Fichte's Science of Knowledge/Chapter X

CHAPTER X.
DEDUCTION OF THE WORLD OF OBJECTS, AND ITS RELATION TO THE ACTIVITY OF THE I.

E have thus examined the phenomena of perception. We have traced the steps by which the object and the subject become discriminated from one another, and the varying relations in which they stand to one another. The treatment has been large and general. We have the outline of a world, but not the world. We have the thing, as such; we have not things. We have now to examine the process by which the objective world is broken up into the world of objects.

I. THE LONGING FOR CHANGE.
We must turn back for a moment to the consideration of the tendency which we have found to exist in the I to an infinite activity, which, failing of its end, is reflected back upon itself. It has failed of its original end; therefore, it is a striving, and not causation. The I, however, tends not merely to activity in relation to the external world; it has also an impulse to reflection—that is, to self-consciousness. This fact opens another field for the energy that fails to reach its original goal. It cannot be wholly lost. If it cannot manifest itself outwardly, it may and must manifest itself inwardly.

Suppose two elastic balls to be pressed together. Each strives to fill itself out to its true form, but each is resisted by the other. If the resisting force of either is increased, the force of the other is relatively weakened, and the first invades the limits of the other to a greater extent, than it is invaded by that. If the two forces are in equilibrium, the impression produced upon the one is precisely similar to that produced upon the other. We have here the relation of the Me and the Not-me as it appears at the first glance. We have in each ball an activity that fails of its end. We have thus in each a striving such as we found in the I. But now comes the great difference which we have elsewhere recognized. The lifeless body has no causality except outside itself. If this causality fails, it fails altogether. The I, on the other hand, has also a causality in relation to itself. Its nature is to posit itself, to reflect upon itself. The activity, then, which fails to produce the outward result, produces an inner result. If it cannot produce an act. it must produce a feeling. We thus see the absolute antithesis between nature and spirit. There is a hiatus between the two; we pass from one to the other by no transition—only by a leap.

We have now to ask, What is the nature of the feeling that is thus produced? That of which the I is conscious in this feeling, is itself. This is obvious from the nature of all feeling. It is the nature of the I to be both subject and object. However the fact may be concealed by the appearance of externality in any object of consciousness, the I can, in reality, have no object but itself. In the case before us, this semblance of objectivity does not exist. The I is conscious of itself as itself. It is conscious of its own striving toward an end which cannot be accomplished. This striving is something which is bound up in the very nature of the I. It is the impulse that represents its essential activity. This activity is one which has no complete object, but yet is irresistibly driven to pursue an object. The I cannot fully picture to itself this object, and thus recognize it under its perfect ideal form. The pressure of this inward force, so far as its origin and its end are concerned, is thus unconscious, but it manifests itself to consciousness in its actual existence. The feeling which corresponds to this striving is that of longing. By longing is meant an impulse toward something imperfectly known; an impulse which reveals itself by a sense of need, by a dissatisfaction, by an emptiness that demands satisfaction and knows not whence this satisfaction may be procured.

If the activity of the I were not restrained, we should have no longing, but we should have causality. On the other hand, if the I were not conscious of this sense of longing, it would not feel itself to be limited. It is through this, therefore, that we arrive at the idea of an external world. In longing there is a sense of limitation which, it is believed, must have its ground in the Not-me. The object of the longing—that which the striving would accomplish if it could—we call the ideal. That which stands in the way of the fulfilment of this, we call the real. As we have before seen, each of these is brought to consciousness through the other.

II. THE OBJECTIVE WORLD.
We have now to ask, What is the result of the ideal activity of the I which is manifested through the longing which we are considering?

The longing of the I looks for some result in the real world; reality manifests itself to the I only through a feeling; thus the longing is directed toward a feeling. The I has already a feeling which we will call X. The feeling X is not the longed-for feeling; if it were, the I would not feel itself limited, and would not be conscious of a longing; indeed, would not be conscious of itself at all, for consciousness springs only from the sense of limit. The desired feeling is just the opposite of X, namely —X. The object which corresponds to the feeling X we will call x; that which must be present if the feeling —X shall exist, we will call —x. The conscious aim of the I is to replace x by —x. Now could the object x be itself felt, it would be sufficient to replace it by the object —x. which it might perhaps be easy to do. But this is impossible, because the I never feels an object, but only itself. It can produce the object only through ideal activity, that is, by a process of thought. On the other hand, if the I could produce in itself the feeling —X, then it would be able to compare the feelings with one another, to note their differences, and to represent them in objects which should be considered the ground of each respectively. But the I cannot directly excite any feeling in itself. If it could do this, it would have a power of causation which is foreign to its nature.

The two feelings, X and —X, are wholly opposed. Through the one, the I feels itself bound; through the other, it seeks to escape from the bondage. Through the one feeling, that of limit, the I has reached to the knowledge of itself. It has in thought determined and circumscribed itself. In this act of reflection it is absolutely self-determining.

Against this sense of limit the tendency to outward activity and enlargement is directed. This tendency is an impulse toward modification. It would modify something that is outside the I, and that is recognized through the sense of limit, and through feeling in general. This tendency is opposed by the object upon which it would act. The activity of the object is independent of the I and its longings. It goes its own way, and follows its own laws, just as the I takes its course and is governed by its laws. This opposition makes it impossible for the longing perfectly to fulfil itself. It cannot affect the object as it would; or at least it cannot affect it in the degree in which it would. We have that sense of limitation that has been so often referred to.

It must be noticed, however, that this limitation is not regarded as springing from the fact of a material universe. It is not the external reality, as such, that restrains the activity of the I. This material element cannot be done away with. If it were removed, the equipoise would be disturbed, and the I, losing all power of reflection, would cease to be an I. It is not the fact, but the form of this material element, which the longing would have changed. If the world could be somewhat differently arranged, we feel that we should be satisfied. A readjustment is all that we desire.

III. THE WORLD OP OBJECTS.
In order that this desire for readjustment may exist, we need to recognize about us not merely an objective world, but a world of objects. The environment must be broken up into distinct things. These things and their rearrangement or reconstruction can alone offer a field for the activity of the I. We must now see how we reach the idea of this world of objects.

In entering upon this discussion it must be remembered that with Fichte these separate objects do not really represent separate things. We have only the world of thought and the world of feeling. It is from the world of feeling that the ideal activity of the I, under the form of the productive imagination, constructs the objective world. We have further to recognize the fact that, though terms are often used by Fichte that would imply a real change in the objective world—and, indeed, such language cannot be avoided—yet really the only world with which we have to do is that of consciousness. The only activity of the I is ideal activity. What the I determines, it determines in its thought. It must think the Me according to the law of its own thought. It must think the Not-me according to the same law.

We have first to notice how the I thinks itself. When the I beholds itself, it does not seek to modify itself. It has a concept of itself which it regards as true. It has a real image of the self which it regards. The self which it beholds it finds to be both the determiner and the determined. It is what it is through its own nature. It is, therefore, an individual, and distinct from all else. This individual it calls the I.

When it turns to the external world, it would stand in the same relation to it as to itself. It would see it as it is. It would simply perceive. In this act of perception it would, further, apply the same standard which it applied to the contemplation of itself. It would find in the Not-me the same characteristic which it found in itself, and which was essential to this inner perception. The external object must also be an individual. It, too, must be at once determiner and determined. In other words, it also must be what it is, from its own nature. It must be what it is because it is what it is. Whatever, in any object, is not the effect of itself is regarded as caused by something else. We do not regard this as belonging to the thing, but ascribe it to something foreign. That which, in any process, determines without being determined, we call a cause. That which is determined merely, is the effect. Only that which stands in relation with itself, as at once cause and effect, do we call a thing. This standard of reality is taken thus from the I, and extended to external objects.

Thus do we find in the I itself an a priori law by which it ascribes a unity and simplicity to every object of its contemplation. We find this law illustrated even in the simplest sensations which form the ground of all our perceptions. Sweet or bitter, red or yellow, each is identical with itself; each is a single sensation differing from all others, and not to be resolved into any others.

The question may arise, How, in the light of what has been said, is the I to be distinguished from the Not-me? Each is, in the sense that has been described, causa sui, and is thereby an individual. The difference is that the I has the power of self-reflection. When it thinks of itself, it is subject and object alike. When it thinks of the Not-me, it is the subject only. The Not-me can never be subject; it is always object. Thus it is that the I and the Not-me are absolutely distinguished from one another.

It has been stated that the I perceives itself as both the determiner and the determined. This, taken absolutely, is rather an ideal than a fact. Practically, it finds that this self-determination is limited. There is a point where it is itself determined from without. It finds within itself an effect of which it is not the cause. This effect it ascribes to something foreign to itself. The subjective becomes changed to the objective.

This change of the subjective to the objective may be illustrated by the simplest sensations. What we call sweet or sour, red or yellow, no one will deny to be purely subjective. We can only say, I have such or such a sensation. But others claim also to have the sensation of sweet or sour, and the rest. Since each appeals only to his own feeling, how do we know that the sensations are similar? How do we know that sugar produces a like taste in all? We associate the sugar with a fixed taste which is purely subjective, but which, by this determination, we have made objective. In other words, we give objective validity to our subjective sensation. What is an accident of ourselves, we make into an accident of a thing which lies outside ourselves.

We thus reach, from a different point of view, the idea of matter, which serves us as a substratum upon which may be overlaid our sensations, as we, in the manner described, give to them an existence extra mentem. That matter is a creation of our own thought might have been suspected from the fact that we make no other use of it than that which has been described. If it is anything really outside of us, we should come to the knowledge of it by some one of the senses. But the senses give us merely subjective sensation. This mutter is neither seen, nor tasted, nor smelled. Some one unused to abstract thought may suggest that it is known to us by the sense of touch, through the resistance that it offers. But this resistance is merely a sense of inability that is purely subjective. Touch, in general, reaches only to the surface of a body, and gives us a sense of roughness or smoothness, of cold or warmth, and the like. Why do we extend the cold or warmth over the whole surface, and, especially, why do we extend it in our thought to the interior of the body which is unapproachable by us? All this shows that what we call matter is the product of the imagination. Yet we consider it something wholly external, and with right, because all agree in the recognition of it, and the production of it takes place according to a universal law of reason.

Both the facts which we have considered unite to make of the I an individual. If it were not self-determining, it would not be an individual, for it would have no being of its own. If it were absolutely self-determining, it would not be an individual, but would be infinite.

We have now to turn to the world of objects, and apply to this the principles which we have applied to the I. We have seen that the object must be self-determining; but for it, also, this self-determination must not be absolute. It also must have a limit, or it would not be an object. We have now to see how the perception of this limit is reached.

The I contemplates an object, X, or, in the phrase of Fichte, it determines it ideally. The I is, however, by its nature, self-conscious, and must, therefore, contemplate its own act. This is not possible without breaking off from the contemplation of X, for the reason that its activity cannot be directed upon more than one thing at once. In reflecting upon itself, then, the I breaks off from its determination of X. This it does with absolute spontaneity, but. at the same time, with absolute unconsciousness. From this act comes the appearance of a limit to the object. By the law of its nature, the I must thus break off from its determination of X; but no law prescribes to it the point at which it shall break off. X may extend to B or to C. We will say that the act of the I in relation to it is broken off at C. X seems, therefore, to be limited at C; or the I seems to be determined by it, or to be impressed by its special nature. The breaking off was a free act on the part of the I, and, if it had been conscious of its act, this limit would be considered accidental in regard to itself. As it is, it is considered a matter of chance in regard to the object. It is regarded as accidentally limited by some other object, which is as yet unknown to us. We see here how the unconscious act of freedom on the part of the subject gives rise to the recognition of what we call the accident of the object. The limit at C is merely felt, and not perceived. As we have seen, however, the I freely posits this limit, and what is thus posited must be a matter of perception and not of feeling. There is, however, no relation between feeling and perception. Perception sees, but it is merely empty and formal. Feeling is related to reality, but it is blind. Yet the two must be united by some form of synthesis. In other words, the I must limit X freely, but in such a way that X shall seem limited by itself. This is done by the positing over against X, at the point C, another object, which we will call Y; this Y must, in its turn, be self-dependent and self-determining; that is, it must be a thing. It must limit X, and be limited by it. Each is thus affected by the other. We cannot think of the two, however, as if they were one, for their relation to one another is merely partial and superficial. Every point of X stands in relation with every other point of X. This is also true in the case of Y. But not every point of Y stands in relation with every point of X; and the reverse. X and Y must mutually exclude one another, while they yet stand in relation to one another.

IV. SPACE.
In what has been said, X and Y have been considered merely as objects. They have been regarded as intensive, not as extensive. Each is simply what the other is not. We may regard them, however, as standing to one another often in certain outward relations. These we will now consider. We will regard them, so far as they are objects of perception, in space and time. Here, as before, we find that the peculiar characteristics of X are not due to Y, and the reverse. They simply serve to make perception possible, by means of the distinction of one from the other. The perception of X is, in some way, dependent upon that of Y. All the relation that we suppose to exist between them is that of mutual exclusion. There must, however, be for both some sort of determination, by which they can stand to one another in the relation described. This cannot be the result of the inner nature of these objects, for each, as we have seen, is wholly dependent upon the other. It must, therefore, be merely external. It is not posited by any perception of the I, for it is the condition of all perception. For the sake of convenience, we will designate this condition of perception as S. We will call the manner in which X is related to S, x; and that by which Y is related to S, we will call y. Y, as we have seen, is posited in order to make the perception of X possible, through limitation. X is thus, in some sense, conditioned by Y. The relation, however, is merely one of negation. It is of this nature: Y, being united to S by y, X is excluded from y. Further, because Y limits X, X will begin where Y ceases. Thus, there is an unbroken continuity. This exclusion, and this continuity, are not possible, unless both X and Y are in some sphere which is common to both. The condition, S, may be regarded as representing this sphere. S must be of such a nature that the free activity of the objects is undisturbed by it, and yet each must be synthetically united with it. S can, therefore, have no power, no activity; otherwise it would, by action and reaction, interfere with the free working of the object. Activity, however, is the mark of reality. S, therefore, can have no reality. It is nothing. As Y is not affected by y, so is y in no sense a product of the activity of Y. The one stands only in a synthetic relation with the other; therefore we can, in our thought, distinguish one from the other. By this synthesis X is, however, excluded from y; therefore is y the sphere of the activity of Y. From all that has been said, it will appear that y is only this sphere, that is, that it has no other reality, and no other attribute than that which we have seen. It is simply that the activity of Y excludes from y all activity but its own. We have seen that the activity of X is excluded from y by Y; we have seen further that the activity of X is not affected by that of Y; therefore, X can have no tendency to occupy y. If it had such a tendency, the exclusion would limit its freedom. Thus X and Y have merely an accidental and external relation.

In all this the I has been regarded as purely passive. The I, however, must have freedom of determination. The I could posit other objects in x and y as well as X and Y. In the sphere y, it could posit A and B, and make y the sphere of the activity of both; or, in place of A, it could posit E and D, and so on forever. Whatever it posits, the spheres of these objects must be mutually limiting. All these spheres must, therefore, be continuous. All this must be really posited by the imagination. S is thus posited as extended, continuous, and infinitely divisible, and is space.

Since the imagination can posit the possibility of other objects, with other spheres of activity, in the space x or y, it separates space from the objects that fill it, and gives thus the idea of empty space. This, however, is merely in passing from one content to another. There is absolutely no empty space, except so far as it is suggested by this transition.

If we leave out of the account the qualities of things which appeal to the feeling alone, and which cannot be made objects of thought—as that they are sour or sweet, heavy or light, etc.—things are wholly indistinguishable, except through the space that they occupy. Therefore, that which so pertains to things that it is ascribed to them—and not, like sensations, to the I—but which does not belong to their inner essence, is the space which they occupy.

All space is, however, alike, and there is no distinction possible, except under the condition that already a thing—namely, Y—is posited in a certain place, and that, therefore, we are forced to say of X that it is in a different place. All space distinctions imply space already filled. Place A in the infinite empty space, and you cannot answer the question where it is; for you have no point of measurement or departure. A could move ceaselessly in space, without our perceiving it. But as soon as B is placed in the neighborhood of A, we have some starting point. We can say of either that it is near the other. In making this point of departure, we are absolutely free. We can say that A is near B, or that B is near A. As soon as we have fixed one point, we must estimate others according to it; but the act of selection is wholly arbitrary. Further, the selection once made, is not necessarily fixed. We may now make X at x our point of departure, and at another time Y at y.

V. TIME.
From this it will appear that, so far as the relations of space are concerned, there is nothing absolute or permanent. All is left to caprice, and to a caprice that may continually change. No relation can thus be fixed between the Me and the Not-me. All is shifting and uncertain. We need another form of relation, according to which this fluctuation is impossible. The I may still be free to connect what object it will with any given point, but its selection once made, it must abide by it.

This form of relation is what we know as time. In time there is this mingled freedom and constraint. We may put what content we will into any moment, but the content once put into it is there forever. Let e be one point in time; we may put into it the content X. This content is purely accidental, so far as this point is concerned. It might have been Y, or any other content, but once given, it cannot be changed. There remains now the point f. Its content is open to the caprice of the I. It has, however, a fixed relation to e and its content. Suppose Y to be the content of f; f and Y are determined by e and X. It is as when we start from one point in space; all other points and their contents stand in relation to it. They are this side or that, above or below, far or near. The difference is that, as we have seen, in space these relations are fluctuating, we may change them at any moment. In regard to time we cannot do this. The moment and its content pass at once out of our hands; and the next must of necessity be seen in relation to it.

We can thus have no present without a past. We may illustrate this by a feeling that we sometimes have when suddenly awaking from a deep slumber. The sense of time seems for a moment gone. We are as if in a timeless world. We are starting afresh in the process that has just been described.

There is for us, says Fichte, no past except so far as it is thought in the present. What was yesterday (for we cannot express ourselves without using the language of common life) is not. It is only as far as, in the present moment, we think that it was yesterday. The question whether there is then really such a tiling as past time, is like the question whether there is a Thing-in-itself. There is certainly a past time when we posit it; and when we raise the question, we do posit it. When we do not posit it, we no longer propose the question; and then for us them is no past time. There is, however, necessarily a past for us; for only under this condition is there, as we have seen, a present; and only under condition of a present is consciousness possible.

Two things are needed for consciousness; namely, a sense of fixedness and that, of freedom; for consciousness is only possible through contrast, and this contrast demands something fixed and something changeable. The perception B is no perception, if another—namely, A—be not assumed. Now if A should disappear, and the I should go forward to the consciousness of C, B must at least remain as its condition; and so on forever. Upon this principle depends the identity of consciousness, for which, strictly speaking, only two moments are needed. There is no first moment of consciousness, only a second.

A fixed quantity of space coexists; a quantity of time exists in succession; therefore, we can only measure the one through the other. We measure space by the time which it takes to traverse it; and time by the space which we or any regularly moving body, the sun or the hand of the clock, can traverse in it.

VI. THE NATURE OF THE CHANGE DESIRED.
We will now return to the consideration of that longing which is the basis of our present discussion. The longing aims at something different from what is. This implies some degree of recognition of what is; for the desire of change presupposes some idea of that from which we wish to escape. The question now is whether the condition will occur under which alone a feeling different from that already existing may take place. It must; for without such change the I would feel nothing definite, which is the same as to say that it would feel nothing, and that indeed it would not be an I.

It will be seen that Fichte here, as elsewhere, appeals to the necessity of consciousness. Whatever is required for it must be assumed to exist. No suggestion is made as to the manner in which this fact of change, that had before seemed so impossible, is produced. It must be, or there could be no consciousness; therefore it is.

The desire for change implies that the feeling which is longed for must be contrasted with that existing. The I, however, cannot have two feelings at the same lime. The present feeling is felt as such; the other, the longed-for feeling, must be recognized by the ideal power—that is, by thought. Thought, however, cannot take the place of any feeling, nor produce one. It can only regard the feeling negatively. Thus, who can say what we mean by sweet? We can describe it only negatively. It is not this, and it is not that. What it is, we must know by sensation, and can only reproduce it dimly and negatively by the imagination.

The question now meets us, How shall the fact of change be recognized? It is known by a sense of satisfaction which appears to the intellect under the form of self-congratulation.

We have, in what follows, an explanation of the longing for change, which is very important in the study of the thought of Fichte. We have before seen that the I in contemplating the object applies the same test that it applies in thinking. The object, like the subject, must be a unit; therefore, it must be limited. X can only be really limited when it has given place to Y. So long as we contemplate X alone, the longing grows out of the impossibility of determination, owing to lack of limit. So soon as the other feeling arises, the limiting of X is possible, and really occurs.

This result cannot be recognized without a comparison with the former condition. The former feeling is therefore regarded with dissatisfaction, which is the contrary of the self-congratulation which the present state excites. Not every longing is accompanied with dissatisfaction; but when its result has been realized, the former state is regarded as having been unsatisfactory.

The feeling of self-congratulation is, however, only transient. The nature of the I involves the longing which has been described. This implies restlessness and lack of permanent satisfaction. One longs ever for change. When the change is reached, for the moment there is relief; but the old restlessness soon awakes again, and we long as earnestly as before for something different from the present.

The terms in which this reasoning is expressed are often so similar to those used to express other forms of thought, that we need to pause in order to make clear the course that we have followed, and the conclusion that has been reached. This can only be done at the cost of some repetition.

As has been often stated, the activity of the I is regarded by Fichte as purely ideal. It is an activity of consciousness. Through the whole discussion we have to do with nothing except consciousness, and the content of consciousness. The demand of the I is for completeness in every object of its contemplation. It contemplates itself, and demands completeness here. It demands that the I should be absolutely self-determining; or, as we may express the same thing, that the Me should be equal to the I. This is impossible, from the very nature of things; for, should this absoluteness be reached, there would be neither I nor Me. It. however, never can be reached; for an eternal progress is necessary for this result. Thus we have that longing which has been described, so far as this relates to the demand for absoluteness on the part of the I.

This longing is manifested more definitely when it is considered in relation to the objects that fill the consciousness. It is these that prevent the I from that absolute self-assertion which it demands; and they do this because they do not adapt themselves to its needs. Because the I demands totality for itself, it demands totality for its object; for only by possessing this will the object be its mirror. Totality in the object is, however, as impossible as totality in the Me. In order that an object should be indeed an object of consciousness, it must, as we have seen, possess two characteristics. It must be self-identical, and it must be limited. This limit must arise from some other object with which it stands in contrast. We have thus repeated the antinomy which met us in regard to the I. As there can be no Me without a Not-me, and as this renders the absolute self-assertion of the I impossible, so there can be no X without a Not-X; and as the Not-me cannot be merely a Not-me, but must be something in particular, namely X, so the Not-X cannot be merely a Not-X, it must be a Y. With Y, however, the same difficulty occurs as with X. In order that it may be a Y, this needs a Not-Y, namely, a Z; and so on forever. Thus there is always incompleteness in the Not-me, just as there is always incompleteness in the Me. Indeed, the incompleteness of the Not-me is the cause of the incompleteness of the Me.

The position of Fichte is so different from that ordinarily taken, that it is almost impossible to use terms that may not convey a false impression. What has been said might easily be understood as applying to what would be ordinarily recognized as purely theoretical relations. It may. indeed, be illustrated by the pursuit of completeness by science. Science must see A as conditioned by B, and B by C, and so on forever; thus science has an endless quest for a result which it is constantly approaching, but which it can never reach. Fichte, however, refers primarily to what we regard as the real and practical relations of life. He refers to the attempt to reach completeness and satisfaction in the relations in which we are placed, or in those which we create; only it must be remembered that with Fichte the objects that enter into these relationships are themselves only in and for the consciousness. We seem to ourselves to be changing things that are outside ourselves; really there is no change save in our own feelings.

VII. THE LONGING FOR HARMONY AND COMPLETENESS.
We can thus understand, in its full sweep, the longing which fills so large a place in the system of Fichte. It is the demand for perfection. By perfection is meant wholeness or completeness. The I will itself be absolute, but it finds itself limited by the Not-me. It seeks to gratify itself by turning toward this. It will become absolute by making the Not-me the image of that absoluteness which it demands. Here it is thwarted as before. Within and without there is incompleteness. None the less does the I seek ever to accomplish the result for which it yearns; and in this striving, as we have already seen, it finds the foreshadowing of its own endless career.

The more definite form under which the ideal perfection may be imaged, is that of harmony. In order that there may be harmony, two elements must exist, and each of these must have a certain completeness and unity. Each must be free; that is, each must be self-determined. Each, also, must determine and be determined by the other. This tendency of each of the two elements to absolute determination—that is, to determine itself and the other also—may be obviously the source of discord. We have often conflict instead of harmony.

If, however, the perfect result could be reached, we should have harmony. X and Y would be perfectly fitted to one another; each would be conditioned by the other, and only by this. Thus, since X would be conditioned by Y, and Y by X, our quest would be at an end. No further Z would be required. This, in a purely theoretical aspect, is what science is striving to accomplish. It would attain to the idea of a cosmos in which all the elements are mutually determining. This is the end which, practically, we seek in life. We demand that each of the elements that enter into it should be complemental to all the rest, so that we should have nothing further to wish for.

VIII. THE ABSOLUTE HARMONY; THE MORAL LAW AND ITS CONTENT.
The fundamental discord that needs to be solved is that between the impulse, or longing, on the one hand, and the act by which it seeks to express itself, upon the other. The highest manifestation of this tendency to activity is that in which the impulse is to no special thing for any promised gain, but merely for its own sake. It is a striving that has no other end than itself; an absolute striving. This is what Kant described as the Categorical Imperative. It is an absolute law, an absolute must. Such a demand is, as has often been urged, wholly undetermined and vague. It is easy to say, Thou must; it is not so easy to say what must be done. The command is without reason and without content. On the other hand, the highest form of action, being that which is for its own sake, is an act of perfect freedom. The whole reason for the act lies in the act itself. It is easy to see how such activity must be wholly undetermined and vague. Absolute freedom implies subjection to no reason. The act must furnish its own object, which is meaningless.

We have, then, these two over against each other: on the one side, absolute law; on the other, an absolutely free activity. Each is, by its very nature, undetermined. The law commands without reason or end. Freedom performs without submitting to the imposition of any reason or end. In this contrast we find brought face to face the most sublime elements of the nature; but they stand over against one another with apparently no point of contact. Yet each must give to the other that determination which it needs. Thus alone will each lose its vagueness, and receive some definite significance. So far as this is done will the nature be at peace. In the first place, the act must be perfectly free; for it is perfect freedom that we are considering. Being free, it can regard itself either as determined through that striving of the nature which is expressed by the Categorical Imperative or as opposed to it. The question that now meets us is, How shall this harmony or discord be manifested? In the second place, if the harmony is to be complete, the striving must have the appearance of being determined by the act; and the question meets us, How shall this result be accomplished?

In the I, no two opposites can coexist. The impulse and the act are here opposed. When the act is to begin, the impulse is interrupted or limited. From this arises a feeling. The act freely directs itself toward the possible ground of this feeling, posits such a ground, and realizes it. If the act is found to be in accordance with the impulse—that is, if a sense of harmony is produced—then we know what was the object of the impulse; namely, the impulse aimed at the act which has been performed. Henceforth, the command has a meaning, a definiteness, which before was lacking. To express the same thought in more familiar speech, according to the doctrine of intuitive morals, we recognize a vague but absolute command to do what is right. If we ask for a reason, the answer is, Because it is right. If we ask what we are to do, the answer is, Do what is right. We are free to seek to conform to this command or not. We at first are not sure what the law requires. After acts have been performed, however, we find that some were in conformity with the law, and that some were not. Indeed, it is possible that in this way first do we learn that there is a law. If we have done what the law forbids, we have the reproach of conscience, which reveals to us the fact that we have done wrong. If our act is in conformity to the law, we have a sense of peace, which perhaps is the first intimation that we have done right. Thus it is the act that has given a content to the law, while it was freely seeking to conform itself to the law. Thus, the problem that seemed to admit of no solution is solved. The law, through the act itself, determines the act. The act is now known to be right or wrong, through the evidence which its very existence has brought with it; and henceforth, all similar acts are either commanded or forbidden. Thus the act has determined the law, by giving to it a definite content. Freedom has not been violated, because the law first determined the act after its commission. The absoluteness of the law has not been violated, for it was by its spontaneous and unreasoned judgment that it pronounced the act right or wrong.

We have thus expressed, in its highest form, the possibility of perfect harmony in the nature, and the goal toward which the infinite striving of the nature tends. We cannot, indeed, consciously work toward an end which is infinitely removed. We can, however, move step by step in the direction toward which that would call us. Doing this, we tread a path which law and act, working in the manner that has been described, are forming for us as we advance.