The Young Person's Speech

The Young Person arose and declared that he felt the power of the wine, which was indeed apparent to some degree; for the blood pulsed strongly in his temples, and his appearance was not as beautiful as before the meal. He spoke as follows:

The Young Person stood up and declared that he felt the effects of the wine. Indeed, those effects were somewhat visible, for the blood throbbed in his temples. And he no longer looked as beautiful as he had before the meal. He said:

If there be truth in the words of the poets, dear fellow-banqueters, then unrequited love is, indeed, the greatest of sorrows. Should you require any proof of this you need but listen to the speech of lovers. They say that it is death, certain death; and the first time they believe it—for the space of two weeks. The next time they say that it is death; and finally they will die sometime—as the result of unrequited love. For that love has killed them, about that there can obtain no doubt. And as to love's having to take hold three times to make away with them, that is not different from the dentist's having to pull three times before he is able to budge that firmly rooted molar. But, if unrequited love thus means certain death, how happy am I who have never loved and, I hope, will only achieve dying some time, and not from unrequited love! But just this may be the greatest misfortune, for all I know, and how unfortunate must I then be!

If the poets speak the truth, my dear fellow diners, then unrequited love is indeed the greatest sorrow. If you need proof, you only have to listen to lovers speak. They say unrequited love means death, certain death. The first time, they believe it for two weeks. The next time, they say again that unrequited love means death. And eventually they will die, at some point, from unrequited love. For there can be no doubt that unrequited love has killed them. Love may need three tries to finish them off. But that is no different from a dentist needing three pulls to loosen a firmly rooted molar. But if unrequited love means certain death, how happy I am never to have loved! I hope to manage to die only once, sometime in the future, and not from unrequited love! But for all I know, never having loved may be the greatest misfortune. How unfortunate I must then be!

The essence of love probably (for I speak as does a blind man about colors), probably lies in its bliss; which is, in other words, that the cessation of love brings death to the lover. This I comprehend very well as in the nature of a hypothesis correlating life and death. But, if love is to be merely by way of hypothesis, why, then lovers lay themselves open to ridicule through their actually falling in love. If, however, love is something real, why, then reality must bear out what lovers say about it. But did one in real life ever hear of, or observe, such things having taken place, even if there is hearsay to that effect? Here I perceive already one of the contradictions in which love involves a person; for whether this is different for those initiated, that I have no means of knowing; but love certainly does seem to involve people in the most curious contradictions.

The essence of love probably lies in its bliss. I say “probably” because I speak like a blind man talking about colors. In other words, when love ends, the lover dies. I understand this very well as a hypothesis linking life and death. But if love is merely a hypothesis, then lovers invite ridicule by actually falling in love. If, however, love is real, then reality must confirm what lovers say about love. But has anyone ever heard of or witnessed such things in real life, even if there are rumors? Here I already see one of the contradictions that love draws a person into. Whether things are different for those who know love, I have no way of knowing. But love certainly does seem to draw people into the strangest contradictions.

There is no other relation between human beings which makes such demands on one's ideality as does love, and yet love is never seen to have it. For this reason alone I would be afraid of love; for I fear that it might have the power to make me too talk vaguely about a bliss which I did not feel and a sorrow I did not have. I say this here since I am bidden to speak on love, though unacquainted with it—I say this in surroundings which appeal to me like a Greek symposion; for I should otherwise not care to speak on this subject as I do not wish to disturb any one's happiness but, rather, am content with my own thoughts. Who knows but these thoughts are sheer imbecilities and vain imaginings—perhaps my ignorance is explicable from the fact that I never have learned, nor have wished to learn, from any one, how one comes to love; or from the fact that I have never yet challenged a woman with a glance—which is supposed to be smart—but have always lowered my eyes, unwilling to yield to an impression before having fully made sure about the nature of the power into whose sphere I am venturing.

No other human relationship demands so much idealism from us as love does. Yet love is never seen to possess that idealism. For that reason alone, I would be afraid of love. I fear love might make me, too, speak vaguely about a bliss I did not feel and a sorrow I did not have. I say this here because I have been asked to speak about love, though I know nothing of it. I speak in surroundings that feel to me like a Greek symposion. Otherwise, I would not care to discuss the subject. I do not want to disturb anyone's happiness. Instead, I am content with my own thoughts. Who knows whether these thoughts are sheer foolishness and empty imaginings? Perhaps my ignorance comes from never having learned, or wanted to learn, from anyone how one comes to love. Or perhaps my ignorance comes from never having challenged a woman with a glance, supposedly a clever thing to do. Instead, I have always lowered my eyes. I am unwilling to give in to an impression before fully understanding the power whose sphere I am entering.

At this point he was interrupted by Constantin who expostulated with him because, by his very confession of never having been in love, he had debarred himself from speaking. The Young Person declared that at any other time he would gladly obey an injunction to that effect as he had often enough experienced how tiresome it was to have to make a speech; but that in this case he would insist upon his right. Precisely the fact that one had had no love affair, he said, also constituted an affair of love; and he who could assert this of himself was entitled to speak about Eros just because his thoughts were bound to take issue with the whole sex and not with individuals. He was granted permission to speak and continued.

At this point Constantin interrupted him and objected. By admitting he had never been in love, he had disqualified himself from speaking. The Young Person said that at any other time he would gladly agree to remain silent. He had often experienced how tiresome making a speech could be. But in this case he would insist on his right to speak. The very fact of never having had a love affair, he said, was itself a love affair. Anyone who could say he had never had a love affair was entitled to speak about Eros. This was precisely because his thoughts were bound to challenge the entire sex, not particular individuals. He was allowed to speak and continued.

Inasmuch as my right to speak has been challenged, this may serve to exempt me from your laughter; for I know well that, just as among rustics he is not considered a man who does not call a tobacco pipe his own, likewise among men-folks he is not considered a real man who is not experienced in love. If any one feels like laughing, let him laugh—my thought is, and remains, the essential consideration for me. Or is love, perchance, privileged to be the only event which is to be considered after, rather than before, it happens? If that be the case, what then if I, having fallen in love, should later on think that it was too late to think about it? Look you, this is the reason why I choose to think about love before it happens. To be sure, lovers also maintain that they gave the matter thought, but such is not the case. They assume it to be essential in man to fall in love; but this surely does not mean thinking about love but, rather, assuming it, in order to make sure of getting one's self a sweetheart.

Since my right to speak has been challenged, perhaps I may be spared your laughter. For I know well that country people do not consider someone a man unless he owns a tobacco pipe. Likewise, men do not consider someone a real man unless he has experience in love. If anyone feels like laughing, let him laugh. My thinking is, and remains, what matters most to me. Or is love perhaps the only event we are allowed to think about only afterward, rather than beforehand? If so, what if I fell in love and later thought it was too late to think about love? You see, that is why I choose to think about love before it happens. Of course, lovers also insist that they thought the matter over, but they did not. They assume that falling in love is an essential part of being human. But surely that is not thinking about love. Rather, they take love for granted to make sure they get themselves a sweetheart.

In fact, whenever my reflection endeavors to pin down love, naught but contradiction seems to remain. At times, it is true, I feel as if something had escaped me, but I cannot tell what it is, whereas my reflection is able at once to point out the contradictions in what does occur. Very well, then, in my opinion love is the greatest self-contradiction imaginable, and comical at the same time. Indeed, the one corresponds to the other. The comical is always seen to occur in the category of contradictions—which truth I cannot take the time to demonstrate now; but what I shall demonstrate now is that love is comical. By love I mean the relation between man and woman. I am not thinking of Eros in the Greek sense which has been extolled so beautifully by Plato who, by the way, is so far from considering the love of woman that he mentions it only in passing, holding it to be inferior to the love of youths.¹⁰ I say, love is comical to a third person—more I say not. Whether it is for this reason that lovers always hate a third person I do not know; but I do know that reflection is always in such a relation the third person, and for this reason I cannot love without at the same time having a third person present in the shape of my reflection.

In fact, whenever I try to pin down love through reflection, nothing seems to remain but contradiction. Sometimes, I admit, I feel as if something has escaped me, but I cannot say what. Yet my reflection can immediately point out the contradictions in what does happen. Very well, then. In my opinion, love is the greatest self-contradiction imaginable, and comical at the same time. Indeed, the two go together. Comedy always involves contradictions. I cannot take the time to prove that truth now, but I will now show that love is comical. By love I mean the relationship between a man and a woman. I am not thinking of Eros in the Greek sense, which Plato praised so beautifully. Incidentally, Plato is so far from considering love for women that he mentions it only in passing. He considers it inferior to love for young men.¹⁰ I say that love is comical to a third person. I say no more than that. Whether lovers always hate a third person for this reason, I do not know. But I do know that reflection is always the third person in such a relationship. For this reason, I cannot love without a third person being present in the form of my reflection.

This surely cannot seem strange to any one, every one having doubted everything, whereas I am uttering my doubts only with reference to love. And yet I do think it strange that people have doubted everything and have again reached certainty, without as much as dropping a word concerning the difficulties which have held my thought captive—so much so that I have, now and then, longed to be freed of them—freed by the aid of one, note well, who was aware of these difficulties, and not of one who in his sleep had a notion to doubt, and to have doubted, everything, and again in his sleep had the notion that he is explaining, and has explained, all.¹¹

Surely my doubts cannot seem strange to anyone, since everyone has doubted everything, while I doubt only love. Yet I do find something strange about how people have doubted everything and then become certain again. They have not said a word about the difficulties that have trapped my thoughts. These difficulties have troubled me so much that, now and then, I have longed to be free of them. I have wanted help from someone who, mind you, understood these difficulties. Not someone who dreamed in his sleep that he was doubting everything and had doubted everything. And not someone who then dreamed, still asleep, that he was explaining everything and had explained everything.¹¹

Let me then have your attention, dear fellow banqueters, and if you yourselves be lovers do not therefore interrupt me, nor try to silence me because you do not wish to hear the explanation. Rather turn away and listen with averted faces to what I have to say, and what I insist upon saying, having once begun.

Then let me have your attention, dear fellow diners. If you are lovers yourselves, do not interrupt me on that account. And do not try to silence me because you do not want to hear the explanation. Instead, turn your faces away and listen to what I have to say. Now that I have begun, I insist on saying it.

In the first place I consider it comical that every one loves, and every one wishes to love, without any one ever being able to tell one what is the nature of the lovable or that which is the real object of love. As to the word "to love" I shall not discuss it since it means nothing definite; but as soon as the matter is broached at all we are met by the question as to what it is one loves. No other answer is ever vouchsafed us on that point other than that one loves what is lovable. For if one should make answer, with Plato,¹² that one is to love what is good, one has in taking this single step exceeded the bounds of the erotic.

First, I find it comical that everyone loves, and everyone wants to love. Yet no one can ever explain what makes something lovable, or what the true object of love is. As for the word "to love", I will not discuss it, since it has no definite meaning. But as soon as the subject comes up, we face the question of what we love. The only answer we ever get is that we love what is lovable. For if we answer, with Plato,¹² that we should love what is good, we have already stepped beyond erotic love.

The answer may be offered, perhaps, that one is to love what is beautiful. But if I then should ask whether to love means to love a beautiful landscape or a beautiful painting it would be immediately perceived that the erotic is not, as it were, comprised in the more general term of the love of things beautiful, but is something entirely of its own kind. Were a lover—just to give an example—to speak as follows, in order to express adequately how much love there dwelled in him: "I love beautiful landscapes, and my Lalage, and the beautiful dancer, and a beautiful horse—in short, I love all that is beautiful," his Lalage would not be satisfied with his encomium, however well satisfied she might be with him in all other respects, and even if she be beautiful; and now suppose Lalage is not beautiful and he yet loved her!

Perhaps the answer is that we should love what is beautiful. But suppose I then asked whether loving means loving a beautiful landscape or a beautiful painting. We would immediately see that erotic love does not fall under the broader category of loving beautiful things. Instead, erotic love is something entirely distinct. Suppose, for example, a lover spoke as follows to express fully how much love he felt: "I love beautiful landscapes, and my Lalage, and the beautiful dancer, and a beautiful horse. In short, I love all that is beautiful." His Lalage would not be satisfied with this praise, however satisfied she might be with him in every other respect. She would not be satisfied even if she were beautiful. And now suppose Lalage is not beautiful, yet he still loved her!

Again, if I should refer the erotic element to the bisection of which Aristophanes tells us¹³ when he says that the gods severed man into two parts as one cuts flounders, and that these parts thus separated sought one another, then I again encounter a difficulty I cannot get over, which is, in how far I may base my reasoning on Aristophanes who in his speech—just because there is no reason for the thought to stop at this point—goes further in his thought and thinks that the gods might take it into their heads to divide man into three parts, for the sake of still better fun. For the sake of still better fun; for is it not true, as I said, that love renders a person ridiculous, if not in the eyes of others then certainly in the eyes of the gods?

Again, suppose I explain erotic love through the division Aristophanes describes¹³. He says the gods cut human beings in two, as one cuts flounders, and the separated halves sought each other. Then I again face a difficulty I cannot overcome. How far can I base my reasoning on Aristophanes? In his speech, he takes his thinking further, precisely because there is no reason to stop at that point. He imagines the gods might take it into their heads to divide human beings into three parts for even more fun. For even more fun. For isn't it true, as I said, that love makes a person ridiculous? If not in the eyes of others, then certainly in the eyes of the gods?

Now, let me assume that the erotic element resides essentially in the relation between man and woman—what is to be inferred from that? If the lover should say to his Lalage: I love you because you are a woman; I might as well love any other woman, as for instance, ugly Zoë: then beautiful Lalage would feel insulted.

Now, let me assume that the erotic element lies essentially in the relationship between man and woman. What follows from that assumption? If a lover said to his Lalage, “I love you because you are a woman. I might just as well love any other woman, such as ugly Zoë,” then beautiful Lalage would feel insulted.

In what, then, consists the lovable? This is my question; but unfortunately, no one has been able to tell me. The individual lover always believes that, as far as he is concerned, he knows. Still he cannot make himself understood by any other lover; and he who listens to the speech of a number of lovers will learn that no two of them ever agree, even though they all talk about the same thing. Disregarding those altogether silly explanations which leave one as wise as before, that is, end by asserting that it is really the pretty feet of the beloved damsel, or the admired mustachios of the swain, which are the objects of love—disregarding these, one will find mentioned, even in the declamations of lovers in the higher style, first a number of details and, finally, the declaration: all her lovable ways; and when they have reached the climax: that inexplicable something I do not know how to explain. And this speech is meant to please especially beautiful Lalage. Me it does not please, for I don't understand a word of it and find, rather, that it contains a double contradiction—first, that it ends with the inexplicable, second, that it ends with the inexplicable; for he who intends to end with the inexplicable had best begin with the inexplicable and then say no more, lest he lay himself open to suspicion. If he begin with the inexplicable, saying no more, then this does not prove his helplessness, for it is, anyway, an explanation in a negative sense; but if he does begin with something else and lands in the inexplicable, then this does certainly prove his helplessness.

What, then, makes someone lovable? That is my question, but unfortunately no one has been able to tell me. Each lover believes that, for his own part, he knows. Yet he cannot make any other lover understand him. Listen to several lovers, and you will learn that no two ever agree, though all discuss the same thing. Set aside those utterly silly explanations that leave you no wiser than before. Such explanations end by claiming that love is really directed at the beloved young woman’s pretty feet. Or it is directed at the young man’s admired mustache. Even lovers who speak in a grander style begin by listing details. Finally, they declare: all her lovable ways. At the height of their speech comes: that inexplicable something I do not know how to explain. And this speech is supposed to please beautiful Lalage in particular. It does not please me, because I do not understand a word of it. Instead, I find a double contradiction in the speech. First, it ends with the inexplicable. Second, it ends with the inexplicable. For anyone who intends to end with the inexplicable had better begin with the inexplicable and say nothing more. Otherwise, he risks making himself look suspicious. If he begins with the inexplicable and says nothing more, he does not prove himself helpless. After all, beginning that way is an explanation in a negative sense. But if he begins with something else and ends with the inexplicable, he certainly does prove himself helpless.

So then we see: to love corresponds to the lovable; and the lovable is the inexplicable. Well, that is at least something; but comprehensible it is not, as little as the inexplicable way in which love seizes on its prey. Who, indeed, would not be alarmed if people about one, time and again, dropped down dead, all of a sudden, or had convulsions, without any one being able to account for it? But precisely in this fashion does love invade life, only with the difference that one is not alarmed thereby, since the lovers themselves regard it as their greatest happiness, but that one, on the contrary, is tempted to laugh; for the comical and the tragical elements ever correspond to one another. Today, one may converse with a person and can fairly well make him out—tomorrow, he speaks in tongues and with strange gestures: he is in love.

So we see: loving corresponds to what is lovable, and what is lovable is beyond explanation. Well, at least that is something. But it is no more understandable than the unexplained way love seizes its prey. Who would not be alarmed if people nearby repeatedly dropped dead without warning or had convulsions, with no explanation? Yet love invades life in precisely this way. The only difference is that love causes no alarm, since lovers themselves consider it their greatest happiness. Instead, we are tempted to laugh, for the comic and the tragic always correspond to each other. Today, you may talk with someone and understand him fairly well. Tomorrow, he speaks in tongues and makes strange gestures: he is in love.

Now, if to love meant to fall in love with the first person that came along, it would be easy to understand that one could give no special reasons for it; but since to love means to fall in love with one, one single person in all the world, it would seem as if such an extraordinary process of singling out ought to be due to such an extensive chain of reasoning that one might have to beg to be excused from hearing it—not so much because it did not explain anything as because it might be too lengthy to listen to. But no, the lovers are not able to explain anything at all. He has seen hundreds upon hundreds of women; he is, perhaps, advanced in years and has all along felt nothing—and all at once he sees her, her the Only one, Catherine. Is this not comical? Is it not comical that the relation which is to explain and beautify all life, love, is not like the mustard seed from which there grows a great tree,¹⁴ but being still smaller is, at bottom, nothing at all; for not a single antecedent criterion can be mentioned, as e.g., that the phenomenon occurred at a certain age, nor a single reason as to why he should select her, her alone in all the world—and that by no means in the same sense as when "Adam chose Eve, because there was none other.¹⁵"

Now, if loving meant falling in love with the first person who came along, the lack of special reasons would be understandable. But loving means falling in love with one person, one single person in all the world. Such an extraordinary choice would seem to require such a long chain of reasoning that one might beg not to hear it. Not so much because the reasoning explained nothing, but because listening might take too long. But no, lovers cannot explain anything at all. He has seen hundreds upon hundreds of women. Perhaps he is getting on in years, and he has felt nothing all along. Then suddenly he sees her, her the Only one, Catherine. Is that not comical? Is it not comical that love, the relationship meant to explain and beautify all life, has no foundation at all? Love is not like the mustard seed from which a great tree grows.¹⁴ Its foundation is even smaller, and is, at bottom, nothing at all. For no condition preceding his love can be named, such as his reaching a certain age. Nor can he give a single reason for choosing her, her alone in all the world. And his choice is by no means like saying, "Adam chose Eve, because there was no one else.¹⁵"

Or is not the explanation which the lovers vouchsafe just as comical; or, does it not, rather, emphasize the comical aspect of love? They say that love renders one blind, and by this fact they undertake to explain the phenomenon. Now, if a person who was going into a dark room to fetch something should answer, on my advising him to take a light along, that it was only a trifling matter he wanted and so he would not bother to take a light along—ah! then I would understand him excellently well. If, on the other hand, this same person should take me aside and, with an air of mystery, confide to me that the thing he was about to fetch was of the very greatest importance and that it was for this reason that he was able to do it in the dark—ah! then I wonder if my weak mortal brain could follow the soaring flight of his speech. Even if I should refrain from laughing, in order not to offend him, I should hardly be able to restrain my mirth as soon as he had turned his back. But at love nobody laughs; for I am quite prepared to be embarrassed like the Jew who, after ending his story, asks: Is there no one who will laugh?¹⁶ And yet I did not miss the point, as did the Jew, and as to my laughter I am far from wanting to insult any one. Quite on the contrary, I scorn those fools who imagine that their love has such good reasons that they can afford to laugh at other lovers; for since love is altogether inexplicable, one lover is as ridiculous as the other. Quite as foolish and haughty I consider it also when a man proudly looks about him in the circle of girls to find who may be worthy of him, or when a girl proudly tosses her head to select or reject; because such persons are simply basing their thoughts on an unexplained assumption. No. What busies my thought is love as such, and it is love which seems ridiculous to me; and therefore I fear it, lest I become ridiculous in my own eyes, or ridiculous in the eyes of the gods who have fashioned man thus. In other words, if love is ridiculous it is equally ridiculous, whether now my sweetheart be a princess or a servant girl; for the lovable, as we have seen, is the inexplicable.

Or isn’t the explanation lovers offer just as comical? Or rather, doesn’t their explanation highlight the comedy of love? Lovers say that love makes people blind, and they offer this blindness as an explanation. Suppose someone were going into a dark room to fetch something, and I advised him to take a light. Suppose he replied that he only wanted something unimportant, so he would not bother with a light. Ah! Then I would understand him perfectly well. But suppose the same person took me aside and confided in me with an air of mystery. Suppose he said the thing he wanted was extremely important, and that its importance let him fetch it without light. Ah! Then I wonder whether my weak mortal brain could follow his words as they soared so high. Even if I held back my laughter to avoid offending him, I could hardly contain it once he turned away. But nobody laughs at love. For I am quite prepared to find myself embarrassed, like the Jew who finishes his story and asks: Will no one laugh?¹⁶ Yet I have not missed the point, as the Jew did, and my laughter is far from meant to insult anyone. On the contrary, I scorn fools who think their love has such good reasons that they can laugh at other lovers. For since love is entirely inexplicable, one lover is as ridiculous as another. I find it just as foolish and arrogant when a man proudly surveys the girls, looking for someone worthy of him. The same goes for a girl who proudly tosses her head as she chooses or rejects someone. For such people are simply basing their thoughts on an unexplained assumption. No. What occupies my thoughts is love itself, and love is what seems ridiculous to me. That is why I fear love, lest I become ridiculous in my own eyes. Or lest I become ridiculous to the gods who have made human beings this way. In other words, if love is ridiculous, love is equally ridiculous whether my sweetheart is a princess or a servant girl. For what makes someone lovable, as we have seen, is inexplicable.

Look you, therefore do I fear love, and find precisely in this a new proof of love's being comical; for my fear is so curiously tragic that it throws light on the comical nature of love. When people wreck a building a sign is hung up to warn people, and I shall take care to stand from under; when a bar has been freshly painted a stone is laid in the road to apprise people of the fact; when a driver is in danger of running a man over he will shout "look out"; when there have been cases of cholera in a house a soldier is set as guard; and so forth. What I mean is that if there is some danger, one may be warned and will successfully escape it by heeding the warning. Now, fearing to be rendered ridiculous by love, I certainly regard it as dangerous; so what shall I do to escape it? In other words, what shall I do to escape the danger of some woman falling in love with me? I am far from entertaining the thought of being an Adonis every girl is bound to fall in love with (relata refero,¹⁷ for what this means I do not understand)—goodness no! But since I do not know what the lovable is I cannot, by any manners of means, know how to escape this danger. Since, for that matter, the very opposite of beauty may constitute the lovable; and, finally, since the inexplicable also is the lovable, I am forsooth in the same situation as the man Jean Paul speaks of somewhere who, standing on one foot, reads a sign saying, "fox-traps here," and now does not dare, either to lift his foot or to set it down.

You see, that is why I fear love. And that very fear gives me fresh proof that love is comical. For my fear is so strangely tragic that it reveals love's comical nature. When people tear down a building, they put up a warning sign, and I make sure to stay clear. When a barrier has just been painted, a stone is placed in the road to let people know. When a driver is about to run someone over, he shouts "look out". When there have been cases of cholera in a house, a soldier is posted as a guard. And so on. My point is that if there is danger, you can be warned. By heeding the warning, you can successfully escape the danger. Now, because I fear being made ridiculous by love, I certainly consider love dangerous. So what should I do to escape love? In other words, how can I escape the danger of some woman falling in love with me? I am certainly not imagining myself as an Adonis every girl is bound to fall in love with. (Relata refero,¹⁷ for I do not understand what that means.) Goodness, no! But since I do not know what makes someone lovable, I cannot possibly know how to escape this danger. After all, the very opposite of beauty may make someone lovable. And finally, since the inexplicable is also lovable, I find myself in the same position as a man Jean Paul mentions somewhere. Standing on one foot, the man reads a sign saying, "fox-traps here," and now dares neither lift his foot nor set it down.

No, love any one I will not, before I have fathomed what love is; but this I cannot, but have, rather, come to the conclusion that it is comical. Hence I will not love—but alas! I have not thereby avoided the danger, for, since I do not know what the lovable is and how it seizes me, or how it seizes a woman with reference to me, I cannot make sure whether I have avoided the danger. This is tragical and, in a certain sense, even profoundly tragical, even if no one is concerned about it, or if no one is concerned about the bitter contradiction for one who thinks—that a something exists which everywhere exercises its power and yet is not to be definitely conceived by thought and which, perhaps, may attack from the rear him who in vain seeks to conceive it. But as to the tragic side of the matter it has its deep reason in the comic aspects just pointed out. Possibly, every other person will turn all this upside down and not find that to be comical which I do, but rather that which I conceive to be tragical; but this too proves that I am right to a certain extent. And that for which, if so happens, I become either a tragic or comic victim is plain enough, viz., my desire to reflect about all I do, and not imagine I am reflecting about life by dismissing its every important circumstance with an "I don't care, either way."

No, I will not love anyone until I have fully understood what love is. But I cannot understand love. Instead, I have come to the conclusion that love is comical. So I will not love. But alas! Refusing to love has not kept me out of danger. For I do not know what makes someone lovable, or how that quality takes hold of me. Nor do I know how it takes hold of a woman in relation to me. So I cannot be sure I have avoided the danger. This is tragic and, in a certain sense, even deeply tragic, even if no one cares. Perhaps no one cares about the bitter contradiction facing a thinking person. Something exists that exercises its power everywhere, yet thought cannot grasp it clearly. And perhaps that power may attack from behind the very person who tries in vain to understand it. But the tragic side of the matter is deeply rooted in the comic aspects I have just described. Possibly everyone else will turn all this upside down. They may find nothing comical in what I find comical, but instead laugh at what I consider tragic. Yet even that reversal proves I am right to some extent. And if I become either a tragic or a comic victim, the cause is clear enough. It is my desire to think carefully about everything I do. I refuse to imagine I am reflecting on life by dismissing every important part of it with an "I don't care, either way."

Man has both a soul and a body. About this the wisest and best of the race are agreed. Now, in case one assumes the essence of love to lie in the relation between man and woman, the comic aspect will show again in the face-about which is seen when the highest spiritual values express themselves in the most sensual terms. I am now referring to all those extraordinary and mystic signals of love—in short, to all the free-masonry which forms a continuation of the above-mentioned inexplicable something. The contradiction in which love here involves a person lies in the fact that the symbolic signs mean nothing at all or—which amounts to the same—that no one is able to explain what they do signify. Two loving souls vow that they will love each the other in all eternity; thereupon they embrace, and with a kiss they seal this eternal pact. Now I ask any thinking person whether he would have hit upon that! And thus there is constant shifting from the one to the other extreme in love. The most spiritual is expressed by its very opposite, and the sensual is to signify the most spiritual.—Let me assume I am in love. In that case I would conceive it to be of the utmost importance to me that the one I love belonged to me for all time. This I comprehend; for I am now, really, speaking only of Greek eroticism which has to do with loving beautiful souls. Now when the person I love had vowed to return my love I would believe her or, in as far as there remained any doubt in me, try to combat my doubt. But what happens actually? For if I were in love I would, probably, behave like all the others, that is, seek to obtain still some other assurance than merely to believe her I love; which, though, is plainly the only assurance to be had.

A human being has both a soul and a body. The wisest and best of humanity agree on this. Now suppose we assume that love’s essence lies in the relationship between man and woman. Then the comic side appears again in a reversal: the highest spiritual values find expression in the most sensual terms. I mean all those extraordinary and mystical signals of love. In short, I mean all the secret rituals that continue the inexplicable something mentioned above. Here love involves a person in a contradiction. The symbolic signs mean nothing at all. Or, what amounts to the same thing, no one can explain what the signs mean. Two loving souls vow to love each other for all eternity. Then they embrace and seal this eternal pact with a kiss. Now I ask any thinking person: would you have thought of that? So love constantly shifts from one extreme to the other. The most spiritual finds expression in its exact opposite, and the sensual is supposed to signify the most spiritual. Let me suppose I am in love. Then I would consider it supremely important that the woman I love should belong to me for all time. I understand this desire. After all, I am really speaking only of Greek eroticism, which concerns the love of beautiful souls. Once the woman I loved had vowed to return my love, I would believe her. Or, if I still had any doubts, I would try to fight those doubts. But what actually happens? If I were in love, I would probably behave like everyone else. I would seek some further assurance beyond simply believing the woman I love. Yet believing her is plainly the only assurance available.

When Cockatoo¹⁸ all at once begins to plume himself like a duck which is gorged with food, and then emits the word "Marian," everybody will laugh, and so will I. I suppose the spectator finds it comical that Cockatoo, who doesn't love Marian at all, should be on such intimate terms with her. But suppose, now, that Cockatoo does love Marian. Would that be comical still? To me it would; and the comical would seem to me to lie in love's having become capable of being expressed in such fashion. Whether now this has been the custom since the beginning of the world makes no difference whatsoever, for the comical has the prescriptive right from all eternity to be present in contradictions—and here is a contradiction. There is really nothing comical in the antics of a manikin since we see some one pulling the strings. But to be a manikin at the beck of something inexplicable is indeed comical, for the contradiction lies in our not seeing any sensible reason why one should have to twitch now this leg and now that. Hence, if I cannot explain what I am doing, I do not care to do it; and if I cannot understand the power into whose sphere I am venturing, I do not care to surrender myself to that power. And if love is so mysterious a law which binds together the extremest contradictions, then who will guarantee that I might not, one day, become altogether confused? Still, that does not concern me so much.

When Cockatoo¹⁸ suddenly starts preening like a duck stuffed with food, and then utters the word "Marian," everyone will laugh. So will I. I suppose the spectator finds Cockatoo’s familiarity with Marian comical because he doesn’t love her at all. But suppose Cockatoo does love Marian. Would his behavior still be comical? To me, it would. The comedy would lie in the fact that love could find expression in such a way. Whether people have behaved this way since the beginning of the world makes no difference whatsoever. Comedy has had the right, from all eternity, to appear wherever there are contradictions. And here is a contradiction. There is really nothing comical about a puppet’s antics, since we can see someone pulling the strings. But being a puppet controlled by something inexplicable is indeed comical. The contradiction lies in our seeing no sensible reason for twitching first one leg, then the other. So if I cannot explain what I am doing, I do not want to do it. And if I cannot understand the power I am coming under, I do not want to surrender to that power. And if love is such a mysterious law, binding together the most extreme contradictions, who can give me any guarantee? Who can guarantee that one day I might not become completely confused? Still, that possibility does not concern me so much.

Again, I have heard that some lovers consider the behavior of other lovers ridiculous. I cannot conceive how this ridicule is justified, for if this law of love be a natural law, then all lovers are subject to it; but if it be the law of their own choice, then those laughing lovers ought to be able to explain all about love; which, however, they are unable to do. But in this respect I understand this matter better as it seems a convention for one lover to laugh at the other because he always finds the other lover ridiculous, but not himself. If it be ridiculous to kiss an ugly girl, it is also ridiculous to kiss a pretty one; and the notion that doing this in some particular way should entitle one to cast ridicule on another who does it differently, is but presumptuousness and a conspiracy which does not, for all that, exempt such a snob from laying himself open to the ridicule which invariably results from the fact that no one is able to explain what this act of kissing signifies, whereas it is to signify all—to signify, indeed, that the lovers desire to belong to each other in all eternity; aye, what is still more amusing, to render them certain that they will. Now, if a man should suddenly lay his head on one side, or shake it, or kick out with his leg and, upon my asking him why he did this, should answer "To be sure I don't know, myself, I just happened to do so, next time I may do something different, for I did it unconsciously"—ah, then I would understand him quite well. But if he said, as the lovers say about their antics, that all bliss lay therein, how could I help finding it ridiculous—just as I thought that other man's motions ridiculous, to be sure in a different sense, until he restrained my laughter by declaring that they did not signify anything. For by doing so he removed the contradiction which is the basic cause of the comical. It is not at all comical that the insignificant is declared to signify nothing, but it is very much so if it be asserted to signify all.

Again, I have heard that some lovers find other lovers’ behavior ridiculous. I cannot see how this mockery is justified. For if this law of love is a natural law, then all lovers are subject to it. But if lovers freely choose this law, then those who laugh ought to be able to explain everything about love. Yet they cannot. Still, in this respect I understand the matter better. Lovers seem to make a habit of laughing at one another. Each always finds the other lover ridiculous, but not himself. If kissing an ugly girl is ridiculous, then kissing a pretty girl is ridiculous too. Some think that kissing in one particular way gives them the right to mock someone who kisses differently. But that belief is nothing but arrogance and a conspiracy. Even so, such a snob remains open to ridicule. That ridicule inevitably arises because no one can explain what kissing means, yet kissing is supposed to mean everything. Indeed, kissing is supposed to mean that the lovers want to belong to each other for all eternity. Yes, even more amusingly, kissing is supposed to make them certain that they will. Now suppose a man suddenly tilted his head, shook it, or kicked out his leg. Suppose I asked why, and he answered, "Honestly, I don't know myself. I just happened to do it. Next time I may do something different, since I did it without thinking." Ah, then I would understand him perfectly well. But suppose he said, as lovers say about their antics, that all happiness lay in those movements. How could I help finding that ridiculous? Of course, I had also found the other man's movements ridiculous, though in a different sense. But he stopped my laughter by declaring that his movements meant nothing. By saying this, he removed the contradiction that is the basic source of comedy. There is nothing at all comical about saying that something insignificant means nothing. But saying that something insignificant means everything is very comical indeed.

As regards involuntary actions, the contradiction arises at the very outset because involuntary actions are not looked for in a free rational being. Thus if one supposed that the Pope had a coughing spell the very moment he was to place the crown on Napoleon's head; or that bride and groom in the most solemn moment of the wedding ceremony should fall to sneezing—these would be examples of the comical. That is, the more a given action accentuates the free rational being, the more comical are involuntary actions. This holds true also in respect of the erotic gesticulations, where the comical element appears a second time, owing to the circumstance that the lovers attempt to explain away the contradiction by attributing to their gesticulations an absolute value. As is well known, children have a keen sense of the ridiculous—witness children's testimony which can always be relied on in this regard. Now as a rule children will laugh at lovers, and if one makes them tell what they have seen, surely no one can help laughing. This is, perhaps, due to the fact that children omit the point. Very strange! When the Jew omitted the point no one cared to laugh. Here, on the contrary, every one laughs because the point is omitted; since, however, no one can explain what the point is—why, then there is no point at all.

With involuntary actions, the contradiction appears from the start, because we do not expect such actions from free, rational beings. Suppose the Pope had a coughing fit just as he was about to place the crown on Napoleon's head. Or suppose the bride and groom began sneezing at the most solemn moment of their wedding ceremony. These would be examples of the comic. In other words, the more an action emphasizes a person's freedom and reason, the funnier involuntary actions become. The same holds for lovers' gestures. Here the comic element appears a second time, because lovers try to explain away the contradiction. They do so by giving their gestures absolute value. As everyone knows, children have a keen sense of the ridiculous. Children's accounts can always be trusted on this point. Children generally laugh at lovers. And if you get children to describe what they have seen, surely no one can help laughing. Perhaps this is because children leave out the point. How strange! When the Jew left out the point, no one felt like laughing. Here, by contrast, everyone laughs because the point is left out. But since no one can explain what the point is, why, there is no point at all.

So the lovers explain nothing; and those who praise love explain nothing but are merely intent on—as one is bidden in the Royal Laws of Denmark—on saying anent it all which may be pleasant and of good report. But a man who thinks, desires to have his logical categories in good order; and he who thinks about love wishes to be sure about his categories also in this matter. The fact is, though, that people do not think about love, and a "pastoral science" is still lacking; for even if a poet in a pastoral poem makes an attempt to show how love is born, everything is smuggled in again by help of another person who teaches the lovers how to love!

So lovers explain nothing. And those who praise love explain nothing either. They merely aim to say all that is pleasant and favorable about love, as the Royal Laws of Denmark command. But a person who thinks wants to keep his logical categories in order. And anyone who thinks about love wants to be sure of his categories in this matter too. The fact is, though, that people do not think about love, and a "pastoral science" is still lacking. For even if a poet tries to show how love begins in a pastoral poem, everything is smuggled in again. The poet does this through another person who teaches the lovers how to love!

As we saw, the comical element in love arose from the face-about whereby the highest quality of one sphere does not find expression in that sphere but in the exactly opposite quality of another sphere. It is comical that the soaring flight of love—the desire to belong to each other for all time—lands ever, like Saft,¹⁹ in the pantry; but still more comical is it that this conclusion is said to constitute love's highest expression.

As we saw, the comic side of love came from a reversal. The highest quality in one sphere finds no expression within that sphere. Instead, it appears as the exact opposite quality in another sphere. Love’s soaring flight is the desire to belong to each other for all time. It is comical that this flight always lands, like Saft,¹⁹ in the pantry. But it is even more comical that this outcome is called love’s highest expression.

Wherever there is a contradiction, there the comical element is present also. I am ever following that track. If it be disconcerting to you, dear fellow banqueters, to follow me in what I shall have to say now, then follow me with averted countenances. I myself am speaking as if with veiled eyes; for as I see only the mystery in these matters, why, I cannot see, or I see nothing.

Wherever there is a contradiction, there is also something comical. I am always following that trail. My dear fellow banquet guests, if you find it unsettling to follow what I am about to say, look away as you follow me. I myself am speaking as if my eyes were veiled. For I see only the mystery in these matters, so I cannot see, or I see nothing.

What is a consequence? If it cannot, in some way or other, be brought under the same head as its antecedent—why, then it would be ridiculous if it posed as a consequence. To illustrate: if a man who wanted to take a bath jumped into the tank and, coming to the surface again somewhat confused, groped for the rope to hold on to, but caught the douche-line by mistake, and a shower now descended on him with sufficient motivation and for excellent good reason—why, then the consequence would be entirely in order. The ridiculous here consisted in his seizing the wrong rope; but there is nothing ridiculous in the shower descending when one pulls the proper rope. Rather, it would be ridiculous if it did not come; as for example, just to show the correctness of my contention about contradictions, if a man nerved himself with bold resolution in order to withstand the shock and, in the enthusiasm of his decision, with a stout heart pulled the line—and the shower did not come.

What is a consequence? If a consequence cannot somehow fit into the same category as its cause, claiming to be a consequence would be ridiculous. For example, suppose a man wants a bath and jumps into the tank. He surfaces, somewhat confused, and feels around for a rope to hold on to. But by mistake, he grabs the cord that turns on the shower. Water pours down on him, with ample cause and perfectly good reason. The consequence would be entirely in order. The ridiculous part was his grabbing the wrong rope. There is nothing ridiculous about the shower coming on when someone pulls the cord meant to turn it on. Instead, it would be ridiculous if the shower did not come on. Consider another example, just to show that my point about contradictions is correct. Suppose a man steels himself with bold determination to withstand the shock. Then, carried away by his resolve, he bravely pulls the cord, and no shower comes.

Let us see now how it is with regard to love. The lovers wish to belong to each other for all time, and this they express, curiously, by embracing each other with all the intensity of the moment; and all the bliss of love is said to reside therein. But all desire is egotistic. Now, to be sure, the lover's desire is not egotistic in respect of the one he loves, but the desire of both in conjunction is absolutely egotistic in so far as they in their union and love represent a new ego. And yet they are deceived; for in the same moment the race triumphs over the individual, the race is victorious, and the individuals are debased to do its bidding.

Let us now consider love. Lovers want to belong to each other forever. Curiously, they express this wish by embracing each other with all the intensity of the moment. And all the bliss of love is said to lie in that embrace. But all desire is selfish. To be sure, a lover’s desire is not selfish toward the beloved. But the lovers’ shared desire is absolutely selfish, since their union and love form a new ego. And yet the lovers are deceived. For at that very moment, the human species triumphs over the individual. The species wins, and the individuals are reduced to doing its bidding.

Now this I find more ridiculous than what Aristophanes thought so ridiculous. The ridiculous aspect of his theory of bi-section lies in the inherent contradiction (which the ancient author does not sufficiently emphasize, however). In considering a person one naturally supposes him to be an entity, and so one does believe till it becomes apparent that, under the obsession of love, he is but a half which runs about looking for its complement. There is nothing ridiculous in half an apple. The comical would appear if a whole apple turned out to be only half an apple. In the first case there exists no contradiction, but certainly in the latter. If one actually based one's reasoning on the figure of speech that woman is but half a person she would not be ridiculous at all in her love. Man, however, who has been enjoying civic rights as a whole person, will certainly appear ridiculous when he takes to running about (and looking for his other half);²⁰ for he betrays thereby that he is but half a person. In fact, the more one thinks about the matter the more ridiculous it seems; because if man really be a whole, why, then he will not become a whole in love, but he and woman would make up one and a half. No wonder, then, that the gods laugh, and particularly at man.

Now I find this more ridiculous than what Aristophanes found so ridiculous. His theory of division into halves is ridiculous because of its built-in contradiction. (The ancient author does not emphasize this contradiction enough, however.) When we consider a person, we naturally assume he is a whole. We keep believing he is whole until love obsesses him. Then he turns out to be only a half, running around looking for his other half. There is nothing ridiculous about half an apple. The comedy would begin if a whole apple turned out to be only half an apple. The first case contains no contradiction, but the second certainly does. If we actually reasoned from the figure of speech that woman is only half a person, her love would not be ridiculous at all. Man, however, has been enjoying civic rights as a whole person. He will certainly look ridiculous when he starts running around (looking for his other half).²⁰ For by doing so, he reveals that he is only half a person. In fact, the more we think about the matter, the more ridiculous it seems. Because if man really is a whole, then love will not make him a whole. Instead, he and woman would add up to one and a half. No wonder, then, that the gods laugh, especially at man.

But let me return to my consequence. When the lovers have found each other, one should certainly believe that they formed a whole, and in this should lie the proof of their assertion that they wished to live for each other for all time. But lo! instead of living for each other they begin to live for the race, and this they do not even suspect.

But let me return to my conclusion. Once the lovers have found each other, we should certainly believe that they form a whole. Their unity should prove their claim that they wished to live for each other for all time. But look! Instead of living for each other, they begin to live for the human race, without even suspecting it.

What is a consequence? If, as I observed, one cannot detect in it the cause out of which it proceeded, the consequence is merely ridiculous, and he becomes a laughing stock to whom this happens. Now, the fact that the separated halves have found each other ought to be a complete satisfaction and rest for them; and yet the consequence is a new existence. That having found each other should mean a new existence for the lovers, is comprehensible enough; but not, that a new existence for a third being should take its inception from this fact. And yet the resulting consequence is greater than that of which it is the consequence, whereas such an end as the lovers' finding each other ought to be infallible evidence of no other, subsequent, consequence being thinkable.

What is a consequence? As I noted, if you cannot recognize its cause in it, the consequence is simply ridiculous. The person this happens to becomes a laughingstock. Now, finding each other ought to bring the separated halves complete satisfaction and peace. Yet the consequence is a new existence. It is easy enough to understand that finding each other should mean a new existence for the lovers. But it is not easy to understand why a third being’s existence should begin because the lovers have reunited. And yet the consequence is greater than its cause. The lovers’ reunion ought to be such a complete ending that it proves beyond doubt that no further consequence is conceivable.

Does the satisfaction of any other desire show an analogy to this consequence? Quite on the contrary, the satisfaction of desire is in every other case evinced by a period of rest; and even if a tristitia²¹ does supervene—indicating, by the way, that every satisfaction of an appetite is comical—this tristitia is a straightforward consequence, though no tristitia so eloquently attests a preceding comical element as does that following love. It is quite another matter with an enormous consequence such as we are dealing with, a consequence of which no one knows whence it comes, nor whether it will come; whereas, if it does come, it comes as a consequence.

Does satisfying any other desire lead to a consequence like this? Quite the opposite. In every other case, a period of rest shows that the desire has been satisfied. Even if a tristitia²¹ follows, this sadness is a straightforward consequence. Incidentally, such sadness indicates that every satisfaction of an appetite is comical. Yet no tristitia points so eloquently to a preceding comical element as the sadness that follows love. The enormous consequence we are considering is quite another matter. No one knows where this consequence comes from, or whether it will come at all. Yet if it does come, it comes as a consequence.

Who is able to grasp this? And yet that which for the initiates of love constitutes the greatest pleasure is also the most important thing for them—so important that they even adopt new names, derived from the consequence thereof which thus, curiously enough, assumes retroactive force. The lover is now called father, his sweetheart, mother; and these names seem to them the most beautiful. And yet there is a being to whom these names are even more beautiful; for what is as beautiful as filial piety? To me it seems the most beautiful of all sentiments; and fortunately I can appreciate the thought underlying it. We are taught that it is seeming in a son to love his father. This I comprehend, I cannot even suspect that there is any contradiction possible here, and I acknowledge infinite satisfaction in being held by the loving bonds of filial piety. I believe it is the greatest debt of all to owe another being one's life. I believe that this debt cannot ever be wiped out, or even fathomed by any calculation, and for this reason I agree with Cicero when he asserts that the son is always in the wrong as against his father; and it is precisely filial piety which teaches me to believe this, teaches me not even to penetrate the hidden, but rather to remain hidden in the father. Quite true, I am glad to be another person's greatest debtor; but as to the opposite, viz., before deciding to make another person my greatest debtor, I want to arrive at greater clarity. For to my conception there is a world of difference between being some person's debtor, and making some person one's debtor to such an extent that he will never be able to clear himself.

Who can grasp this? Yet for those initiated into love, the greatest pleasure is also the most important thing. So important, in fact, that they take new names from its result. Strangely enough, that result thus has an effect reaching backward. The lover is now called father, and his sweetheart, mother. These names seem to them the most beautiful. Yet there is someone to whom these names are even more beautiful. For what is as beautiful as a child's devotion to a parent? To me, this devotion seems the most beautiful of all feelings. And fortunately, I can appreciate the thought behind it. We are taught that a son ought to love his father. I understand this duty. I cannot even imagine any possible contradiction here. And I find infinite satisfaction in the loving bonds of a child's devotion. I believe that owing another person one's life is the greatest debt of all. I believe this debt can never be repaid, or even measured by any calculation. For this reason, I agree with Cicero when he declares that a son is always wrong against his father. It is precisely my devotion as a son that teaches me to believe this. This devotion teaches me not even to explore what is hidden, but instead to remain hidden in my father. True, I am glad to owe another person the greatest debt of all. But I want greater clarity before deciding to place another person under that same debt to me. In my view, there is a world of difference between owing someone a debt and making someone owe you one so great that he can never repay it.

What filial piety forbids the son to consider, love bids the father to consider. And here contradiction sets in again. If the son has an immortal soul like his father, what does it mean, then, to be a father? For must I not smile at myself when thinking of myself as a father—whereas the son is most deeply moved when he reflects on the relation he bears to his father? Very well do I understand Plato when he says that an animal will give birth to an animal of the same species, a plant, to a plant of the same species, and thus also man to man.²² But this explains nothing, does not satisfy one's thought, and arouses but a dim feeling; for an immortal soul cannot be born. Whenever, then, a father considers his son in the light of his son's immortality—which is, indeed, the essential consideration²³—he will probably smile at himself, for he cannot, by any means, grasp in their entirety all the beautiful and noble thoughts which his son with filial piety entertains about him. If, on the other hand, he considers his son from the point of view of his animal nature he must smile again, because the conception of fatherhood is too exalted an expression for it.

What a son’s respect for his father forbids him to consider, love tells the father to consider. And here the contradiction appears again. If the son has an immortal soul like his father, what does being a father mean? For must I not smile at myself when I think of myself as a father? Yet the son is deeply moved when he reflects on his relationship with his father. I understand Plato very well when he says that an animal gives birth to another animal of the same species. A plant likewise produces a plant of the same species, and a human being produces a human being.²² But this explains nothing and does not satisfy the mind. It stirs only a vague feeling, for an immortal soul cannot be born. So whenever a father considers his son in light of his son’s immortality, he will probably smile at himself. His son’s immortality is, indeed, the essential consideration.²³ For the father cannot possibly grasp fully all the beautiful and noble thoughts his son has about him out of filial respect. If, on the other hand, he considers his son’s animal nature, he must smile again. For the idea of fatherhood is too exalted a way to describe that relationship.

Finally, if it were thinkable that a father influenced his son in such fashion that his own nature was a condition from which the son's nature could not free itself, then the contradiction would arise in another direction; for in this case nothing more terrible is thinkable than being a father. There is no comparison between killing a person and giving him life—the former decides his fate only in time, the other for all eternity. So there is a contradiction again, and one both to laugh and to weep about. Is paternity then an illusion—even if not in the same sense as is implied in Magdelone's speech to Jeronymus²⁴—or is it the most terrible thought imaginable? Is it the greatest benefit conferred on one, or is it the sweetest gratification of one's desire—is it something which just happens, or is it the greatest task of life?

Finally, suppose a father could influence his son so deeply that the son’s nature could never escape the father’s nature. Then the contradiction would arise from another direction. For in that case, nothing more terrible could be imagined than being a father. There is no comparison between killing a person and giving him life. Killing him decides his fate only in time, while giving him life decides his fate for all eternity. So again there is a contradiction, one that calls for both laughter and tears. Is fatherhood, then, an illusion, though not in the same sense suggested by Magdelone's speech to Jeronymus²⁴? Or is fatherhood the most terrible thought imaginable? Is fatherhood the greatest gift a person receives, or the sweetest satisfaction of a person’s desire? Is fatherhood something that just happens, or is it life’s greatest task?

Look you, for this reason have I forsworn all love, for my thought is to me the most essential consideration. So even if love be the most exquisite joy, I renounce it, without wishing either to offend or to envy any one; and even if love be the condition for conferring the greatest benefit imaginable I deny myself the opportunity therefor—but my thought I have not prostituted. By no means do I lack an eye for what is beautiful, by no means does my heart remain unmoved when I read the songs of the poets, by no means is my soul without sadness when it yields to the beautiful conception of love; but I do not wish to become unfaithful to my thought. And of what avail were it to be, for there is no happiness possible for me except my thought have free sway. If it had not, I would in desperation yearn for my thought, which I may not desert to cleave to a wife, for it is my immortal part and, hence, of more importance than a wife. Well do I comprehend that if any thing is sacred it is love; that if faithlessness in any relation is base, it is doubly so in love; that if any deceit is detestable, it is tenfold more detestable in love. But my soul is innocent of blame. I have never looked at any woman to desire her, neither have I fluttered about aimlessly before blindly plunging, or lapsing, into the most decisive of all relations. If I knew what the lovable were I would know with certainty whether I had offended by tempting any one; but since I do not know, I am certain only of never having had the conscious desire to do so.

You see, I have renounced all love for this reason: my thought matters most to me. So even if love is the finest joy, I give it up, without wishing to offend or envy anyone. And even if love is necessary to offer the greatest imaginable benefit, I deny myself that opportunity. But I have not sold out my thought. I am by no means blind to beauty. My heart is by no means unmoved when I read the poets’ songs. My soul is by no means free of sadness when it gives itself over to the beautiful idea of love. But I do not wish to betray my thought. And what good would betraying my thought do? No happiness is possible for me unless my thought has free rein. Without that freedom, I would desperately yearn for my thought. I must not abandon my thought to devote myself to a wife. My thought is the immortal part of me, and therefore matters more than a wife. I understand well that if anything is sacred, it is love. If unfaithfulness in any relationship is shameful, it is doubly so in love. If any deceit is detestable, it is ten times more detestable in love. But my soul is innocent of blame. I have never looked at any woman with desire. Nor have I drifted aimlessly before blindly plunging or slipping into the most decisive of all relationships. If I knew what makes someone lovable, I would know for certain whether I had wronged anyone by tempting them. But since I do not know, I am certain only that I have never consciously wished to tempt anyone.

Supposing I should yield to love and be made to laugh; or supposing I should be cast down by terror, since I cannot find the narrow path which lovers travel as easily as if it were the broad highway, undisturbed by any doubts, which they surely have bestowed thought on (seeing our times have, indeed, reflected about all²⁵ and consequently will comprehend me when I assert that to act unreflectingly is nonsense, as one ought to have gone through all possible reflections before acting)—supposing, I say, I should yield to love! Would I not insult past redress my beloved one if I laughed; or irrevocably plunge her into despair if I were overwhelmed by terror? For I understand well enough that a woman cannot be expected to have thought as profoundly about these matters; and a woman who found love comical (as but gods and men can, for which reason woman is a temptation luring them to become ridiculous) would both betray a suspicious amount of previous experience and understand me least. But a woman who comprehended the terror of love would have lost her loveliness and still fail to understand me—she would be annihilated; which is in nowise my case, so long as my thought saves me.

Suppose I gave in to love and was made to laugh. Or suppose terror overwhelmed me because I cannot find the narrow path lovers travel. They travel it as easily as if it were a broad highway, untroubled by any doubts. Surely they have thought about those doubts. After all, our age has indeed reflected on everything²⁵. So people today will understand me when I say that acting without reflection is nonsense. Before acting, one ought to have worked through every possible reflection. Suppose, I say, I gave in to love! Would I not insult my beloved beyond repair if I laughed? Or plunge her irrevocably into despair if terror overwhelmed me? For I understand well enough that a woman cannot be expected to have thought so deeply about these matters. A woman who found love comical would reveal a suspicious amount of previous experience and understand me least of all. Only gods and men can find love comical. That is why woman is a temptation, luring them into making fools of themselves. But a woman who understood the terror of love would have lost her loveliness and still fail to understand me. She would be destroyed. That is certainly not my situation, as long as my thinking saves me.

Is there no one ready to laugh? When I began by wanting to speak about the comical element in love you perhaps expected to be made to laugh, for it is easy to make you laugh, and I myself am a friend of laughter; and still you did not laugh, I believe. The effect of my speech was a different one, and yet precisely this proves that I have spoken about the comical. If there be no one who laughs at my speech—well, then laugh a little at me, dear fellow-banqueters, and I shall not wonder; for I do not understand what I have occasionally heard you say about love. Very probably, though, you are among the initiated as I am not.

Is no one ready to laugh? When I began by saying I wanted to discuss the comic side of love, perhaps you expected to laugh. After all, you are easily amused, and I enjoy laughter myself. Yet I believe you did not laugh. My speech had a different effect, and yet that very effect proves I have spoken about the comic. If no one laughs at my speech, well, then laugh a little at me, my dear fellow guests. I will not be surprised, for I do not understand what I have sometimes heard you say about love. Very probably, though, you are among those initiated into love’s mysteries, while I am not.

Thereupon the Young Person seated himself. He had become more beautiful, almost, than before the meal. Now he sat quietly, looking down before him, unconcerned about the others. John the Seducer desired at once to urge some objections against the Young Person's speech but was interrupted by Constantin who warned against discussions and ruled that on this occasion only speeches were in order. John said if that was the case, he would stipulate that he should be allowed to be the last speaker. This again gave rise to a discussion as to the order in which they were to speak, which Constantin closed by offering to speak forthwith, against their recognizing his authority to appoint the speakers in their turn.

Then the Young Person sat down. He had become almost more beautiful than he had been before the meal. Now he sat quietly, looking down in front of him, unconcerned about the others. John the Seducer wanted to raise some objections to the Young Person's speech at once, but Constantin interrupted him. Constantin warned against discussion and ruled that only speeches were allowed on this occasion. John said that if only speeches were allowed, he would insist on being the last speaker. This condition led to another discussion about the speaking order. Constantin ended the discussion by offering to speak immediately if the others accepted his authority to decide who would speak next.