The Motives of Pure Practical Reason

What is essential in the moral worth of actions is that the moral law should directly determine the will. If the determination of the will takes place in conformity indeed to the moral law, but only by means of a feeling, no matter of what kind, which has to be presupposed in order that the law may be sufficient to determine the will, and therefore not for the sake of the law, then the action will possess legality, but not morality. Now, if we understand by motive (elater animi) the subjective ground of determination of the will of a being whose reason does not necessarily conform to the objective law, by virtue of its own nature, then it will follow, first, that no motives can be attributed to the Divine will, and that the motives of the human will (as well as that of every created rational being) can never be anything else than the moral law, and consequently that the objective principle of determination must always and alone be also the subjectively sufficient determining principle of the action, if this is not merely to fulfil the letter of the law, without containing its spirit. *

What matters for the moral worth of an action is that the moral law directly determines the will. The will may act in accordance with the moral law, but only through a feeling of some kind. If that feeling must be assumed before the law can determine the will, the action is not done for the law’s sake. In that case, the action will conform to the law, but it will not have moral worth. Now, suppose we understand a motive (elater animi) as the subjective basis for determining the will of a being. Such a being’s reason, by its own nature, does not necessarily conform to the objective law. It follows, first, that no motives can be attributed to the Divine will. It also follows that the motives of the human will can never be anything other than the moral law. The same holds for the will of every created rational being. Consequently, the objective principle that determines an action must always be the only subjectively sufficient principle for determining it. Otherwise, the action will merely fulfil the letter of the law, without containing its spirit. *

Since, then, for the purpose of giving the moral law influence over the will, we must not seek for any other motives that might enable us to dispense with the motive of the law itself, because that would produce mere hypocrisy, without consistency; and it is even dangerous to allow other motives (for instance, that of interest) even to co-operate along with the moral law; hence nothing is left us but to determine carefully in what way the moral law becomes a motive, and what effect this has upon the faculty of desire. For as to the question how a law can be directly and of itself a determining principle of the will (which is the essence of morality), this is, for human reason, an insoluble problem and identical with the question: how a free will is possible. Therefore what we have to show a priori is not why the moral law in itself supplies a motive, but what effect it, as such, produces (or, more correctly speaking, must produce) on the mind.

To give the moral law influence over the will, we must not look for other motives that would let us dispense with the law itself as a motive. That would produce mere hypocrisy without consistency. It is even dangerous to let other motives, such as self-interest, work alongside the moral law. So we can only carefully determine how the moral law becomes a motive and what effect it has on our capacity for desire. The question of how a law can directly and by itself determine the will is insoluble for human reason. Yet this is the essence of morality. The question is the same as asking how a free will is possible. Therefore, what we must show a priori is not why the moral law itself provides a motive. We must show what effect the law, as such, produces on the mind, or more precisely, what effect it must produce.

The essential point in every determination of the will by the moral law is that being a free will it is determined simply by the moral law, not only without the co-operation of sensible impulses, but even to the rejection of all such, and to the checking of all inclinations so far as they might be opposed to that law. So far, then, the effect of the moral law as a motive is only negative, and this motive can be known a priori to be such. For all inclination and every sensible impulse is founded on feeling, and the negative effect produced on feeling (by the check on the inclinations) is itself feeling; consequently, we can see a priori that the moral law, as a determining principle of the will, must by thwarting all our inclinations produce a feeling which may be called pain; and in this we have the first, perhaps the only, instance in which we are able from a priori considerations to determine the relation of a cognition (in this case of pure practical reason) to the feeling of pleasure or displeasure. All the inclinations together (which can be reduced to a tolerable system, in which case their satisfaction is called happiness) constitute self-regard (solipsismus). This is either the self-love that consists in an excessive fondness for oneself (philautia), or satisfaction with oneself (arrogantia). The former is called particularly selfishness; the latter self-conceit. Pure practical reason only checks selfishness, looking on it as natural and active in us even prior to the moral law, so far as to limit it to the condition of agreement with this law, and then it is called rational self-love. But self-conceit reason strikes down altogether, since all claims to self-esteem which precede agreement with the moral law are vain and unjustifiable, for the certainty of a state of mind that coincides with this law is the first condition of personal worth (as we shall presently show more clearly), and prior to this conformity any pretension to worth is false and unlawful. Now the propensity to self-esteem is one of the inclinations which the moral law checks, inasmuch as that esteem rests only on morality. Therefore the moral law breaks down self-conceit. But as this law is something positive in itself, namely, the form of an intellectual causality, that is, of freedom, it must be an object of respect; for, by opposing the subjective antagonism of the inclinations, it weakens self-conceit; and since it even breaks down, that is, humiliates, this conceit, it is an object of the highest respect and, consequently, is the foundation of a positive feeling which is not of empirical origin, but is known a priori. Therefore respect for the moral law is a feeling which is produced by an intellectual cause, and this feeling is the only one that we know quite a priori and the necessity of which we can perceive.

The essential point in every case where the moral law determines the will is this: a free will is determined by the moral law alone. It acts not only without help from impulses arising from the senses, but by rejecting all such impulses. It also restrains every inclination that might oppose the law. In this respect, the moral law has only a negative effect as a motive, and we can know this a priori. Every inclination and every impulse arising from the senses is based on feeling. The negative effect on feeling, produced by restraining the inclinations, is itself a feeling. We can therefore see a priori that the moral law, as a principle determining the will, must produce a feeling that may be called pain. It does so by thwarting all our inclinations. This is the first, and perhaps the only, case in which we can use a priori reasoning to determine how knowledge relates to pleasure or displeasure. In this case, the knowledge is that of pure practical reason. All the inclinations together constitute self-regard (solipsismus). They can be brought into a tolerable system, in which case their satisfaction is called happiness. Self-regard takes two forms. One is self-love consisting in excessive fondness for oneself (philautia), especially called selfishness. The other is satisfaction with oneself (arrogantia), called self-conceit. Pure practical reason only restrains selfishness. It regards selfishness as natural and active in us even before the moral law. Reason limits selfishness to what agrees with the law. Once limited in this way, it is called rational self-love. But reason strikes down self-conceit altogether. All claims to self-esteem made before we conform to the moral law are empty and unjustified. For the first condition of personal worth is certainty that our state of mind agrees with this law, as we shall soon show more clearly. Before we conform to the law, any claim to personal worth is false and unjustified. The tendency to esteem ourselves is one of the inclinations the moral law restrains, since self-esteem rests on morality alone. The moral law therefore breaks down self-conceit. But the law is something positive in itself. It is the form of an intellectual causality, that is, freedom. So it must be an object of respect. By opposing the resistance of our inclinations, the law weakens self-conceit. And because it even breaks down, or humiliates, self-conceit, it is an object of the highest respect. The law is consequently the foundation of a positive feeling. This feeling does not come from experience but is known a priori. Respect for the moral law is therefore a feeling produced by an intellectual cause. It is the only feeling we know entirely a priori and whose necessity we can perceive.

In the preceding chapter we have seen that everything that presents itself as an object of the will prior to the moral law is by that law itself, which is the supreme condition of practical reason, excluded from the determining principles of the will which we have called the unconditionally good; and that the mere practical form which consists in the adaptation of the maxims to universal legislation first determines what is good in itself and absolutely, and is the basis of the maxims of a pure will, which alone is good in every respect. However, we find that our nature as sensible beings is such that the matter of desire (objects of inclination, whether of hope or fear) first presents itself to us; and our pathologically affected self, although it is in its maxims quite unfit for universal legislation; yet, just as if it constituted our entire self, strives to put its pretensions forward first, and to have them acknowledged as the first and original. This propensity to make ourselves in the subjective determining principles of our choice serve as the objective determining principle of the will generally may be called self-love; and if this pretends to be legislative as an unconditional practical principle it may be called self-conceit. Now the moral law, which alone is truly objective (namely, in every respect), entirely excludes the influence of self-love on the supreme practical principle, and indefinitely checks the self-conceit that prescribes the subjective conditions of the former as laws. Now whatever checks our self-conceit in our own judgement humiliates; therefore the moral law inevitably humbles every man when he compares with it the physical propensities of his nature. That, the idea of which as a determining principle of our will humbles us in our self-consciousness, awakes respect for itself, so far as it is itself positive and a determining principle. Therefore the moral law is even subjectively a cause of respect. Now since everything that enters into self-love belongs to inclination, and all inclination rests on feelings, and consequently whatever checks all the feelings together in self-love has necessarily, by this very circumstance, an influence on feeling; hence we comprehend how it is possible to perceive a priori that the moral law can produce an effect on feeling, in that it excludes the inclinations and the propensity to make them the supreme practical condition, i.e., self-love, from all participation in the supreme legislation. This effect is on one side merely negative, but on the other side, relatively to the restricting principle of pure practical reason, it is positive. No special kind of feeling need be assumed for this under the name of a practical or moral feeling as antecedent to the moral law and serving as its foundation.

In the preceding chapter, we saw that the moral law is the supreme condition of practical reason. The law excludes everything presented as an object of the will before it comes into play. Such objects cannot be among the determining principles of the will we called unconditionally good. The mere practical form of maxims, their fitness for universal legislation, first determines what is good in itself and absolutely. This form is the basis of the maxims of a pure will, which alone is good in every respect. Yet our nature as sensible beings is such that the matter of desire presents itself to us first. This matter consists of objects of inclination, whether of hope or fear. Our self, affected by feelings, has maxims quite unfit for universal legislation. Yet it strives to put its claims first and have them recognized as primary and original, as if it were our entire self. This tendency to make ourselves, through the subjective determining principles of our choice, the objective determining principle of the will generally may be called self-love. If self-love claims the power to legislate as an unconditional practical principle, it may be called self-conceit. The moral law alone is truly objective in every respect. It entirely excludes the influence of self-love on the supreme practical principle. It also places unlimited restraint on the self-conceit that prescribes the subjective conditions of self-love as laws. Whatever restrains our self-conceit in our own judgment humiliates us. Therefore, the moral law inevitably humbles every person who compares the physical tendencies of human nature with it. Suppose that the idea of something humbles us in our self-consciousness when it determines our will. If that thing is itself positive and a determining principle, it awakens respect for itself. Therefore, the moral law is a cause of respect even from a subjective point of view. Now everything that enters into self-love belongs to inclination, and all inclination rests on feelings. Consequently, whatever restrains all the feelings together in self-love necessarily affects feeling by that very fact. We can therefore understand how it is possible to see a priori that the moral law can affect feeling. It does so by excluding inclinations and self-love from any part in supreme legislation. Self-love is the tendency to make inclinations the supreme practical condition. In one respect, this effect is merely negative. But in another respect, considered in relation to the restricting principle of pure practical reason, it is positive. We need not assume a special kind of feeling called a practical or moral feeling. Such a feeling would precede the moral law and serve as its foundation.

The negative effect on feeling (unpleasantness) is pathological, like every influence on feeling and like every feeling generally. But as an effect of the consciousness of the moral law, and consequently in relation to a supersensible cause, namely, the subject of pure practical reason which is the supreme lawgiver, this feeling of a rational being affected by inclinations is called humiliation (intellectual self-depreciation); but with reference to the positive source of this humiliation, the law, it is respect for it. There is indeed no feeling for this law; but inasmuch as it removes the resistance out of the way, this removal of an obstacle is, in the judgement of reason, esteemed equivalent to a positive help to its causality. Therefore this feeling may also be called a feeling of respect for the moral law, and for both reasons together a moral feeling.

The negative effect on feeling, unpleasantness, is pathological, as is every influence on feeling and every feeling itself. But this unpleasant feeling arises from consciousness of the moral law. It therefore relates to a supersensible cause, namely, the subject of pure practical reason, which is the supreme lawgiver. In a rational being affected by inclinations, this feeling is called humiliation (intellectual self-depreciation). But when considered in relation to its positive source, the law, this feeling is respect for the law. There is, strictly speaking, no feeling for this law. But the law removes resistance from its path. Reason judges the removal of this obstacle to be equivalent to a positive aid to the law’s power to cause action. Therefore, this feeling may also be called a feeling of respect for the moral law. For both reasons together, it may be called a moral feeling.

While the moral law, therefore, is a formal determining principle of action by practical pure reason, and is moreover a material though only objective determining principle of the objects of action as called good and evil, it is also a subjective determining principle, that is, a motive to this action, inasmuch as it has influence on the morality of the subject and produces a feeling conducive to the influence of the law on the will. There is here in the subject no antecedent feeling tending to morality. For this is impossible, since every feeling is sensible, and the motive of moral intention must be free from all sensible conditions. On the contrary, while the sensible feeling which is at the bottom of all our inclinations is the condition of that impression which we call respect, the cause that determines it lies in the pure practical reason; and this impression therefore, on account of its origin, must be called, not a pathological but a practical effect. For by the fact that the conception of the moral law deprives self-love of its influence, and self-conceit of its illusion, it lessens the obstacle to pure practical reason and produces the conception of the superiority of its objective law to the impulses of the sensibility; and thus, by removing the counterpoise, it gives relatively greater weight to the law in the judgement of reason (in the case of a will affected by the aforesaid impulses). Thus the respect for the law is not a motive to morality, but is morality itself subjectively considered as a motive, inasmuch as pure practical reason, by rejecting all the rival pretensions of self-love, gives authority to the law, which now alone has influence. Now it is to be observed that as respect is an effect on feeling, and therefore on the sensibility, of a rational being, it presupposes this sensibility, and therefore also the finiteness of such beings on whom the moral law imposes respect; and that respect for the law cannot be attributed to a supreme being, or to any being free from all sensibility, in whom, therefore, this sensibility cannot be an obstacle to practical reason.

The moral law is therefore a formal principle by which pure practical reason determines action. It is also a material, though only objective, principle for determining whether the objects of action are good or evil. But it is also a subjective determining principle, or a motive for action. It affects the subject’s morality and produces a feeling that helps the law influence the will. There is no prior feeling in the subject that leads toward morality. That would be impossible, because every feeling belongs to sensibility, while the motive for a moral intention must be free from all conditions of sensibility. The feeling that underlies all our inclinations is the condition for the impression we call respect. But pure practical reason is the cause that determines this impression. Because of its origin, then, respect must be called a practical effect, not a pathological one. The idea of the moral law deprives self-love of its influence and self-conceit of its illusion. In doing so, it reduces the obstacle to pure practical reason. It also produces the idea that reason’s objective law is superior to the impulses of sensibility. By removing the opposing weight, it gives the law relatively greater weight in reason’s judgment, when the will is affected by those impulses. Respect for the law is therefore not a motive to morality. Rather, it is morality itself, considered subjectively as a motive. Pure practical reason rejects all the competing claims of self-love and gives authority to the law, which alone now has influence. It should be noted that respect is an effect on the feelings, and therefore on the sensibility, of a rational being. It therefore presupposes this sensibility, and thus also the finiteness of beings on whom the moral law imposes respect. Respect for the law cannot be attributed to a supreme being or to any being free from all sensibility. In such a being, sensibility cannot be an obstacle to practical reason.

This feeling (which we call the moral feeling) is therefore produced simply by reason. It does not serve for the estimation of actions nor for the foundation of the objective moral law itself, but merely as a motive to make this of itself a maxim. But what name could we more suitably apply to this singular feeling which cannot be compared to any pathological feeling? It is of such a peculiar kind that it seems to be at the disposal of reason only, and that pure practical reason.

This feeling, which we call moral feeling, is therefore produced by reason alone. It does not help us judge actions or provide a foundation for the objective moral law itself. It serves only as a motive for making that law itself a maxim. But what more suitable name could we give this unique feeling? It cannot be compared with any feeling arising from inclination. It is so distinctive that it seems to be available only to reason, and specifically to pure practical reason.

Respect applies always to persons only- not to things. The latter may arouse inclination, and if they are animals (e.g., horses, dogs, etc.), even love or fear, like the sea, a volcano, a beast of prey; but never respect. Something that comes nearer to this feeling is admiration, and this, as an affection, astonishment, can apply to things also, e.g., lofty mountains, the magnitude, number, and distance of the heavenly bodies, the strength and swiftness of many animals, etc. But all this is not respect. A man also may be an object to me of love, fear, or admiration, even to astonishment, and yet not be an object of respect. His jocose humour, his courage and strength, his power from the rank he has amongst others, may inspire me with sentiments of this kind, but still inner respect for him is wanting. Fontenelle says, "I bow before a great man, but my mind does not bow." I would add, before an humble plain man, in whom I perceive uprightness of character in a higher degree than I am conscious of in myself,- my mind bows whether I choose it or not, and though I bear my head never so high that he may not forget my superior rank. Why is this? Because his example exhibits to me a law that humbles my self-conceit when I compare it with my conduct: a law, the practicability of obedience to which I see proved by fact before my eyes. Now, I may even be conscious of a like degree of uprightness, and yet the respect remains. For since in man all good is defective, the law made visible by an example still humbles my pride, my standard being furnished by a man whose imperfections, whatever they may be, are not known to me as my own are, and who therefore appears to me in a more favourable light. Respect is a tribute which we cannot refuse to merit, whether we will or not; we may indeed outwardly withhold it, but we cannot help feeling it inwardly.

Respect always applies to people, never to things. Things may arouse affection, and animals, such as horses and dogs, may even arouse love. Things may also arouse fear, as the sea, a volcano, or a beast of prey might. But things never arouse respect. Admiration comes closer to respect. As a feeling of wonder, admiration can also apply to things. We may admire high mountains, or the size, number, and distance of the heavenly bodies. We may admire the strength and speed of many animals. But none of this is respect. A person, too, may inspire love, fear, or admiration, even to the point of wonder, without inspiring respect. His playful humor, courage, strength, or power from his rank among others may inspire such feelings in me. Yet I may still feel no inward respect for him. Fontenelle says, "I bow before a great man, but my mind does not bow." I would add that my mind bows before a humble, ordinary man if I see greater uprightness in him than I find in myself. My mind bows whether I choose it or not. It bows even if I hold my head high, so that he will not forget my superior rank. Why is this? Because his example shows me a law that humbles my self-importance when I compare it with my conduct. I see before my eyes proof that this law can be obeyed. I may even know that I am just as upright, and yet the respect remains. For all goodness in human beings is imperfect. So the law, made visible by an example, still humbles my pride. My standard is set by a man whose imperfections, whatever they may be, I do not know as I know my own. He therefore appears to me in a more favorable light. Respect is a tribute we cannot refuse to merit, whether we wish to or not. We may withhold it outwardly, but we cannot help feeling it inwardly.

Respect is so far from being a feeling of pleasure that we only reluctantly give way to it as regards a man. We try to find out something that may lighten the burden of it, some fault to compensate us for the humiliation which such an example causes. Even the dead are not always secure from this criticism, especially if their example appears inimitable. Even the moral law itself in its solemn majesty is exposed to this endeavour to save oneself from yielding it respect. Can it be thought that it is for any other reason that we are so ready to reduce it to the level of our familiar inclination, or that it is for any other reason that we all take such trouble to make it out to be the chosen precept of our own interest well understood, but that we want to be free from the deterrent respect which shows us our own unworthiness with such severity? Nevertheless, on the other hand, so little is there pain in it that if once one has laid aside self-conceit and allowed practical influence to that respect, he can never be satisfied with contemplating the majesty of this law, and the soul believes itself elevated in proportion as it sees the holy law elevated above it and its frail nature. No doubt great talents and activity proportioned to them may also occasion respect or an analogous feeling. It is very proper to yield it to them, and then it appears as if this sentiment were the same thing as admiration. But if we look closer we shall observe that it is always uncertain how much of the ability is due to native talent, and how much to diligence in cultivating it. Reason represents it to us as probably the fruit of cultivation, and therefore as meritorious, and this notably reduces our self-conceit, and either casts a reproach on us or urges us to follow such an example in the way that is suitable to us. This respect, then, which we show to such a person (properly speaking, to the law that his example exhibits) is not mere admiration; and this is confirmed also by the fact that when the common run of admirers think they have learned from any source the badness of such a man's character (for instance Voltaire's) they give up all respect for him; whereas the true scholar still feels it at least with regard to his talents, because he is himself engaged in a business and a vocation which make imitation of such a man in some degree a law.

Respect is so far from being a feeling of pleasure that we are reluctant to feel it for another person. We try to find something that will lighten its burden, some fault to compensate for the humiliation such an example causes us. Even the dead are not always safe from this criticism, especially if their example seems impossible to follow. Even the moral law itself, in its solemn majesty, is exposed to our attempts to avoid respecting it. Why else are we so ready to reduce the law to the level of our familiar inclinations? Why else do we all take such trouble to present it as the rule we would choose if we properly understood our own interests? We want to be free from the intimidating respect that shows us our own unworthiness so severely. Yet, on the other hand, there is so little pain in this respect that it becomes a source of lasting satisfaction. Once a person has set aside self-conceit and allowed respect for the law to influence their actions, they can never have enough of contemplating its majesty. The soul believes itself raised up in proportion as it sees the holy law raised above itself and its frail nature. Great talents, and activity equal to those talents, may also inspire respect or a similar feeling. It is entirely proper to feel respect for them, and this feeling then seems to be the same as admiration. But if we look more closely, we see that we can never be sure how much ability comes from natural talent and how much from the effort spent developing it. Reason suggests that ability is probably the result of such effort and therefore deserves credit. This thought greatly reduces our self-conceit. It either makes us feel reproached or urges us to follow the example in a way suited to us. The respect we show such a person is therefore not mere admiration. Strictly speaking, we are respecting the law that the person's example displays. This is also confirmed by what happens when ordinary admirers believe they have learned from some source that such a person has a bad character, as with Voltaire. They give up all respect for him. A true scholar, however, still feels respect at least for his talents. The scholar is engaged in a work and a calling that make it, to some degree, a law to imitate such a person.

Respect for the moral law is, therefore, the only and the undoubted moral motive, and this feeling is directed to no object, except on the ground of this law. The moral law first determines the will objectively and directly in the judgement of reason; and freedom, whose causality can be determined only by the law, consists just in this, that it restricts all inclinations, and consequently self-esteem, by the condition of obedience to its pure law. This restriction now has an effect on feeling, and produces the impression of displeasure which can be known a priori from the moral law. Since it is so far only a negative effect which, arising from the influence of pure practical reason, checks the activity of the subject, so far as it is determined by inclinations, and hence checks the opinion of his personal worth (which, in the absence of agreement with the moral law, is reduced to nothing); hence, the effect of this law on feeling is merely humiliation. We can, therefore, perceive this a priori, but cannot know by it the force of the pure practical law as a motive, but only the resistance to motives of the sensibility. But since the same law is objectively, that is, in the conception of pure reason, an immediate principle of determination of the will, and consequently this humiliation takes place only relatively to the purity of the law; hence, the lowering of the pretensions of moral self-esteem, that is, humiliation on the sensible side, is an elevation of the moral, i.e., practical, esteem for the law itself on the intellectual side; in a word, it is respect for the law, and therefore, as its cause is intellectual, a positive feeling which can be known a priori. For whatever diminishes the obstacles to an activity furthers this activity itself. Now the recognition of the moral law is the consciousness of an activity of practical reason from objective principles, which only fails to reveal its effect in actions because subjective (pathological) causes hinder it. Respect for the moral law then must be regarded as a positive, though indirect, effect of it on feeling, inasmuch as this respect weakens the impeding influence of inclinations by humiliating self-esteem; and hence also as a subjective principle of activity, that is, as a motive to obedience to the law, and as a principle of the maxims of a life conformable to it. From the notion of a motive arises that of an interest, which can never be attributed to any being unless it possesses reason, and which signifies a motive of the will in so far as it is conceived by the reason. Since in a morally good will the law itself must be the motive, the moral interest is a pure interest of practical reason alone, independent of sense. On the notion of an interest is based that of a maxim. This, therefore, is morally good only in case it rests simply on the interest taken in obedience to the law. All three notions, however, that of a motive, of an interest, and of a maxim, can be applied only to finite beings. For they all suppose a limitation of the nature of the being, in that the subjective character of his choice does not of itself agree with the objective law of a practical reason; they suppose that the being requires to be impelled to action by something, because an internal obstacle opposes itself. Therefore they cannot be applied to the Divine will.

Respect for the moral law is therefore the only, and unquestionably the only, moral motive. This feeling is directed toward an object only because of the moral law. In reason’s judgment, the moral law first determines the will objectively and directly. Freedom has a causality that only the law can determine. Freedom consists precisely in restricting all inclinations, and therefore self-esteem, by requiring obedience to its pure law. This restriction affects feeling. It produces displeasure that can be known a priori from the moral law. In this respect, the effect is only negative. It arises from the influence of pure practical reason and checks our activity insofar as inclinations determine it. It therefore also checks our opinion of our personal worth. Without agreement with the moral law, that worth is reduced to nothing. In this respect, then, the law’s effect on feeling is simply humiliation. We can therefore recognize this effect a priori. But through it we cannot know the power of the pure practical law as a motive. We can know only the resistance it offers to motives arising from sensibility. But the same law is objectively, in the conception of pure reason, an immediate principle determining the will. The humiliation therefore occurs only in relation to the purity of the law. So, on the side of sensibility, the lowering of the claims of moral self-esteem is humiliation. On the intellectual side, it raises our moral, or practical, esteem for the law itself. In short, it is respect for the law. Because its cause is intellectual, respect is a positive feeling that can be known a priori. For whatever reduces the obstacles to an activity promotes the activity itself. Recognizing the moral law means being conscious of an activity of practical reason based on objective principles. This activity fails to show its effect in actions only because subjective (pathological) causes hinder it. Respect for the moral law must therefore be regarded as a positive, though indirect, effect of the law on feeling. By humbling self-esteem, respect weakens the obstructing influence of inclinations. Respect is therefore also a subjective principle of activity. It is a motive for obeying the law and a principle for the maxims of a life consistent with it. The idea of an interest arises from the idea of a motive. Interest can never be attributed to a being unless it possesses reason. Interest means a motive of the will insofar as reason conceives it. In a morally good will, the law itself must be the motive. Moral interest is therefore a pure interest of practical reason alone, independent of sense. The idea of a maxim is based on the idea of an interest. A maxim is therefore morally good only if it rests solely on an interest in obeying the law. All three ideas, motive, interest, and maxim, apply only to finite beings. Each assumes a limitation in the being’s nature. Each assumes that the subjective character of its choice does not by itself agree with the objective law of practical reason. Each also assumes that something must impel the being to act because an internal obstacle stands in the way. These ideas therefore cannot be applied to the Divine will.

There is something so singular in the unbounded esteem for the pure moral law, apart from all advantage, as it is presented for our obedience by practical reason, the voice of which makes even the boldest sinner tremble and compels him to hide himself from it, that we cannot wonder if we find this influence of a mere intellectual idea on the feelings quite incomprehensible to speculative reason and have to be satisfied with seeing so much of this a priori that such a feeling is inseparably connected with the conception of the moral law in every finite rational being. If this feeling of respect were pathological, and therefore were a feeling of pleasure based on the inner sense, it would be in vain to try to discover a connection of it with any idea a priori. But [it] is a feeling that applies merely to what is practical, and depends on the conception of a law, simply as to its form, not on account of any object, and therefore cannot be reckoned either as pleasure or pain, and yet produces an interest in obedience to the law, which we call the moral interest, just as the capacity of taking such an interest in the law (or respect for the moral law itself) is properly the moral feeling.

There is something remarkable about our boundless respect for the pure moral law, regardless of any benefit. Practical reason presents this law for us to obey. Its voice makes even the boldest sinner tremble and forces him to hide from it. So we cannot be surprised that speculative reason finds it incomprehensible how a purely intellectual idea can affect our feelings. We must be content with knowing this much a priori: every finite rational being’s conception of the moral law is inseparably connected with such a feeling. If this feeling of respect were pathological, and therefore a feeling of pleasure based on inner sense, any attempt to find an a priori connection between it and an idea would be futile. But this feeling applies only to what is practical. It depends on the conception of a law simply in its form, not on any object. It therefore cannot be counted as either pleasure or pain. Yet it produces an interest in obeying the law, which we call the moral interest. Similarly, the capacity to take such an interest in the law, or respect for the moral law itself, is properly called the moral feeling.

The consciousness of a free submission of the will to the law, yet combined with an inevitable constraint put upon all inclinations, though only by our own reason, is respect for the law. The law that demands this respect and inspires it is clearly no other than the moral (for no other precludes all inclinations from exercising any direct influence on the will). An action which is objectively practical according to this law, to the exclusion of every determining principle of inclination, is duty, and this by reason of that exclusion includes in its concept practical obligation, that is, a determination to actions, however reluctantly they may be done. The feeling that arises from the consciousness of this obligation is not pathological, as would be a feeling produced by an object of the senses, but practical only, that is, it is made possible by a preceding (objective) determination of the will and a causality of the reason. As submission to the law, therefore, that is, as a command (announcing constraint for the sensibly affected subject), it contains in it no pleasure, but on the contrary, so far, pain in the action. On the other hand, however, as this constraint is exercised merely by the legislation of our own reason, it also contains something elevating, and this subjective effect on feeling, inasmuch as pure practical reason is the sole cause of it, may be called in this respect self-approbation, since we recognize ourselves as determined thereto solely by the law without any interest, and are now conscious of a quite different interest subjectively produced thereby, and which is purely practical and free; and our taking this interest in an action of duty is not suggested by any inclination, but is commanded and actually brought about by reason through the practical law; whence this feeling obtains a special name, that of respect.

Respect for the law is the awareness that our will freely submits to it. At the same time, the law inevitably constrains all our inclinations, though only through our own reason. The law that demands and inspires this respect is clearly the moral law. No other law prevents all inclinations from directly influencing the will. An action that is objectively practical according to this law, excluding every determining principle based on inclination, is duty. Because duty excludes these principles, its concept includes practical obligation. Practical obligation is a determination to act, however reluctantly the actions may be done. The feeling that arises from awareness of this obligation is not pathological, as a feeling produced by a sensory object would be. It is purely practical. That is, a prior objective determination of the will and the causality of reason make it possible. As submission to the law, then, it is submission to a command. This command announces a constraint on a person affected by the senses. To this extent, submission to the law involves no pleasure but, on the contrary, pain in acting. On the other hand, this constraint is imposed solely by the lawgiving of our own reason. So it also contains something elevating. Pure practical reason alone causes this effect on our feeling. In this respect, the effect may be called self-approval. For we recognize that the law alone determines us to act, without any interest. We also become aware of a quite different interest that the law subjectively produces in us. This interest is purely practical and free. No inclination suggests this interest in an action done from duty. Rather, reason commands it and actually brings it about through the practical law. This is why the feeling has a special name: respect.

The notion of duty, therefore, requires in the action, objectively, agreement with the law, and, subjectively in its maxim, that respect for the law shall be the sole mode in which the will is determined thereby. And on this rests the distinction between the consciousness of having acted according to duty and from duty, that is, from respect for the law. The former (legality) is possible even if inclinations have been the determining principles of the will; but the latter (morality), moral worth, can be placed only in this, that the action is done from duty, that is, simply for the sake of the law. *

The idea of duty therefore requires that an action objectively conform to the law. It also requires that, subjectively, the action’s guiding principle be determined solely by respect for the law. This is the basis for the distinction between knowing that one has acted according to duty and knowing that one has acted from duty, or from respect for the law. The first (legality) is possible even if inclinations have determined the will. But the second (morality), or moral worth, can lie only in acting from duty, simply for the sake of the law. *

It is of the greatest importance to attend with the utmost exactness in all moral judgements to the subjective principle of all maxims, that all the morality of actions may be placed in the necessity of acting from duty and from respect for the law, not from love and inclination for that which the actions are to produce. For men and all created rational beings moral necessity is constraint, that is obligation, and every action based on it is to be conceived as a duty, not as a proceeding previously pleasing, or likely to be pleasing to us of our own accord. As if indeed we could ever bring it about that without respect for the law, which implies fear, or at least apprehension of transgression, we of ourselves, like the independent Deity, could ever come into possession of holiness of will by the coincidence of our will with the pure moral law becoming as it were part of our nature, never to be shaken (in which case the law would cease to be a command for us, as we could never be tempted to be untrue to it).

In all moral judgments, it is of the greatest importance to examine the subjective principle of every maxim with utmost care. We must place all the morality of actions in the necessity of acting from duty and respect for the law, not from love or inclination toward what the actions are meant to produce. For human beings and all created rational beings, moral necessity is a constraint, that is, an obligation. Every action based on this necessity must be understood as a duty, not as something already pleasing to us or likely to please us of its own accord. It would be as if we could ever attain holiness of will on our own, like the independent Deity, without respect for the law. Such respect implies fear, or at least apprehension, of breaking the law. To attain holiness, our will would have to agree with the pure moral law so completely that this agreement became, as it were, an unshakable part of our nature. In that case, the law would no longer be a command for us, since we could never be tempted to act against it.

The moral law is in fact for the will of a perfect being a law of holiness, but for the will of every finite rational being a law of duty, of moral constraint, and of the determination of its actions by respect for this law and reverence for its duty. No other subjective principle must be assumed as a motive, else while the action might chance to be such as the law prescribes, yet, as does not proceed from duty, the intention, which is the thing properly in question in this legislation, is not moral.

For the will of a perfect being, the moral law is a law of holiness. But for the will of every finite rational being, it is a law of duty and moral constraint. It requires such beings to act out of respect for the law and reverence for their duty. No other subjective principle may be assumed as a motive. Otherwise, an action might happen to conform to the law, but it would not proceed from duty. Its intention would therefore not be moral, and the intention is what properly matters under this law.

It is a very beautiful thing to do good to men from love to them and from sympathetic good will, or to be just from love of order; but this is not yet the true moral maxim of our conduct which is suitable to our position amongst rational beings as men, when we pretend with fanciful pride to set ourselves above the thought of duty, like volunteers, and, as if we were independent on the command, to want to do of our own good pleasure what we think we need no command to do. We stand under a discipline of reason and in all our maxims must not forget our subjection to it, nor withdraw anything therefrom, or by an egotistic presumption diminish aught of the authority of the law (although our own reason gives it) so as to set the determining principle of our will, even though the law be conformed to, anywhere else but in the law itself and in respect for this law. Duty and obligation are the only names that we must give to our relation to the moral law. We are indeed legislative members of a moral kingdom rendered possible by freedom, and presented to us by reason as an object of respect; but yet we are subjects in it, not the sovereign, and to mistake our inferior position as creatures, and presumptuously to reject the authority of the moral law, is already to revolt from it in spirit, even though the letter of it is fulfilled.

It is a beautiful thing to do good to others out of love and sympathy, or to act justly out of love of order. But this is not yet the true moral principle for our conduct, suited to our position as human beings among rational beings. We fall short of that principle when we proudly imagine ourselves above duty, acting like volunteers. We then act as if we were independent of the law’s command. We want to do as we please what we think we need no command to do. We live under the discipline of reason. In all our principles of action, we must remember that we are subject to this discipline, without exempting anything from it. Nor may we arrogantly diminish the authority of the law, although our own reason gives us the law. Even when we obey the law, the reason for our choice must lie in the law itself and in respect for it. Duty and obligation are the only names we must give to our relationship to the moral law. We are indeed lawgiving members of a moral kingdom made possible by freedom. Reason presents this kingdom to us as an object of respect. But we are subjects in that kingdom, not its sovereign. To mistake our subordinate position as creatures and arrogantly reject the moral law’s authority is already to rebel against it in spirit. This is so even when we obey the letter of the law.

With this agrees very well the possibility of such a command as: Love God above everything, and thy neighbour as thyself. * For as a command it requires respect for a law which commands love and does not leave it to our own arbitrary choice to make this our principle. Love to God, however, considered as an inclination (pathological love), is impossible, for He is not an object of the senses. The same affection towards men is possible no doubt, but cannot be commanded, for it is not in the power of any man to love anyone at command; therefore it is only practical love that is meant in that pith of all laws. To love God means, in this sense, to like to do His commandments; to love one's neighbour means to like to practise all duties towards him. But the command that makes this a rule cannot command us to have this disposition in actions conformed to duty, but only to endeavour after it. For a command to like to do a thing is in itself contradictory, because if we already know of ourselves what we are bound to do, and if further we are conscious of liking to do it, a command would be quite needless; and if we do it not willingly, but only out of respect for the law, a command that makes this respect the motive of our maxim would directly counteract the disposition commanded. That law of all laws, therefore, like all the moral precepts of the Gospel, exhibits the moral disposition in all its perfection, in which, viewed as an ideal of holiness, it is not attainable by any creature, but yet is the pattern which we should strive to approach, and in an uninterrupted but infinite progress become like to. In fact, if a rational creature could ever reach this point, that he thoroughly likes to do all moral laws, this would mean that there does not exist in him even the possibility of a desire that would tempt him to deviate from them; for to overcome such a desire always costs the subject some sacrifice and therefore requires self-compulsion, that is, inward constraint to something that one does not quite like to do; and no creature can ever reach this stage of moral disposition. For, being a creature, and therefore always dependent with respect to what he requires for complete satisfaction, he can never be quite free from desires and inclinations, and as these rest on physical causes, they can never of themselves coincide with the moral law, the sources of which are quite different; and therefore they make it necessary to found the mental disposition of one's maxims on moral obligation, not on ready inclination, but on respect, which demands obedience to the law, even though one may not like it; not on love, which apprehends no inward reluctance of the will towards the law. Nevertheless, this latter, namely, love to the law (which would then cease to be a command, and then morality, which would have passed subjectively into holiness, would cease to be virtue) must be the constant though unattainable goal of his endeavours. For in the case of what we highly esteem, but yet (on account of the consciousness of our weakness) dread, the increased facility of satisfying it changes the most reverential awe into inclination, and respect into love; at least this would be the perfection of a disposition devoted to the law, if it were possible for a creature to attain it.

This agrees well with the possibility of a command such as: Love God above everything, and your neighbor as yourself. * As a command, it requires respect for a law that commands love. It does not leave us free to choose whether to make love our principle. But love for God as an inclination (pathological love) is impossible, because he is not an object of the senses. Such affection for other people is certainly possible, but it cannot be commanded. No one has the power to love someone on command. So only practical love is meant by this central principle of all laws. In this sense, to love God means to take pleasure in obeying his commandments. To love your neighbor means to take pleasure in carrying out all your duties toward your neighbor. But the command that makes this a rule cannot command us to have this disposition when we act as duty requires. It can only command us to strive for it. For a command to enjoy doing something is self-contradictory. Suppose we already know for ourselves what we are obliged to do, and also know that we enjoy doing it. A command would then be quite unnecessary. But suppose we do it unwillingly, and only out of respect for the law. A command that makes this respect the motive of our maxim would then directly oppose the disposition it commands. That law of all laws, like all the moral precepts of the Gospel, therefore presents the moral disposition in its complete perfection. Viewed as an ideal of holiness, this perfection is unattainable by any creature. Yet it remains the model we should strive to approach and become like, through continuous but infinite progress. In fact, suppose a rational creature could ever reach the point of thoroughly enjoying obedience to all moral laws. This would mean that the creature could not even have a desire tempting it to depart from those laws. For overcoming such a desire always costs the person some sacrifice. It therefore requires self-compulsion, an inward constraint to do something one does not fully enjoy. No creature can ever reach this stage of moral disposition. As a creature, a person is always dependent on something for complete satisfaction. So a person can never be entirely free from desires and inclinations. These rest on physical causes, so they can never of themselves coincide with the moral law, whose sources are quite different. They therefore make it necessary to base the disposition behind one's maxims on moral obligation, not on willing inclination. It must be based on respect, which demands obedience to the law even when one does not like it. It cannot be based on love, which encounters no inward reluctance of the will toward the law. Nevertheless, love for the law must be the constant, though unattainable, goal of our efforts. With such love, the law would cease to be a command. Morality would then have become holiness within us and would cease to be virtue. For we may hold something in high esteem and yet dread it because we are aware of our weakness. As we find it easier to meet its demands, our deeply reverential awe changes into inclination, and respect changes into love. At least, this would be the perfection of a disposition devoted to the law, if a creature could attain it.

This reflection is intended not so much to clear up the evangelical command just cited, in order to prevent religious fanaticism in regard to love of God, but to define accurately the moral disposition with regard directly to our duties towards men, and to check, or if possible prevent, a merely moral fanaticism which infects many persons. The stage of morality on which man (and, as far as we can see, every rational creature) stands is respect for the moral law. The disposition that he ought to have in obeying this is to obey it from duty, not from spontaneous inclination, or from an endeavour taken up from liking and unbidden; and this proper moral condition in which he can always be is virtue, that is, moral disposition militant, and not holiness in the fancied possession of a perfect purity of the disposition of the will. It is nothing but moral fanaticism and exaggerated self-conceit that is infused into the mind by exhortation to actions as noble, sublime, and magnanimous, by which men are led into the delusion that it is not duty, that is, respect for the law, whose yoke (an easy yoke indeed, because reason itself imposes it on us) they must bear, whether they like it or not, that constitutes the determining principle of their actions, and which always humbles them while they obey it; fancying that those actions are expected from them, not from duty, but as pure merit. For not only would they, in imitating such deeds from such a principle, not have fulfilled the spirit of the law in the least, which consists not in the legality of the action (without regard to principle), but in the subjection of the mind to the law; not only do they make the motives pathological (seated in sympathy or self-love), not moral (in the law), but they produce in this way a vain, high-flying, fantastic way of thinking, flattering themselves with a spontaneous goodness of heart that needs neither spur nor bridle, for which no command is needed, and thereby forgetting their obligation, which they ought to think of rather than merit. Indeed actions of others which are done with great sacrifice, and merely for the sake of duty, may be praised as noble and sublime, but only so far as there are traces which suggest that they were done wholly out of respect for duty and not from excited feelings. If these, however, are set before anyone as examples to be imitated, respect for duty (which is the only true moral feeling) must be employed as the motive- this severe holy precept which never allows our vain self-love to dally with pathological impulses (however analogous they may be to morality), and to take a pride in meritorious worth. Now if we search we shall find for all actions that are worthy of praise a law of duty which commands, and does not leave us to choose what may be agreeable to our inclinations. This is the only way of representing things that can give a moral training to the soul, because it alone is capable of solid and accurately defined principles.

This reflection is not intended mainly to clarify the Gospel command just cited or to prevent religious fanaticism about love of God. Rather, it is intended to define precisely the moral attitude we should have toward our duties to other people. It also aims to check, or if possible prevent, a purely moral fanaticism that infects many people. The moral position of human beings, and, as far as we can see, of every rational creature, is one of respect for the moral law. We should obey this law from duty, not from spontaneous inclination or an unprompted desire to do what we like. The proper moral condition we can always be in is virtue, a moral attitude engaged in struggle. It is not holiness, imagined as the possession of a perfectly pure will. Urging people to act because their actions are noble, sublime, and generous inspires nothing but moral fanaticism and exaggerated self-importance. Such appeals lead people to believe that duty, or respect for the law, should not determine their actions. Yet they must bear the yoke of duty whether they like it or not. It is an easy yoke, since reason itself places it on us. Obeying the law always humbles them. Instead, they imagine that such actions are expected of them as acts of pure merit, not as duties. When people imitate such deeds for this reason, they do not fulfill the spirit of the law at all. The spirit of the law consists not merely in acting in accordance with it, regardless of motive, but in submitting the mind to it. Moreover, they make their motives pathological, rooted in sympathy or self-love, rather than moral, rooted in the law. In this way they also develop a vain, extravagant, and fanciful way of thinking. They flatter themselves that their hearts are spontaneously good, needing neither spur nor bridle and requiring no command. As a result, they forget their obligation, though they ought to think of it rather than merit. We may praise other people’s actions as noble and sublime when they involve great sacrifice and are done solely for duty’s sake. But we may do so only insofar as there are signs that the actions were done entirely out of respect for duty, not from stirred emotions. If such actions are offered as examples to imitate, respect for duty must be the motive. Respect for duty is the only true moral feeling. Its stern and sacred command never lets our vain self-love indulge pathological impulses, however much they may resemble moral ones, or take pride in our merit. If we look closely, we will find a law of duty commanding every praiseworthy action. This law does not leave us free to choose whatever suits our inclinations. Only this way of presenting things can provide moral training for the soul, because it alone can rest on firm and precisely defined principles.

If fanaticism in its most general sense is a deliberate over stepping of the limits of human reason, then moral fanaticism is such an over stepping of the bounds that practical pure reason sets to mankind, in that it forbids us to place the subjective determining principle of correct actions, that is, their moral motive, in anything but the law itself, or to place the disposition which is thereby brought into the maxims in anything but respect for this law, and hence commands us to take as the supreme vital principle of all morality in men the thought of duty, which strikes down all arrogance as well as vain self-love.

If fanaticism, in its broadest sense, is a deliberate crossing of the limits of human reason, then moral fanaticism crosses the limits that pure practical reason sets for humanity. Pure practical reason forbids us to base the subjective determining principle of right actions, their moral motive, on anything but the law itself. It also forbids us to base the disposition expressed in our maxims on anything but respect for this law. Therefore, pure practical reason commands us to take the thought of duty as the supreme guiding principle of all human morality. This thought strikes down all arrogance and vain self-love.

If this is so, it is not only writers of romance or sentimental educators (although they may be zealous opponents of sentimentalism), but sometimes even philosophers, nay, even the severest of all, the Stoics, that have brought in moral fanaticism instead of a sober but wise moral discipline, although the fanaticism of the latter was more heroic, that of the former of an insipid, effeminate character; and we may, without hypocrisy, say of the moral teaching of the Gospel, that it first, by the purity of its moral principle, and at the same time by its suitability to the limitations of finite beings, brought all the good conduct of men under the discipline of a duty plainly set before their eyes, which does not permit them to indulge in dreams of imaginary moral perfections; and that it also set the bounds of humility (that is, self-knowledge) to self-conceit as well as to self-love, both which are ready to mistake their limits.

If this is so, writers of romance and sentimental educators have promoted moral fanaticism instead of sober but wise moral discipline. This is true even though they may be zealous opponents of sentimentalism. Sometimes even philosophers have done the same, including the strictest of all, the Stoics. But the Stoics’ fanaticism was more heroic, while that of the writers and educators was bland and effeminate. We may say without hypocrisy that the moral teaching of the Gospel was the first to place all good human conduct under the discipline of a clearly stated duty. It did this through the purity of its moral principle and its suitability to the limitations of finite beings. This duty does not allow people to indulge in dreams of imaginary moral perfection. The Gospel also set the bounds of humility, that is, self-knowledge, to self-conceit and self-love, both of which are prone to mistake their limits.

Duty! Thou sublime and mighty name that dost embrace nothing charming or insinuating, but requirest submission, and yet seekest not to move the will by threatening aught that would arouse natural aversion or terror, but merely holdest forth a law which of itself finds entrance into the mind, and yet gains reluctant reverence (though not always obedience), a law before which all inclinations are dumb, even though they secretly counter-work it; what origin is there worthy of thee, and where is to be found the root of thy noble descent which proudly rejects all kindred with the inclinations; a root to be derived from which is the indispensable condition of the only worth which men can give themselves?

Duty! Your name is sublime and mighty. You offer nothing charming or alluring, but demand submission. Yet you do not try to move the will by threatening anything that would naturally cause aversion or terror. You simply present a law that enters the mind on its own. This law wins reverence, though reluctantly, and not always obedience. Before this law, all inclinations fall silent, even though they secretly work against it. What origin is worthy of you? Where can we find the root of your noble descent, which proudly rejects any kinship with the inclinations? For only by coming from this root can people have the one kind of worth they can give themselves.

It can be nothing less than a power which elevates man above himself (as a part of the world of sense), a power which connects him with an order of things that only the understanding can conceive, with a world which at the same time commands the whole sensible world, and with it the empirically determinable existence of man in time, as well as the sum total of all ends (which totality alone suits such unconditional practical laws as the moral). This power is nothing but personality, that is, freedom and independence on the mechanism of nature, yet, regarded also as a faculty of a being which is subject to special laws, namely, pure practical laws given by its own reason; so that the person as belonging to the sensible world is subject to his own personality as belonging to the intelligible [supersensible] world. It is then not to be wondered at that man, as belonging to both worlds, must regard his own nature in reference to its second and highest characteristic only with reverence, and its laws with the highest respect.

It can be nothing less than a power that raises human beings above themselves as parts of the sensory world. This power connects them to an order of things that only the understanding can conceive. It connects them to a world that also governs the whole sensory world. This includes human existence in time, as it can be determined through experience, and the sum of all ends. Only this totality is suited to unconditional practical laws such as the moral law. This power is nothing other than personality. Personality is freedom from and independence of the mechanism of nature. Yet it is also a capacity of a being subject to special laws, namely pure practical laws given by its own reason. Thus a person, as a member of the sensory world, is subject to their own personality as a member of the intelligible [supersensible] world. It is therefore no wonder that human beings belong to both worlds. Nor is it a wonder that they must regard their own nature, in its second and highest aspect, only with reverence, and its laws with the highest respect.

On this origin are founded many expressions which designate the worth of objects according to moral ideas. The moral law is holy (inviolable). Man is indeed unholy enough, but he must regard humanity in his own person as holy. In all creation every thing one chooses and over which one has any power, may be used merely as means; man alone, and with him every rational creature, is an end in himself. By virtue of the autonomy of his freedom he is the subject of the moral law, which is holy. Just for this reason every will, even every person's own individual will, in relation to itself, is restricted to the condition of agreement with the autonomy of the rational being, that is to say, that it is not to be subject to any purpose which cannot accord with a law which might arise from the will of the passive subject himself; the latter is, therefore, never to be employed merely as means, but as itself also, concurrently, an end. We justly attribute this condition even to the Divine will, with regard to the rational beings in the world, which are His creatures, since it rests on their personality, by which alone they are ends in themselves.

Many expressions for the value of objects according to moral ideas are based on this origin. The moral law is holy (inviolable). Human beings are certainly unholy enough, but each must regard humanity in their own person as holy. In all creation, anything one chooses and has power over may be used merely as a means. Human beings alone, and with them every rational creature, are ends in themselves. Because of the autonomy of their freedom, they are subject to the moral law, which is holy. For this very reason, every will, even a person's own will in relation to itself, is subject to a condition. It must respect the autonomy of the rational being. In other words, it must not impose any purpose that cannot agree with a law that could arise from the will of the person affected. That person must therefore never be used merely as a means, but must also be treated as an end. We rightly hold that this condition applies even to the divine will in relation to rational beings in the world, who are his creatures. For the condition rests on their personality, which alone makes them ends in themselves.

This respect-inspiring idea of personality which sets before our eyes the sublimity of our nature (in its higher aspect), while at the same time it shows us the want of accord of our conduct with it and thereby strikes down self-conceit, is even natural to the commonest reason and easily observed. Has not every even moderately honourable man sometimes found that, where by an otherwise inoffensive lie he might either have withdrawn himself from an unpleasant business, or even have procured some advantages for a loved and well-deserving friend, he has avoided it solely lest he should despise himself secretly in his own eyes? When an upright man is in the greatest distress, which he might have avoided if he could only have disregarded duty, is he not sustained by the consciousness that he has maintained humanity in its proper dignity in his own person and honoured it, that he has no reason to be ashamed of himself in his own sight, or to dread the inward glance of self-examination? This consolation is not happiness, it is not even the smallest part of it, for no one would wish to have occasion for it, or would, perhaps, even desire a life in such circumstances. But he lives, and he cannot endure that he should be in his own eyes unworthy of life. This inward peace is therefore merely negative as regards what can make life pleasant; it is, in fact, only the escaping the danger of sinking in personal worth, after everything else that is valuable has been lost. It is the effect of a respect for something quite different from life, something in comparison and contrast with which life with all its enjoyment has no value. He still lives only because it is his duty, not because he finds anything pleasant in life.

The idea of personality inspires respect. It shows us the greatness of our nature in its higher aspect. At the same time, it shows how far our conduct falls short of that greatness, and so humbles our self-conceit. Even the most ordinary person can readily understand and recognize this idea. Has not every moderately honorable person sometimes avoided an otherwise harmless lie, simply to avoid secretly despising himself? He may have lied to escape an unpleasant task or even to benefit a loved and deserving friend. When an upright person is in the greatest distress, could he have avoided it by disregarding his duty? If so, is he not sustained by knowing that he has upheld and honored the dignity of humanity in himself? He has no reason to feel ashamed of himself or to dread examining his own conscience. This comfort is not happiness, nor is it even the smallest part of happiness. No one would wish to need such comfort, or perhaps even wish to live in such circumstances. But the person lives, and he cannot bear to see himself as unworthy of life. This inner peace, then, adds nothing positive to what makes life pleasant. It merely protects him from losing his sense of personal worth after everything else of value has been lost. It comes from respect for something quite different from life. Compared and contrasted with this object of respect, life and all its pleasures have no value. He lives on only because it is his duty, not because he finds anything pleasant in life.

Such is the nature of the true motive of pure practical reason; it is no other than the pure moral law itself, inasmuch as it makes us conscious of the sublimity of our own supersensible existence and subjectively produces respect for their higher nature in men who are also conscious of their sensible existence and of the consequent dependence of their pathologically very susceptible nature. Now with this motive may be combined so many charms and satisfactions of life that even on this account alone the most prudent choice of a rational Epicurean reflecting on the greatest advantage of life would declare itself on the side of moral conduct, and it may even be advisable to join this prospect of a cheerful enjoyment of life with that supreme motive which is already sufficient of itself; but only as a counterpoise to the attractions which vice does not fail to exhibit on the opposite side, and not so as, even in the smallest degree, to place in this the proper moving power when duty is in question. For that would be just the same as to wish to taint the purity of the moral disposition in its source. The majesty of duty has nothing to do with enjoyment of life; it has its special law and its special tribunal, and though the two should be never so well shaken together to be given well mixed, like medicine, to the sick soul, yet they will soon separate of themselves; and if they do not, the former will not act; and although physical life might gain somewhat in force, the moral life would fade away irrecoverably.

This is the nature of the true motive of pure practical reason. It is nothing other than the pure moral law itself. This law makes us aware of the sublimity of our own existence beyond the senses. It also produces respect for their higher nature in people who are aware of their existence as beings with senses. They are aware, too, that their nature is highly susceptible to feelings and impulses and is therefore dependent. This motive may be combined with so many pleasures and satisfactions in life that, for this reason alone, a rational Epicurean considering life’s greatest advantage would most prudently choose moral conduct. It may even be advisable to join the prospect of a cheerful enjoyment of life to that supreme motive, which is already sufficient by itself. But this prospect should serve only as a counterweight to the attractions that vice unfailingly offers on the other side. When duty is at issue, we must not treat enjoyment of life as the true motive, even to the smallest degree. That would be the same as trying to taint the purity of our moral disposition at its source. The majesty of duty has nothing to do with enjoyment of life. Duty has its own law and its own tribunal. Duty and enjoyment may be shaken together thoroughly and given to the sick soul like a well-mixed medicine. Yet they will soon separate on their own. If they do not, duty will have no effect. And although physical life might gain some strength, moral life would fade away beyond recovery.