5 The Unhappiest One
5 THE UNHAPPIEST ONE
An Enthusiastic Address to
Symparanekromenoi
Peroration in the Friday Meetings
SOMEWHERE in England is said to be a grave distinguished not by a splendid monument or sad surroundings, but by a small inscription: ‘The Unhappiest One’. Apparently someone opened the grave but found no trace of the corpse. What is the more surprising, that no corpse was found or that the grave was opened? Strange, indeed, that someone should have gone to the trouble to find out if there was anyone in it. When you read a name on an epitaph you are easily led to wonder how it went with his life in the world; one would like to climb down into the grave to converse with him. But this inscription, it says so much! A book may have a title which makes you want to read it, but a title can be so evocative, so personally appealing, that you will never read the book. Truly, this inscription is so full of meaning – harrowing or joyful, according to one’s mood – for anyone who in the stillness of his heart may have secretly betrothed himself to the thought that he was die unhappiest. But I can imagine someone whose soul knows no such preoccupations, whose curiosity it was that undertook the task of finding out if there really was someone in this grave. And lo and behold die tomb was empty! Has he perhaps risen from the dead, has he perhaps wanted to mock the words of the poet:
… In the grave there is peace,
Its silent dweller not acquainted with grief.1
Did he find no rest, not even in the grave; does he perhaps wander restlessly about in die world? Has he forsaken his house, his home, leaving only his address behind? Or is he not yet found, this the unhappiest one, whom not even the furies pursue until he finds the door of the temple and the seat of die humble suppliant; but whom sorrows keep alive, sorrows follow to the grave!2
If it is true that he is not yet found, then dear Symparanekromenoi, let us enter upon a pilgrimage, not to the holy tomb in the happy East, but to this sorrowful grave in the unhappy West. By that empty grave we shall look for him, the unhappiest one, certain to find him; for as the yearning of the faithful longs for the holy tomb, so do the unhappy feel drawn west to that empty grave, each filled with the thought that it is destined for him.
Or should such a consideration not be worthy of our attention? We whose activities are, if I am to conform with the sacred tradition of our society, experiments in aphoristic and accidental devotion, we who do not merely think and speak aphoristically but live aphoristically, we who live aphorismenoi and segregati,3 like aphorisms in life, without society of men, not sharing their sorrows and their joys; we who are not consonants sounding together in the noise of life, but solitary birds in the stillness of night, gathered together only now and then, to be edified by representations of life’s misery, the length of the day, and the endless duration of time; we, dear Symparanekromenoi, who have no faith in the game of happiness or the fortune of fools, we who believe in nothing but misfortune.
See how they press forward in their countless multitudes, all the unhappy! Yet, many though they are who believe they are called, few are the chosen. A distinction is to be established between them – a word, and the crowd vanishes; for excluded, uninvited guests are all those who think the greatest misfortune is death, those who became unhappy because it was death they feared; for we, dear Symparanekromenoi, we, like the Roman soldiers, do not fear death; we know of greater misfortunes, and first and last and above all – life. Yes, if there were a human being who could not die, if the story of the eternally wandering Jew were true, how could we scruple to call him the unhappiest? We could then also explain why the grave was empty, to indicate that the unhappiest person was the one who could not die, could not slip down into a grave. The matter would then be decided, the answer easy; for the unhappiest would be the one who could not die, the happy man the one who could; happy the one who died in his old age, happier the one who died at birth, happiest of all the one who was never born. But that is not how it is; death is the common fortune of all men, and therefore, in so far as the unhappiest has not yet been found, it is within these confines he must be sought.
See how the crowd disappeared, how diminished are their numbers. I need not now say, ‘Give me your attention’, for I know that I have it; nor ‘Lend me your ears’; I know they are mine. Your eyes sparkle. You rise in your seats. It is a contest for a wager well worth joining in, a struggle more terrible even than if the issue were life or death, for death we do not fear. But the reward, yes, it is grander than any other in the world, and more certain; for the one who is assured of being the unhappiest, that man need fear no good fortune; he shall not taste the humiliation in his last hour of having to cry: ‘Solon, Solon, Solon!’4
So we open a free competition from which none are to be excluded, by either rank or age. No one is excluded except the happy man and the one who fears death – every worthy member of the community of the unhappy is welcome, the seat of honour assigned to every really unhappy person, the grave to the unhappiest. My voice rings forth in the world; hear it, all you who call yourselves unhappy in the world yet fear not death. My voice rings back in time, for we will not be so sophistical as to exclude the departed because they are dead; after all, they have lived. I beseech you, forgive me for disturbing your rest for a moment, meet us here at this empty grave. Three times I let the cry ring out high over the world; hear it, you unhappy ones; for it is not our intention to decide the matter among ourselves in a corner. The place has been found where it must be decided before the whole world.
But before passing on to our individual hearings, let us make ourselves qualified to sit here as worthy judges and competitors. Let us strengthen our thoughts, arm them against the charms of the ear, for what voice is quite so ingratiating as that of the unhappy man when he speaks of his own misfortune? Let us make ourselves worthy to sit as judges, competitors, that we do not lose perspective, are not put off by the individuals themselves, for the eloquence of sorrow is infinite and infinitely inventive. We would divide the unhappy into definite groups and let only one speak for each; for this we will not deny, that no particular individual is the unhappiest; it is a class. But we would not scruple for that reason to award to the representative for this class the name ‘the unhappiest one’, nor hesitate to assign him the grave.
In all Hegel’s systematic writings there is a section dealing with the unhappy consciousness.5 It is always with qualms and palpitations that one approaches the reading of inquiries like this, with a fear that one might learn too much or too little. Brought up casually in conversation, the term ‘unhappy consciousness’ can practically turn your blood into ice, set your nerves aquiver; seeing it pronounced now so expressly – like that mysterious word in a story of Clemens Brentano’s, tertia nux mors est6 – can make you tremble like a sinner. Ah! happy the one who has no more to do with this matter than write a section on the subject, happier still he who can write the next. For the unhappy person is he who has his ideal, the content of his life, the fullness of his consciousness, his real nature in some way or other outside himself. The unhappy man is always absent from himself, never present to himself. But one can be absent, obviously, either in the past or in the future. This adequately circumscribes the entire territory of the unhappy consciousness. For this firm delimitation we would thank Hegel, and now, since we are not simply philosophers looking upon this kingdom from afar, we shall as natives devote attention in detail to the various stages that lie within it. So the unhappy one is absent. But one is absent either when living in the past or when living in the future. The form of expression is important, for it is evident, as philology also teaches us, that there is a tense that expresses presence in the past, and a tense that expresses presence in the future; but the same science also teaches us that there is a pluperfect tense in which there is no present, as well as a future perfect tense with the same characteristic. These are the hoping and the remembering individuals. Inasmuch as they are only hoping or only remembering, these are indeed in a sense unhappy individuals, if otherwise it is only the person who is present to himself that is happy. However, one cannot strictly call an individual unhappy who is present in hope or in memory. For what one must note here is that he is still present to himself in one of these. From which we also see that a single blow, be it ever so heavy, cannot possibly make a person the unhappiest. For one blow can either deprive him of hope, still leaving him present in memory, or of memory, still leaving him present in hope. We now proceed further and see what more detailed description can be given of the unhappy individual.
Consider first the hoping individual. When, as a hoping individual (and of course to that extent unhappy), he is not present to himself, he becomes unhappy in a stricter sense. An individual who hopes for an eternal life is, indeed, in a certain sense an unhappy individual to the extent that he renounces the present, but nevertheless is strictly not unhappy, because he is present to himself in this hope and does not come in conflict with the particular moments of finitude. But if he cannot become present to himself in hope, but loses his hope, hopes again, and so on, then he is absent from himself not just in the present but also in the future, and we have a type of the unhappy. Similarly if we consider the remembering individual. If he finds himself present in the past, strictly he is not unhappy; but if he cannot do that but remains constantly absent from himself in a past, then we have a form of the unhappy.
Memory is pre-eminently the real element of the unhappy, as is natural seeing the past has the remarkable characteristic that it is gone, the future that it is yet to come; and one can therefore say in a sense that the future is nearer the present than is the past. The future, for the hoping individual to be present in it, must be real, or rather must acquire reality for him. The past, for the remembering individual to be present in it, must have had reality for him. But when the hoping individual would have a future which can have no reality for him, or the remembering individual remember a past which has had no reality for him, then we have the genuinely unhappy individuals. The first of these one might think impossible, or consider sheer madness, but that is not so, for though the hoping individual does not hope for something that has no reality for him, he hopes for something he himself knows cannot be realized. For when an individual loses his hope, and instead of becoming a remembering individual, wants to remain a hoping one, then we get this form. When an individual who loses his memory, or has nothing to remember, will not become a hoping one but remains a remembering one, that is a form of the unhappy. Thus were an individual to lose himself in antiquity, or in the Middle Ages, or whatever other period, but in such a way that this was definitely real for him, or if he lost himself in his own childhood or youth in such a way that that was decidedly real for him, then strictly he would not be a genuinely unhappy individual. Were I to imagine, on the other hand, a person who has never had a childhood himself, this age having passed him by without acquiring significance for him, but who now, say by becoming a teacher of children, discovered all the beauty that lies in childhood, and would now remember his own childhood, always look back upon it; then he indeed would be a very fitting example. He wants in retrospect to discover the significance of what, for him, is past and nevertheless remember it in its significance. Were I to imagine someone who had lived without appreciating the joy of life, or its pleasures, and who now at death’s door caught sight of it, but didn’t die, which would have been the best, but revived though not to live over again, then he could well be considered in the matter of who was the unhappiest.
Unhappy individuals who hope never have the same pain as those who remember. Hoping individuals always have a more gratifying disappointment. The unhappiest one will always, therefore, be found among the unhappy rememberers.
But we proceed further and imagine a combination of the two, strictly speaking, unhappy forms just described. The unhappy hoping individual was not able to be present to himself in his hope, similarly with the unhappy rememberer. The combination can only be this: that what prevents him being present in hope is memory, and what prevents him being present in memory is hope. This is what it amounts to: on the one hand, he constantly hopes for something he should be remembering, his hope is constantly disappointed, but on its being disappointed he discovers that the reason is not that the goal has been moved further on but that he has gone past it, that it has already been experienced, or is supposed to have been, and has thus passed over into memory. On the other hand, he constantly remembers something he should be hoping for; for in thought the future is something he has already taken up, he has experienced it in thought, and that which he has experienced is something he remembers instead of hopes for. Consequently what he hopes for lies behind him, and what he remembers lies before him. His life is not backwards but back-to-front in two directions. He will soon notice his misfortune even if he does not grasp what it really consists in. But to make sure that he really gets the chance to feel it, that misunderstanding comes along which every moment in a remarkable way casts ridicule. He enjoys, for everyday purposes, the reputation of being in his right mind, yet he knows that were he to explain to a single person just how things were with him, he would be declared mad. This itself is enough to drive a person mad, yet he does not become so, and that is precisely his misfortune. His misfortune is that he has come to the world too soon and is therefore constantly arriving too late. He is forever quite close to the goal and the same moment at a distance from it; he now discovers that what it is that makes him unhappy, because now he has it, or because he is this way, is precisely what a few years ago would have made him happy if he had had it then, whereas then he was unhappy because he did not have it. His life has no meaning, like that of Ancaeus, of whom it is customary to say that nothing is known of him except that he gave rise to a proverb: ‘There’s many a slip ‘twixt the cup and the lip’,7 as if this were not more than enough. His life knows no rest and has no content, he is not present to himself in the moment, not present to himself in the future, for the future has been experienced, and not in the past, because the past has still not arrived. Thus is he chased about, like Latona to the Hyperborean darkness, to the bright isle of the Equator, and cannot give birth and is constantly as though just about to.8 Left to himself he stands in the wide world alone, he has no contemporaneity to attach himself to, no past he can long for, for his past has still not arrived, and no future he can hope for, for his future is already past. Alone, he has the whole world over against him as the ‘Thou’ with which he finds himself in conflict. For all the rest of the world is to him just one person, and this person, this inseparable, importunate friend, this is the misunderstanding. He cannot become old, for he has never been young; he cannot become young, for he has already become old; in a way he cannot die, for he has never lived; in a way he cannot live, for he is already dead; he cannot love, for love is always in the present, and he has no present time, no future, no past, and yet he is of a sympathetic nature, and he hates the world only because he loves it; he has no passion, not because he lacks it, but because that same instant he has the opposite; he has no time for anything, not because his time is taken up with something else, but because he has no time at all; he is powerless, not because he lacks strength, but because his own strength makes him impotent.
But soon our hearts are sufficiently steeled, our ears plugged if not closed. We have listened to the circumspect voice of deliberation; let us now feel the eloquence of passion – brief, pithy, as all passion is.
A young girl stands there. She complains that her lover has been unfaithful. This we cannot reflect upon. But she loved him, him alone in all the world, she loved him with all her soul, with all her heart, and all her mind – she can remember, then, and sorrow.
Is this a real being or is it an image, a living person who is dying or a dead one that lives? It is Niobe.9 She lost everything at a single blow; she lost that to which she had given life; she lost that which gave her life. Look up to her, dear Symparanekromenoi; she stands a little higher than the world, as a memorial stone on a burial mound. But no hope beckons her, no future moves her, no prospect tempts her, no hope disturbs her – hopeless she stands, petrified in memory. For one instant she was unhappy, the very same instant she became happy, and no one can take her good fortune from her; the world changes, but she knows no fluctuation, and time keeps coming, but for her there is no time to come.
See yonder, what a beautiful union! The one generation extends its hand to the next! Is it in blessing, to loyal solidarity, to the joyous dance? It is the outcast house of Oedipus, and the blow is passed on and crushes the last – it is Antigone. Yet she is provided for; a generation’s sorrow is enough for a human life. She has turned her back on hope, she has exchanged its inconstancy for the allegiance of memory. So be happy, then, dear Antigone! We wish you a long life, as full of meaning as a deep sigh. May no forgetfulness deprive you of anything! May the daily bitterness of grief be extended to you in abundance!
A vigorous figure appears, but he is not alone, he has friends, so why does he come here? It is Job, the patriarch of sorrow – and his friends. He lost everything, but not at one blow; for the Lord took, and the Lord took, and the Lord took. Friends taught him to feel the bitterness of the loss; for the Lord gave, and the Lord gave, and the Lord also gave him a foolish wife into the bargain.10 He lost everything; for what he kept is beyond our interest. Honour him, dear Symparanekromenoi, for his grey hair and his misfortune. He lost everything, but he had possessed it.
His hair is grey, his head bowed, his countenance downcast, his soul troubled. It is the prodigal son’s father. Like Job, he lost what he cherished most in the world, yet the Lord did not take it but the enemy; he did not lose it, but he is losing it; it has not been taken from him, but it is vanishing. He does not sit at home by the hearth in sackcloth and ashes; he has arisen from his home, he has forsaken everything to seek what is lost; he snatches at him, but his arm does not come near him; he calls out to him, but his voice does not reach him. Still he hopes, if but through tears. He catches sight of him, if but through mists. He catches up with him, if but in death. His hope makes him aged, and nothing binds him to the world but the hope which he lives for. His feet are tired, his eyes dim, his body seeks rest, his hope lives. His hair is white, his body decrepit, his foot halts, his heart breaks, his hope lives. Raise him up, dear Symparanekromenoi, he was unhappy.
Who is this pallid figure, listless as the shade of someone dead? His name has been forgotten, for many centuries have passed since that time. He was a youth, he had fervour. He sought martyrdom. In imagination he saw himself nailed to the cross and heaven open; but the reality was too hard for him; the enthusiasm disappeared, he denied his Master and himself. He wished to carry a world, but he broke under the strain. His soul was not crushed, or annihilated, it was broken and his spirit enfeebled, his soul was paralysed. Congratulate him, dear Symparanekromenoi, he was unhappy. And yet he became happy, he became what he wanted, a martyr, even if his martyrdom was not, as he had wished, to be nailed to the cross or thrown to the beasts, but to be burned alive, to be slowly consumed by a steady fire.
A young woman sits yonder, so thoughtful. Her lover was unfaithful – this we cannot reflect upon. Young girl, observe the grave countenances of this assembly; it has heard of more terrible misfortunes, so its venturesome soul demands greater still. – Yes, but I loved him with all my soul, with all my heart, with all my mind. – We have heard the like already, do not weary our impatient longing! After all, you can remember and sorrow. – No, I cannot sorrow, for perhaps he was not unfaithful, perhaps he was not a deceiver. – Why, then, can you not sorrow? Come nearer, chosen among girls, forgive the strict censor for wanting for a moment to reject you. You cannot sorrow. Then why not hope? – No, I cannot hope, for he was a riddle. – Well, my girl, I understand you, you stand high on the ladder of unhappiness; look upon her, dear Symparanekromenoi, she soars almost to the pinnacle of unhappiness. But you must divide yourself, you must hope by day and sorrow by night, or sorrow by day and hope by night. Be proud, it is never happiness that should make you proud, but unhappiness. You are not indeed the unhappiest, but is it not your opinion, dear Symparanekromenoi, that we award her an honourable accessit? The grave we cannot award her, but the place next to it.
For there he stands, the emissary from the kingdom of sighs, the elected favourite of suffering, the apostle of sorrow, the silent friend of pain, the unhappy lover of memory, confounded in his memory by the light of hope, deceived in his hope by the shadows of memory. His head is heavy, his knees are weak, yet he rests on none but himself. He is faint, yet how powerful! His eyes seem not to have shed, but to have drunk, many tears; yet a fire burns in them that could consume the entire world, though not one splinter of the sorrow within his breast. He is bent, yet his youth portends a long life; his lips smile at the world that misunderstands him. Rise, dear Symparanekromenoi, bow before him, sorrow’s witnesses, in this solemn hour! I salute you, great unknown, whose name I do not know; I salute you with your title of honour: The Unhappiest One! Receive a welcome here in your home from the community of the unhappy; welcome at the entrance to the humble and low dwelling which is yet prouder than all the world’s palaces! See, the stone is rolled away, the shade of the grave waits you with its pleasant coolness. But perhaps the time has not yet come, long perhaps is the way; but we promise to gather here often to envy you your good fortune. So accept, then, our wish, a good wish: may no one understand you, but all envy you; may no friend attach himself to you, no girl love you; may no secret sympathy suspect your solitary pain; may no eye fathom your distant sorrow; may no ear detect your secret sigh! Or if your proud soul scorns such expressions of sympathy, spurns the alleviation, may the girls love you, may those with child seek you out in their anguish, may mothers put their hopes in you, may the dying look to you for comfort, may the young attach themselves to you, may husbands depend upon you, may the aged one reach out to you as to a staff – may all the world believe you are able to make it happy. So live well, then, you the unhappiest one! But what am I saying, the unhappiest, I ought to say the happiest, for this indeed is a gift of fortune that no one can give to themselves. See, language fails, and thought is confounded; for who is the happiest except the unhappiest, and who the unhappiest except the happiest? And what is life but madness, and faith but folly, and hope but reprieve, and love but salt in the wound?
He vanished, and we stand again before an empty grave. Then let us wish him peace and rest and recovery, and all possible good fortune, and an early death, and an eternal oblivion, and no remembrance lest even the memory of him should make another unhappy.
Rise, dear Symparanekromenoi! The night has passed, the day again begins its untiring activity, never weary, it seems, of repeating itself for ever and ever.