merely the sympathetic affliction, the state of bein! mo#ed by another4s sufferin!, is called co-sufferin! < compassion B, but rather e#ery sad emotion without distinction, that we ha#e a feelin! for in another' hence there are as many $inds of compassion, as there are #arious $inds of ori!inal sufferin!: empathetic < co-sufferin! B fear, empathetic terror, empathetic an,iety' empathetic indi!nation, empathetic despair. 3ut if the emotion-arousin! 0 or pathetic 1 is to pro#ide a basis for the sublime, then it may not be dri#en to the point of actual self-sufferin!. In the midst of fierce emotion we must also differentiate oursel#es from the self-sufferin! sub%ect, for it is all o#er for the freedom of the spirit, as soon as the illusion is transformed into total truth. If the co-sufferin! is intensified to such animation, that we seriously mista$e oursel#es for the sufferin! ones, then we no lon!er command the affecti#e state, rather it commands us. *hen on the other hand sympathy remains within its aesthetic bounds, then the two main conditions of the sublime unite: sensuously animated conceptuali&ation of sufferin! bound to the feelin! of one4s own security. 3ut this feelin! of security at the conceptuali&ation of forei!n sufferin! is in no way the basis for the sublime, and absolutely not the source of the pleasure, that we deri#e from this conceptuali&ation. The pathetic becomes sublime merely throu!h the consciousness of our moral freedom alone, not our physical freedom. (ot because we see oursel#es as ha#in! eluded this sufferin! throu!h our !ood fortune 0 for then we would always still ha#e a #ery bad !uarantor for our security, 1 but rather because we feel we ha#e shielded our moral self from the causality of the sufferin!, namely its influence o#er the disposition of our will, it lifts our spirits and becomes pathetically sublime. It is not absolutely necessary, that one feel in oneself the stren!th of mind, to maintain one4s moral freedom before seriously imminent dan!er. *e spea$ here not of that, which occurs, but rather of that, which can and should occur, of our determination, not of our actual doin!s, of the stren!th, not the employment of same. *hile we watch a hea#y-laden frei!hter !o under in a storm, we can feel, in the place of the merchant, whose entire riches are swallowed here by the water, )uite unhappy. 3ut at the same time we ne#er the less also feel, that this loss concerns only incidental thin!s, and that it is a duty, to rise abo#e it. 3ut nothin! can be duty, that is unreali&able, and what ou!ht to occur, must be able to occur. That we can shru! off a loss, that to us as sensuous bein!s is so acute, demonstrates a capability in us, which operates under entirely different laws than the sensuous, and has nothin! in common with the impulse of (ature. 3ut sublime is all that, which brin!s this capability to consciousness in us. One can thus ri!ht well say, that one would do nothin! less than to calmly endure the loss of these !oods. This in no way hinders the feelin! of the sublime -- when one but feels, that one ou!ht to shru! it off and that it is a duty, to allow it no influence on the self-determination of /eason. To be sure, he who has not also once had a taste for this, on him is lost all aesthetic power of the !reat and the sublime. Thus is minimally yet re)uired a capability of the heart, to become conscious of its rational disposition, and a recepti#ity to the idea of duty, when one also reco!ni&es ali$e the limits, which wea$ humanity mi!ht set for its performance. It would be precarious on the

whole for satisfaction in possessions as well as in the sublime, when one could only ha#e a feelin! for that, which he himself had attained, or belie#es himself capable of attainin!. 3ut it is a worthy characteristic of humanity, that it at least in aesthetic %ud!ments professes a !ood cause, as well when it should ha#e to spea$ a!ainst itself, and that it at least pays homa!e to the pure ideas of /eason in perception, e#en if it does not always ha#e the stren!th to really act on them. "or the pathetic-sublime are thus two main conditions re)uired. "irstly an animated conceptuali&ation of sufferin!, in order to arouse the compassionate < co-sufferin! B affecti#e state in the proper stren!th. Secondly a conceptuali&ation of resistance to the sufferin!, in order to call the inner freedom of the heart to consciousness. Only throu!h the first does the sub%ect matter become pathetic, only throu!h the second does the pathetic become at the same time sublime. Out of this principle flow both the fundamental laws of all tra!ic art. These are firstly portrayal of the sufferin! nature' secondly portrayal of the moral independence in sufferin!. 3y "riedrich Schiller. "irst published DFGE. .osted by permission of the translator ~ H DGIJ "or a lin$ to the Schiller Institute, which applies Schiller4s ideas to contemporary political problems, =lic$ here. +omepa!e Send us -7ail