Consciousness is conditioned by the intellect, and the intellect is a mere accident of our being, for it is a function of the brain. The brain, together with the nerves and spinal cord attached to it, is a mere fruit, a product, in fact a parasite, of the rest of the organism, in so far as it is not directly geared to the organism’s inner working, but serves the purpose of self-preservation by regulating its relations with the external world
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All philosophers before me, from the first to the last, place the true and real inner nature or kernel of man in the knowing consciousness. Accordingly, they have conceived and explained the I, or in the case of many of them its transcendent hypostasis called soul, as primarily and essentially knowing, in fact thinking, and only in consequence of this, secondarily and derivatively, as willing .... My philosophy . . . puts man’s real inner nature not in consciousness but in the will.
For years we can have a desire without admitting it to ourselves or even letting it come to clear consciousness, because the intellect is not to know anything about it, since the good opinion we have of ourselves would inevitably suffer thereby. But if the wish is fulfilled, we get to know from our joy, not without a feeling of shame, that this is what we desired….
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[Satisfaction can never be anything but temporary, because] it is always like the alms thrown to the beggar, which reprieves him today so that his misery may be prolonged till tomorrow. Therefore, so long as our consciousness is filled by our will, so long as we are given up to the throng of desires with its constant hopes and fears, so long as we are the subject of willing, we never obtain lasting happiness or peace.
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The painting is by Gail Campbell, 2016.
From the archive. First posted by The Best American Poetry on September 05, 2019 at 03:07 PM.
Elegant thinker is Mr. Schopenhauer. Clearly his will is at work, he asserts that his understanding varies from that of philosophers from the beginning of time, this is a triumphal act of will rather than intellect.
A little poem written for Mr. Schopenhauer.
ACADEMICS
Cracking bones to find the marrow,
Look elsewhere than ossified channels,
Nourishing drops of oily tallow,
Fall occasionally on grey flannel,
From the moon, the lunar gift,
Insight into thought so clear,
Tinged with lunacy's awkward drift,
Understanding purchased so dear,
We the benighted listen close,
To heads so much wiser still,
And the question they pose,
"Isn't it all a matter of will?"
Posted by: Kyril Alexander Calsoyas | May 27, 2023 at 12:41 PM
Amazing stuff; not conscious "knowledge" but the "will" -- with the proviso that the will is mostly unconscious and transcends even the pleasure principle.
Posted by: Stewart Johnson | May 28, 2023 at 12:55 PM