I have asked, and attempted answers to, this question before. Yet it returns to me, why two of my closest companions should themselves have been friends. How could Nietzsche, the arch-anti-idealist, find himself drawn irresistibly to an avowed idealist such as Emerson? And the answer is, perhaps, that Emerson was no idealist. Let me explain.
“Considerations by the Way,” the modestly titled seventh chapter of The Conduct of Life, finds Emerson in a curious place. On the one hand, he would provide rules for the conduct of life. On the other hand,
That by which a man conquers in any passage, is a profound secret to every other being in the world, and it is only as he turns his back on us and on all men, and draws on this most private wisdom, that any good can come to him. What we have, therefore, to say of life, is rather description, or, if you please, celebration, than available rules. (1079)
The essay perhaps never overcomes this ambivalence, structurally: at times it seeks to provide such rules, yet it never commits fully to the task. Similarly, it is at times celebratory, but sometimes, perhaps, a bit weary. When Emerson suggests, in one of his rules, that cheerfulness is the most important element of health, one wonders whether he was fully cheerful in writing this essay. Yet the vigor of his thought comes through, and nowhere more than in his celebration (of sorts) of vice. It is in this respect that Emerson was no idealist.
In what is already a quite Nietzschean turn, Emerson lambasts the masses:
Masses are rude, lame, unmade, pernicious in their demands and influence, and need not to be flattered but to be schooled. I wish not to concede anything to them, but to tame, drill, divide, and break them up, and draw individuals out of them. The worst of charity is, that the lives you are asked to preserve are not worth preserving. Masses! the calamity is the masses. (1081)
Emerson does soften his tone, in a way that Nietzsche perhaps would not have:
To say then, the majority are wicked, means no malice, no bad heart in the observer, but, simply, that the majority are unripe, and have not yet come to themselves, do not yet know their opinion. That, if they knew it, is an oracle for them and for all. (1083)
The reason for this is that the masses do not think, or to rephrase the point, are not self-reliant. “The mass are animal, in pupilage, and near chimpanzee.” (1082) Kant made it a categorical duty of reason to treat all rational beings as ends in themselves, and not as means. Emerson is more or less Kantian, only he is stingier about whom he will consider rational: the thinker is an end, the masses mere means. “The rule is, we are used as brute atoms, until we think: then, we use all the rest.” (1082) That is why Emerson would break up masses, and find individuals in them. If many are lost, so be it: “Nature makes fifty poor melons for one that is good. […] In mankind, she is contented if she yields one master in a century.” (1081) “This is bold practice, and there are many failures to a good escape.” (1085)
The lesson to draw from this wastefulness of nature, and from the unripe state of the masses, is “the good of evil.” (1083) What follows is a several-page discussion of the good effects that are can be brought about only by “evil”, cruel, harsh means – the bleeding heart could never manage them. This lesson, writ large, also proves true of the individual:
In short, there is no man who is not at some time indebted to his vices, as no plant that is not fed from manures. We only insist that the man meliorate, and that the plant grow upward, and convert the base into the better nature. (1086)
In this, Emerson shows his willingness to see vice as the origin of all virtue. This is his anti-idealism. Here Nietzsche must enter. In Daybreak, his book on “the prejudices of morality,” Nietzsche begins with the ultimate prejudice: the purity of the good:
Supplemental rationality. – All things that live long are gradually so saturated with reason that their origin in unreason thereby becomes improbable. Does not almost every precise history of an origination impress our feelings as paradoxical and wantonly offensive? Does the good historian not, at bottom, constantly contradict? (§1, Hollingdale translation)
This lies at the heart of Nietzsche’s thought: that virtue originates in vice, that everything we now call good grew out of something we would call evil, and that the creation of new goods requires something evil. Nietzsche mature works deal extensively with tracing out lineages of such origin – of course in On the Genealogy of Morality, but really in every work from Daybreak on, except perhaps Zarathustra.
It is the prejudice of morality to deny such origins, to take them as basically contradictions. To take the good as pure as unmixed, as incapable of originating in the base materiality of this world – that, for Nietzsche, is idealism (one form of it, anyway). And it is just this form that Emerson rejects. I have noted before that Emerson preferred not to transcend dualisms, nor to quite embrace them, but to “reconcile” them without losing their antagonism. He prefers to see the virtuous grow out of the vicious, but would take pure vice before pure virtue.
Of course, Emerson never analyzed these origins in the same detail as Nietzsche. That is, perhaps, part of why Nietzsche lamented that Emerson had never “gone through some strict discipline, a really scientific education. As it is, in Emerson we have lost a philosopher.” (Quoted in Kaufmann’s introduction to his translation of The Gay Science.) Yet he could still call him “the author who has been richest in ideas in this century” and claim that “I may not praise it, it is too close to me.” (Same)
If I am right, one of the ideas that Nietzsche found (I do not claim for the first time) in the rich well of Emerson, was the low origin of all high things.
Emerson’s “Worship”, as I read it, is a strangely conflicted essay. With one of its faces, it offers strong denunciations of the reliance on custom and parties (“old dead things” – 1061) and on organized religion generally (“I do not find the religions of men at this moment very creditable to them” – 1058), and on dogma (“I do not think [skepticism] can be cured or stayed by any modification of theologic creeds” – 1062). Yet at the same time it looks to and relies on numerous ideas that can now only be considered as dogmas themselves – e.g., that we suffer from godlessness, that there is a moral order to the universe, that all actions are subject to a system of moral compensation. Emerson thus seems to engage in just that practice he so dislikes: apology.
This is unavoidable. Emerson himself showed, in Representative Men, how a great individual could be taken as representing something universal and eternal – and yet Emerson, in each essay, turned around and showed how these same individuals were flawed, tied to their own time, base, partial. Emerson is not immune from his own method, and in “Worship” this is especially apparent. Genius, Emerson tells us, is selective, and if I may pretend to genius for a moment, I can select from Emerson’s work two strains: the “true” Emerson, who launches himself into the future and reveals great truths, and the “false” Emerson, who is mired in the dogmas and attitudes of his time even as he thrusts against them. (Of course, it is important that it is my genius that makes this selection – Emerson could not have made it himself, for obvious reasons.) In “Worship”, the false Emerson has an especially strong voice. I shall, however, try to sift out one of the essay’s valuable strands.
What is worship, for Emerson? There are two conceptions presented in the essay. On the first conception, it is the seeing of the moral order to the universe. “Religion or worship is the attitude of those who see this unity, intimacy, and sincerity; who see that, against all appearances, the nature of things works for truth and right forever.” (1064-5) This is the false Emerson, the Emerson who lapses into a dogma when threatened by materialistic skepticism. (This is not the place for an extended discussion, but there are key parallels tying this essay into Emerson’s quite skeptical essay on Montaigne in Representative Men.)
But there is another conception in the essay. Emerson does not simply revile materialism. He has, in many ways, given it its due in the first five essays in The Conduct of Life, and that continues here:
Even the fury of material activity has some results friendly to moral health. The energetic action of the times develops individualism and the religious appear isolated. I esteem this a step in the right direction. Heaven deals with us on no representative system. Souls are not saved in bundles. (1062)
Materialism breaks up the idea of a common interest and so develops individualism. It focuses on the individual and not the common good. This is a step in the right direction because, in matters of the spirit, there simply is no common good: “Souls are not saved in bundles.” Each person is self-responsible and only self-responsible. There is no sharing of such burdens, no salvation by party. But this materialism has its costs: it leads to a certain aimlessness:
In our large cities, the population is godless, materialized, – no bond, no fellow-feeling, no enthusiasm. These are not men, but hungers, thirsts, fevers, and appetites walking. How is it people manage to live on, – so aimless as they are. (1059)
When all that is sought is comfort, the satisfaction of desires, then a person becomes a disjoint bundle of such desires, and not a unity. The strengthening of individualism can thus be accompanied by the loss of the individual. Emerson’s solution to this is, of course, self-reliance, on one’s own experience. Reliance on the experience of another (and this is what all reliance on doctrine is) is insufficient. Insufficient for what? For acquiring an aim, without which life is not “respectable.” (1071) Aims and self-reliance are intimately intertwined. The aimless individual, the mere bundle, lacks any self on which to rely. The presence of an aim, however, organizes this bundle, selects from among it what is valuable and suppresses what is not, and thereby yields a self on which one can rely. And this is the second conception of worship: if godlessness is aimlessness, and the having of an aim is, for Emerson, what is divine.
Close attention to the meter in Emily Dickinson’s “When Night is almost done – “ reveals a tension between the meaning of the words and the mood of the rhythm. First, the poem (#347):
When Night is almost done –
And Sunrise grows so near
That we can touch the Spaces –
It’s time to smooth the Hair –
And get the Dimples ready –
And wonder we could care
For that old – faded Midnight –
That frightened – but an Hour –
The base meter of the poem is iambic trimeter – lines 1, 4, and 6 are all follow this meter perfectly. There are a few substitutions in the first six lines – line 2 has a spondee for its second foot (-rise grows), and lines 3 and 5 end with amphibrachs rather than iambs – but mostly she follows the meter closely in the opening lines. In the closing lines, however, Dickinson engages in quite daring metrical variation, and it’s very successful.
Before I get to that, however, I’d like to make some preliminary comments on other formal aspects of the poem. There is an obvious break-point in the poem, the stanza break, and it separates logically two halves of the poem. The first stanza focuses on the end of night and the coming sunrise, while the second stanza turns attention to the ability of night to frighten. This is a logical division, but other aspects of the poem fight against it. Dickinson uses off rhyme within stanzas (near/Hair; care/Hour), but lines 4 and 6 have perfect rhyme (Hair/care). Thus, even though there is a stanza break separating them, there is a close connection between lines 4 and 6. This creates the sense that the entire portion of the poem, from lines 2 to halfway through line 7, is a single entity separate from the rest. The remainder then looks like this:
When Night is almost done –
– faded Midnight –
That frightened – but an Hour –
Here we have together all the portion of the poem dealing with the night and its effects. They create an envelope, into which the portion about the sunrise is inserted. For me, at least, this suggests something less essential about the inserted portion. The fact that the night forms an envelope in this fashion keeps our attention focused there, and makes it the aspect of the poem that most lingers. Against this, the sunrise seems of secondary importance.
This sense is, I think, amplified by the metrical variations in the final two lines. Here’s a breakdown of the stress patterns (u = unstressed, – = stressed):
Line 7: u u – – u – –
Line 8: u – u u u –
I’m a bit uncertain about how to break down the feet in these lines. The base of the poem is iambic, which makes me want to read it this way:
Line 7: u u / – – / u – – [pyrrhic, spondee, cretic]
Line 8: u – / u u / u – [iamb, pyrrhic, iamb]
However, both lines contain a dash after the third syllable, and this forced pause leads to a competing inclination to read the lines as each opening with trisyllabic feet:
Line 7: u u – / – u / – – [anapest, trochee, spondee]
Line 8: u – u / u u – [amphibrach, anapest]
I am not sure which reading to choose, though I lean toward the first. In any case, the four stresses in line 7 really slow the line down, especially since they are bunched into a five-syllable span. This breaks up the relatively smooth flow of the preceding five lines, and dims the brightness of the sunrise for the transition back to night.
Then comes the last line, which is just masterful. The presence of only two stresses makes the line seem as if it should be really light. This complements the surface meaning of the words “that frightened but an hour.” They make the line go quickly, as the fright went quickly. But – there are the dashes. Read the line without the dashes, and it is as I just described, light, springy, easy. The first dash, however, inserts a pause right in the middle of its quickest portion (the pyrrhic), more or less eliminating the effect of having a pyrrhic there at all. The second dash, at the end of the line, similarly makes the line heavier. Instead of the satisfaction of a full stop (as one would expect at the end of a light, quick line), the dash forces us to linger with the night and the fright it brings.
The form of Dickinson’s poem thus fights with itself. On the surface, it seems to follow the literal meaning of the words, as seen in the stanza break and the meter, abstractly considered. However, the placement of the dashes and the rhyme scheme contest this obvious reading, showing a darker undercurrent to the poem. They resist the easy solution to the troubles of night that the poems appears to offer – even in the light, the night lingers.
Why be self-reliant? Emerson offers an aesthetic justification in “Behavior”: lack of self-possession is ugly, and painfully so.
Those who are not self-possessed, obtrude, and pain us. Some men appear to feel that they belong to a Pariah caste. They fear to offend, they bend and apologize, and walk through life with a timid step. (1046)
There is a tone to our actions, and two instances of what is nominally the same action may be unmistakably distinguished by their possessing distinct tones. The one acts with assurance, the other with apology, and though the act alone be of equal value in each, we are willing followers of the former, and detest the latter.
One would say, that the persuasion of their speech is not in what they say, – or that men do not convince by their argument, – but by their personality, by who they are, and what they said and did heretofore. (1048)
One means by which such a tone is generated is through manners, etiquette – I am convinced Emerson would have named this essay “Manners” had he not already published an essay by that name in Essays: Second Series. Self-reliance stands opposed to conformity, but nonconformity here does not mean reckless abandonment of etiquette, that powerful creator of forms. Forms are requisite for expression – they are constraints only when they are imposed upon the content.
An illustration of the point may be found in poetry. Paul Fussell, in his book requisite for all readers of poetry (Poetic Meter & Poetic Form), notes that what makes poems poetic is their density: that each element may be seen to contribute to the meaning, that none are tacked on or arbitrary. If a poem contains stanza divisions, those divisions must matter. If a poem has a meter, that meter must bubble up out of the poem’s content, and prove itself worthy of it. &c.
So too actions. One can not simply add form, manners, tone to action arbitrarily. Actions require density. Or, better, persons require density.
And you cannot rightly train one to an air and manner, except by making him the kind of man of whom that manner is the natural expression. Nature forever puts a premium on reality. What is done for effect, is seen to be done for effect; what is done for love, is felt to be done for love. (1047)
No more than one can write a poem in iambic pentameter whose thought does not so move, can one cultivate a person’s appearance who remains barbaric underneath. The barbarism will show through.
One of the aesthetic markers of self-reliance – I note in passing a confidence between Emerson and Nietzsche on this point – is a mistrust of too much giving grounds. One need only watch a contemporary discussion between disputants each of whom is concerned to display his rationality, his cautiousness, his consideration of all sides, his charity to opponents to be disgusted by the ugliness of a too great love of the appearance of rationality.
Emerson noted this opposition in grand style in his essay on “Self-Reliance”:
I would write on the lintels of the door-post, Whim. I hope it is somewhat better than whim at last, but we cannot spend the day in explanation. (262)
It is important, however, so he reiterates here, with an interesting variation:
Self-reliance is the basis of behavior, as it is the guaranty that the powers are not squandered in too much demonstration. In this country, where school education is universal, we have a superficial culture, and a profusion of reading and writing and expression. We parade our nobilities in poems and orations, instead of working them up into happiness. (1048)
In this expression of the point, Emerson ties it to the thought that poetry might profitably disappear – not his first time having entertained such a thought. He mistrusts that poetry (and other writing) that becomes a show of nobility, often at the expense of the enacting of that nobility. Were this form of poetry to disappear, what is poetic in it would nonetheless remain: “when a man does not write his poetry, it escapes by other vents through him […] clings to his form and manners…” (1048)
This disappearance of poetry is, moreover, annexed to a consideration of happiness: there is something sickly, unhappy, about a person who sacrifices happiness to poetizing. As a person possessive of at least pretensions to such poetizing, this thought is interesting to and useful for me. Ought I not to write, in favor of other forms of expression? I do not think so, and do not believe that I am merely gratifying myself in so thinking. What this suggests to me instead is that Emerson places a priority first on happiness (by which I do not believe he means that sloppy self-content that today sometimes carries the name). Once this is secured, it may overflow into poetry.
The requirement is that poetry be a product of joy, of healthful morning hours. If such joy be its fount, it will adopt poetic bearing of its own accord, and wear it regally. If not, all the cultivation of form imposed upon it will not protect forever the impostor.
In his essay on “Power,” Emerson deferred his usual countermovement, and allowed himself to extol pure imposing power without admixture. Only two essays later in The Conduct of Life, when his subject turns to “Culture,” does the turn arrive. The essay begins by raising three related problems, to which culture offers some solution:
- Talent (power) makes us its prisoners.
- Talent leads to unbalance and upsets symmetry.
- All individualism is secured through egotism.
What we are good at, we do. To move to a new arena requires learning new skills, a period of apprenticeship, and reticence to forgo our expertise thus keeps us in the realm of our established talent. The purpose of culture, with respect to this problem, is to call in other powers as a defense against this domineering power. “Culture reduces these inflammations by invoking the aid of other powers against the dominant talent, and by appealing to the rank of powers.” (1015)
The second problem is similar. Talent and efficiency require concentration. Nothing is accomplished without specialization. Emerson hammered the point home in the essay on power: “The one prudence in life is concentration; the one evil is dissipation.” (982) But now this is seen as “overload[ing] him with bias, sacrificing his symmetry to his working power.” (1015) The end result is that “no man can write but one book” – and how true this is: Shakespeare wrote but one sonnet, Nabokov but one novel, Rothko painted and repainted a single painting, and Feldman’s compositions are all, at base, the same. The value of culture lies in promoting symmetry, in expanding outward in multiple directions. If power is a specialist, culture is a generalist.
But it is the third problem that is worst. “But worse than the harping on one string, Nature has secured individualism, by giving the private person a high conceit of his weight in the system. The pest of society is egotists.” (1015) Here individualism is distinguished from egotism – individualism is, I suppose, being a well-formed, resolute individual, who does not bend to every external influence, whereas egotism is a conceited view of one’s own worth. Such a distinction is the sort that might be taken to show that Emerson wishes to contrast his doctrine of self-reliance with egotism – it may be a form of individualism, but egotism it is not. That is a mistake.
Emerson here is making a descriptive remark about the world: the way, as a matter of unalterable fact, that individualism is secured is through egotism. Emerson made this same point in an earlier essay: such conceit is the sine qua non of all action. But mixed in with this description is the appearance of a value judgment: egotism is a “disease” and a “goitre.” (1015-6) Well, Emerson admits it has its downsides, but he infers from the unalterable fact that egotism has some use: “This goitre of egotism is so frequent among notable persons, that we must infer some strong necessity in nature which it subserves.” (1016) And this use is individuality: “so egotism has its root in the cardinal necessity by which each individual persists to be what he is.”
If individuality is distinct from egotism, it is because it has an additional element – culture. “The end of culture is not to destroy [individuality], God forbid! but to train away all impediment and mixture, and leave nothing but pure power.” (1016-7) The function of culture is to act as a sieve, as a purifying agent – exactly as it was described in the essay on power.
This leaves culture in a secondary position: egotism is the basis, and culture goes to work on this basis. Culture does not precede it, and without it culture is empty. It is striking, for an essay purportedly extolling culture and its tempering effect on power, just how sparing a role Emerson leaves for culture. He will grant its value, but prefers solitude:
We can ill spare the commanding social benefits of cities; they must be used; yet cautiously, and haughtily, – and will yield their best values to him who best can do without them. Keep the town for occasions, but the habits should be formed to retirement. (1028)
Solitude is the workspace of genius – and also of egotism. One pole of Emerson’s conception of genius is that it consists of an outward expansion, the imposition of the individual on what lies outside the individual, or, to condense this to a word: egotism. And this requires solitude.
But there is something to those who would see an impersonal element in Emerson’s doctrine of self-reliance. I contend only that one cannot understand what this impersonal element is without seeing that Emerson’s insistence on self-reliance is an insistence on a form of egotism – as it must be, if it is to be worthy of the name. What is this impersonal element, then?
We say solitude, to mark the character of the tone of thought; but if it can be shared between two or more than two, it is happier, and not less noble. (1028)
Emerson’s impersonal is egotism shared.