Immanuel Kant (b. Königsberg, 22 Apr. 1724; d. Königsberg, 12 Feb. 1804)
Although Leibniz had touched on what might be described as aesthetic issues, and Moses Mendelssohn, grandfather of the composer Felix, had speculated on aesthetic matters, Kant was the first German thinker of world significance to devote a considerable part of his philosophical system to the theme of aesthetics. The term aesthetics itself is generally attributed to A. G. Baumgarten. His Meditationes philosophicae de nonnullis ad poema pertinentibus (1735) contains the following passage:
115. Philosophical poetics is the branch of learning that sets standards for sensate discourse, and since in speaking we communicate through images, philosophical poetics must also imply some lower cognitive faculty possessed by the poet. The task of logic, taking the term in the broader sense, must, in consequence, be the establishment of standards to assist this faculty in the cognition of things through the senses. Anyone with any knowledge of modern logic, however, will realise how little this field has been cultivated. What is to be done? If logic be defined as strictly as present-day usage requires, it must surely be considered only as the science of knowing things philosophically; in other words, as that branch of knowledge that directs the higher cognitive faculty towards the apprehension of truth. Nevertheless, philosophers might well find it amply rewarding to investigate criteria for the development and sharpening of the lower cognitive faculty, so that it may then be more generally exploited for the benefit of all. A science must surely exist to set standards for this lower cognitive faculty, based on the reliable principles provided by psychology, for the assessment of things experienced through the senses. 116. We are now almost in a position to define and devise a name for this branch of knowledge. The Greeks and the Church Fathers carefully distinguished between things perceived (aistheta) and things known (noeta). Clearly, they did not equate things known with things perceived through the senses, for they applied the term to things removed from sense-perception (i.e. images) as well. Things known, then, are those known by the superior faculty; they come within the ambit of logic. Things perceived come within the ambit of the science of perception and are the object of the lower faculty. These may be termed aesthetic.
It was only later, in his Aesthetica of 1758, that Baumgarten applied this word that he had invented to a whole body of theory and knowledge in the sense in which we understand it today; and the field that he opened up was to be greatly expanded in the century after he invented the term. Kant's contribution was to be significant; but he was building on foundations laid by others of far less significance in the world of learning than himself.
Kant was educated at Königsberg; first at the Collegium Fredericanum and then at the university. The Collegium was strongly influenced by the doctrines of pietism, and the university by Leibnizian rationalism. He began his university studies in 1740, taught privately for a number of years and became a Privatdozent, a licensed, unsalaried lecturer, in 1755. In 1770, he became professor of logic and philosophy. He never travelled more than a dozen or so miles from his native city throughout his life.
He was a man of wide interests. In addition to his passion for rational and moral philosophy, he had an interest in the physical sciences and was greatly attracted to, though critical of, both the English empiricists, notably Locke and Hume, and Rousseau. His other interests included international politics--particularly the establishment of a world citizenship--religion and morality; the three great critiques, however, remain his greatest and most influential works.
The Kritik der reinen Vernunft (1781) is an investigation into the sources of human knowledge. In it, Kant sets out to prove that our experience of the world through our senses presupposes certain a priori principles which, taken together, constitute an interpretation of nature as a mechanistic system. The natural world, then, can be known through the senses, and it is self- consistent. But knowledge through the senses is knowledge of appearances (phenomena), not of reality. If there is (and Kant thinks it is obvious that there is) a source of all phenomena beyond any consciousness we have of individual things, bounded by the world of space, time and movement, that source cannot be known by us. We can know things only as they appear to us, not as they are in themselves; we cannot know the Ding an sich. Although this conception of the Ding an sich is largely negative, therefore, Kant was generally understood by his contemporaries and successors to be referring by it not to the limitations on our knowledge, but to the existence of a transcendent, unknowable Something. However, it has to be admitted that Kant's formulations are far from clear; and some of them lend credence to this misunderstanding, which was espoused in particular by Schopenhauer.
The Kritik der praktischen Vernunft (1786) sets out to examine the sources of morality. If the view of the universe as a mechanistic system is a view justified by the necessary principles of our thought, how can we be sure that such a thing as moral freedom exists, and that we are not merely the creatures of some deterministic process? Kant's answer to this is that we cannot be "sure" of our moral freedom in the same way that we can be "sure" of a fact of natural science. Moral freedom, however is something that we have to postulate if we are to believe in the possibility of moral judgement and moral action at all; and philosophy can at least show that moral freedom is not incompatible with natural determinism. If we believe in the possibility of moral action, then--Kant says--we must believe in the absolute bindingness of the moral law, independently of any considerations of "natural" factors. This is why he calls the "imperative" which enjoins moral action a "categorical" imperative, the basis of which is that all moral actions should be such that any of them could be set up as a universal moral precept. (When we come to consider his definition of genius we shall see that he follows very similar lines about the principles through which genius operates.) Moral actions may well be pleasurable--as a side-effect--but pleasure and well-being are not the aim of morality. The whole basis of morality and hence of freedom, as Kant saw it, was not self-realisation, but duty.
In the second Kritik, then, Kant maintained that freedom was the principle of obedience to rational laws which were at the same time self imposed. These laws are binding on any rational agent, whatever his desires. The third Kritik, the Kritik der Urteilskraft, sets out to establish the relationship between nature and freedom, based, not just on evidence or argument, but on a priori principles. Kant, like many of his predecessors, saw beauty as a symbol of moral virtue, and hence for him, aesthetics was an aspect of, or at any rate an adjunct to, ethics. In the first part of the Kritik der Urteilskraft, his concern is to establish absolute principles regulating beauty and its appreciation. The third Kritik, then, is no mere appendage to the other two, it is in a sense the culmination of them.
Kant's style is complex, but the complexity is due to the density of his thought rather than any prolixity on his part. Certain terms may need a short explanation.
Throughout the Kritik der Urteilskraft Kant uses the word Gemüt (usually translated temperament or personality) in contexts where he is clearly thinking of the body-mind-soul complex that constitutes a whole human being and his reactions to the phenomenal world. We have tended either to omit the term altogether where this could be done without damaging the sense of the original, or to translate it according to that aspect of the concept that was uppermost in his mind in a particular context. He also uses the words Verstand (intellect) and Vernunft (reason) in contrast to one another. The word angenehm, a key concept in the Kritik which he uses to categorise a particular kind of art, is usually translated pleasant. We have preferred the word pleasurable, for it is clear that Kant's use of the word angenehm implies "pleasure-providing" rather than just "agreeable" or "inoffensive".
Another important term that needs some explanation to the modern reader is the German word Spiel. It is usually translated "play". It has nothing of the modern idea of sport, but really stands for the spontaneous interaction of dynamic forces without any ulterior purpose. We have therefore preferred the English term interplay.
What is pleasurable to a person is that which satisfies some need; what is beautiful, simply what pleases; what is good is what he esteems (geschätzt), i.e. that on which he places some objective value. Even animals experience pleasure, though they possess no reason; beauty can be experienced only by mankind, i.e. by beings that are animal and yet rational. Goodness, however, is essentially a matter for rational beings.
Interest is that pleasure which we associate with a representation of the existence of some object.
Quite obviously everyone must admit that any judgement on beauty remotely tinged with interest is very partisan and no genuine judgement of taste. One should not be in the slightest degree involved in the object's existence, but quite impartial in this respect if one is to act as a judge in matters of taste.
This proposition is of paramount importance; and we can explain it in no better way than by contrasting the pure disinterested pleasure enjoyed in a judgement of taste with one involving interest, particularly if we know at the same time that the categories of interest are limited to those mentioned below.
The pleasurable is whatever gratifies the senses when they react to it. This provides an immediate opportunity to draw attention to and condemn a prevalent confusion arising from the use of the word "sensation" with two different meanings. People say or think that all pleasure is a sensation (of some pleasure or other). Everything therefore that pleases is pleasurable simply because it pleases; it is charming, attractive, delightful, gratifying and so on, according to the degree [of pleasure] that it affords, or according perhaps to the association that it has with other pleasurable sensations. But if this is accepted, then it does not matter at all whether as far as the feeling of enjoyment is concerned, the effect arises from sense-impressions conditioning inclination, from rational principles affecting the will, or merely from reflective forms of perception affecting the faculty of judgement. For the resultant pleasure would be that engendered by a particular state; and since in the last resort all processes in our faculties must have a practical starting point and combine to achieve a practical goal, the only standard by which something could be assessed or valued would be the pleasure that it promises. How this pleasure is secured is in the long run immaterial since the only thing that can make any difference is the choice of means; men could certainly condemn each other for stupidity and lack of judgement, but never for evil intent or wickedness, for, after all, whatever way they look at it they are all pursuing the same goal, namely pleasure.
The term sensation is applied to the conditioning of some feeling of pleasure or displeasure. It means something quite different, however, when I call a sensation the representation of a thing by the senses, in their role as the receptive faculty in the cognitive process. For in this latter case, the representation relates to the object, whereas in the former, it relates solely to the subject, and it does not contribute in any way to the process of cognition, not even in the sense of the subject being aware of itself.
But in the above explanation, we understand the term sensation to mean an objective representation by the senses. In order, therefore, to avoid any risk of misunderstanding, the generally accepted term "emotion" will be used to describe anything that can never be other than purely subjective, and which can therefore quite simply never constitute a representation of an object. The green colour of meadows is a matter of objective sensation, being empirical perception of an object; the pleasure that the meadows afford, however, since no object is represented, is subjective, i.e. a matter of the emotion with which the object is contemplated (and this pleasure is not cognitive).
So when I judge an object as pleasurable, my judgement expresses interest; this is obvious from the fact that through sensation it arouses desire for similar objects; thus the pleasure is not simply an assessment of the object but a matter of relating its existence to my condition insofar as this is affected by the object. Hence the pleasurable is not said merely to please, but to satisfy a need. I am not merely demonstrating approval of it; it is arousing a disposition in me towards it. Pleasure that is intensely felt, then, has nothing to do with the character of the object. So anyone who has enjoyment as his sole aim (for that is what the word means that describes the inner core of satisfaction) will happily evade judging it in any respect.
A thing is good if it pleases purely as a rational concept (vermittelst der Vernunft). Those things are called good for something (useful) that please only as a means; others, however, are called good in themselves, that please on their own account. In either case there is the concept of some end, or at any rate (potential) desire: a connection, that is, between reason and some pleasure taken in the existence of an object or process, i.e. an interest of some kind.
To discover the good in something, I must always know what sort of thing the object is supposed to be, i.e. I must have some concept of it. This is not necessary if I wish to discover its beauty. Floral designs (Blumen), random arabesques, technically called leafwork (Laubwerk), mean nothing, do not depend on any definite concept, and yet they provide pleasure. Delight in the beautiful must derive from consideration of an object before any rational concept (as yet undefined) is reached; and it differs in this even from what is pleasant, which depends entirely on sensation.
With regard to what is pleasurable, everyone has his own standard, admitting when he says that an object pleases him that his judgement is based on personal emotion. If he were to say that canary wine is pleasurable, he would not object if someone corrected him, by reminding him that he ought to say: the wine is pleasurable to him. This is so not only in judgements of the tongue and the palate but also in cases of what is pleasurable to the ear and the eye. One person may feel that purple is soft and attractive; another may consider it lifeless and faded. One may like the sound of wind instruments; another may prefer strings. To argue over such matters, and to condemn someone else's judgement as mistaken on logical grounds if it differed from ours would be stupid; so as far as the pleasurable is concerned, therefore, the principle holds good: to each his own taste (based on sense).
As far as beauty is concerned, matters are quite different. It would (matters being completely different) be quite absurd if someone who prided himself on his taste sought to justify himself by saying: "This object (the building we are looking at, the garment someone is wearing, the concert we are listening to, the poem submitted to our judgement) is beautiful to me." For he should not call it beautiful if it pleases only him. It does not matter that many things may attract and charm him; but if he states that something is beautiful, he is implying that others will find the same pleasure in it; he is making not merely a personal and independent assessment, but one that is binding on everyone else. The moment he does this he is speaking of beauty as if it were a quality of things. Hence he says the thing is beautiful, not counting on the agreement of others with this judgement of pleasure simply because he has found them in agreement with him on a number of occasions, but demanding that they should agree with him. He censures them if they judge differently; he denies them taste, although he still expects it of them.
To this extent, then, it cannot be said: "each has his own taste". This would be tantamount to claiming that taste does not exist at all, i.e. no aesthetic judgement could be made that called on everyone to accept it.
Interest of any kind spoils the judgement of taste, robbing it of its impartiality, especially when that interest is based on preferring what affords immediate pleasure, not, as reason does, preferring what suits the situation. This often happens in aesthetic judgements on things. Judgements that are thus swayed by emotion may make no claim whatever to universal validity, or at any rate they will stand in inverse proportion to the influence that the emotions exert over them. Standards of taste are still barbaric if they require an admixture of, let alone a total dependence on, physical attraction (charm) and emotional appeal. Not only is charm often considered to be a component of beauty contributing to universal aesthetic pleasure (and beauty should surely be a question only of form), but that attraction is actually considered as beautiful in itself, hence as form rather than matter. This is a misconception which, like so many others, yet possesses an element of truth in it; it is one which may be eliminated by careful definition of these concepts.
Any judgement of taste which is uninfluenced by (charm) and emotion (whether or not it is connected with pleasure taken in the beautiful), and which, therefore, is based purely on suitability of form, is a pure judgement of taste.
Any form of an empirically perceived object (whether external or internal) is either a pattern or an interplay. In the latter case the interplay is either of shapes (in space: mime and dance) or simply of emotions (in time). The charm of colours or the pleasurable sounds of instruments may also be involved; but in the first case the design constitutes the actual object of any pure judgement of taste and in the second, the composition. Beauty may seem to be enhanced by the purity, variety or contrast of colours and sounds. Colours and sounds do more indeed than just add something extra to the pleasure taken in the form. They attract our attention to the object and keep it there, by giving greater precision and clarity to the form and by adding at the same time life to the representation.
That which is only incidental to and not an inner component of the complete representation, is called a decoration (parerga). It increases the pleasure of taste, though only by its form; such are picture-frames, draperies for statues, or colonnades round palaces. If however the decoration is not integral to the beautiful form itself, if as with the golden frame it is there as an attraction simply to arouse admiration for the painting, it is then termed an embellishment (Schmuck) and it has nothing to do with beauty.
Beauty has nothing to do with being moved, a sensation, that is, in which pleasure is aroused only by a momentary damming of vital force followed by a more powerful surge. But the judgement of sublimity (with which the sense of being moved is connected) requires a different yardstick from that required by the judgement of taste. A pure judgement of taste is thus conditioned neither by charm nor emotion. No sensation is, in short, the substance of aesthetic judgement.
Pleasurable arts are those intended merely for enjoyment. (Among pleasures of this kind may be included those associated with entertaining at table, and with banquet Tafelmusik, an odd convention which is supposed to entertain by providing a pleasant accompaniment to put the guests in a cheerful mood, encouraging relaxed conversation between neighbours at table without requiring them to devote any attention to the music itself.) Fine art, on the other hand, is a manner of representation that is an end in itself. It is one that promotes the development of the personality and its capacity for social communication, regardless of ulterior motive.
The very idea that pleasure is universally communicable already implies that such pleasure does not depend on the enjoyment of mere emotion, but that it must involve reflection; hence because aesthetic art is fine art, it takes its standards not from the emotions of the senses, but from the reflective power of judgement.
If the art of the beautiful interplay of the emotions (generated by external stimuli) is to be universally communicable, it can only be concerned with the various degrees of mood (tension) in the particular physical sense through which we experience the emotion; thus broadly defined, the term may be sub-divided into a skilfully designed interplay of the emotions of hearing and of sight, i.e. into music and the art of colour. It is remarkable that these two senses, sight and hearing, are not only sensitive to impressions (and are thereby able to conceptualise external objects) but they are capable of responding to another special sensation. Whether this sensation is based on perception or on reflexion is uncertain. Moreover, this capacity to respond may well be lacking even though the sense may otherwise be perfectly efficient or even outstandingly perceptive as far as the cognition of objects is concerned. This means that it cannot be stated with certainty whether a note (sound) or colour arouses merely pleasurable emotions or whether in itself it is already a beautiful interplay of emotions, involving pleasure in the form when it is judged aesthetically. Taking into account the speed of the vibrations of light (or, in the second instance, those of sound), which are probably far too rapid for us to form any direct estimate of the time each occupies, one might believe that it was only the effect of these vibrations on the elastic parts of our body that was perceived by the senses, the time interval between them being neither observed nor submitted to a process of judgement by those organs, and that everything connected with the pleasantness of sounds and colours relates to pleasure rather than to beauty of composition. However, consider first of all the mathematical relationship of these vibrations in music and the way they are judged and, by analogy, the judgement of colour gradations. Consider secondly those men, rare though they be, who possess the sharpest sight and yet cannot differentiate colours, and those who have the keenest hearing yet cannot differentiate sounds. Evidently those who can differentiate the various intensities on the scale of colour or pitch perceive a definite change in quality (and not merely a change in the degree of emotion). Indeed, only a limited number of such qualities can be comprehensibly differentiated. So both kinds of sensation might have to be regarded not merely as empirical impressions, but as the effect of a judgement of form arising from the interplay of a number of sensations. Whichever opinion one holds as to the basis of music the definition would only be modified to the extent that it could either, as we have said, be a beautiful interplay of emotions (via the sense of hearing) or a beautiful interplay of pleasurable emotions. Only in the first respect can music be fully defined as a fine art; in the second, it is none the less in part, at any rate, a pleasurable one.
As far as charm and stimulation go, I should place after poetry that art which comes closer to it than any of the other arts of eloquence and which can thus very naturally be combined with it: music. For although it communicates by means of mere sensations without concepts, and therefore does not, like poetry, leave anything to reflect on, it nevertheless moves us in more ways and with greater intensity than poetry does, even if its effect is more transient. Admittedly, it is enjoyable rather than civilising (the incidental play of thought it arouses being merely the effect of what might be termed mechanical associations); in rational terms, then, music is of less value than any other of the fine arts. Thus, like any pleasure, it requires fairly constant change; nor does it bear frequent repetition without surfeiting the appetite. Its charm, which can so universally be communicated, appears to come about in the following way: every verbal expression has a note or timbre that is appropriate to it; a particular sound or note symbolises more or less an emotional reaction in the speaker, which in turn is induced in the listener. The idea expressed in language by the sound or note is then evoked by a reverse process in the listener's mind; hence, just as melody is a universally comprehensible language of the emotions, so music by itself communicates this language of the affections (Affekten) in its most intensive form; thus, by association, it universally communicates the aesthetic ideas that are naturally connected with those affections. Since aesthetic ideas are not concepts or definite ideas, however, the form (harmony and melody) in which the emotions are arranged serves not so much as the framework of a language, but as the means by which an aesthetic idea may coherently be shaped in all its inexpressible fullness, in conformity with a specific theme constituting the dominant emotional mood of the piece. It does this by means of a balanced mood-combination of these emotions (a combination that can be mathematically subjected to certain rules, since it is based on the numerical relationship of simultaneously- or successively- sounding notes, and thus on the numerical relationship between the vibrations of the air at a given instant). It is on these mathematical relationships alone, even though they are not expressed by means of precise concepts, that the satisfaction depends which is caused by the mere contemplation of the interplay of so many simultaneous or successive emotions and which constitute a universal criterion of beauty; and it is in this form alone that taste can lay claim to the right to judge on behalf of all men.
Yet mathematics has nothing at all to do with the way that music charms and stimulates us; it is only the indispensable condition (conditio sine qua non) whereby impressions, both simultaneous and successive, may be balanced so that they may be grasped as a whole. This prevents them from cancelling each other out so that they refresh us in uninterrupted harmonious combination by means of consonant emotional reactions (Affekten). In this way, they produce a sense of inner enjoyment and well-being.
If, on the other hand, we judge the value of the fine arts by the culture they provide, by which is meant the development of those faculties that must combine in the act of cognition when judgement is being exercised, then music is least amongst the fine arts, because it plays merely with emotions (just perhaps as it is greatest among those arts prized for the pleasure they afford). Hence in this respect the representational arts greatly excel it, for they freely stimulate the play of the imagination in a way that is suited to the intellect. They thus fulfil a function by creating at the same time a product which is permanent, an autonomous vehicle for intellectual concepts, and one, at the same time, that has both imaginative and sensuous appeal. Thus they promote, as it were, the "good breeding" (Urbanität) of the superior cognitive faculties. The two kinds of art take quite different paths. Music moves from emotions to indefinite ideas; the formative arts move from definite ideas to emotions. The formative arts create lasting impressions, music creates only transient ones. The impressions of the former can be recalled and enjoyed by the imagination; the impressions of the latter vanish altogether, or, if they are involuntarily recalled by the imagination, are more tiresome than pleasurable. Besides which, music to some extent lacks good breeding in that it obtrudes unnecessarily [on those in the neighbourhood], forcing itself on them, as it were, and thus restricting the freedom of those who are not a party to the music-making. This is something that the visual arts do not, for it is only necessary to avert the eye if one wishes not to become involved.
The beautiful and the sublime have this in common that they both please in themselves. Moreover, they also have this in common, that they both presuppose a judgement based not on empirical or logical standards, but on those of reflexion. Consequently, pleasure in the sublime does not depend on a sensation, whereas the pleasant does, nor on a precise concept, as does pleasure in the good. Concepts are none the less involved, even though they are imprecise. Hence the pleasure is solely linked with the faculty of perception, or the faculty of the imagination, so that the capacity to create images -- the imagination -- is thought to harmonise with the cognitive capacity of the intellect or of reason, the cognitive capacity assisting the imagination. Hence the judgements of both intellect and imagination are individual, yet they can be considered as universally applicable to every subject, even though they apply only to pleasurable emotions rather than to any cognition of the object.
Yet there are also notable and striking differences between the two. Beauty in nature concerns the form of the object; and this consists in limitation. The sublime, on the other hand, may be discerned even in a formless object in so far as it has or evokes the idea of limitlessness even though the object's totality may be adduced as well. It appears, therefore, that the term beautiful is used to represent an indeterminate intellectual concept, whereas the term sublime represents a rational concept that is imprecise. Hence pleasure in the beautiful is a matter of quality, and pleasure in the sublime a matter of quantity. Similarly, the kind of pleasure deriving from the experience of beauty differs greatly from pleasure in the sublime, the former (the beautiful) directly involving a sense of enhanced vitality. It is thus something that may be experienced in combination with charm and the play of the imagination. As far as the sublime is concerned, however, feelings of pleasure are only generated indirectly and come from a momentary damming of the vital forces, immediately followed by a proportionately stronger outpouring of them. Hence, the emotional reaction is apparently an activity of the imagination more serious than mere play. It is incompatible with charm; and because the object is not necessarily attractive, but can even be repulsive, pleasure in the sublime involves not so much positive desire but rather admiration or respect, i.e. it deserves to be termed negative pleasure.
But the most significant and fundamental difference between the sublime and the beautiful is probably this: if, as is reasonable, we confine consideration of the sublime to natural objects (the sublime in art being of course restricted to situations that are consonant with nature), natural beauty (on its own account) seems to have a finality in its form that as it were preconditions our powers of judgement, and which thus constitutes in itself an object of pleasure. On the other hand whatever arouses a sense of the sublime in us merely as we apprehend it, without rationalisation (ohne zu vernünfteln), will be considered sublime to the extent that it resists judgement, is incompatible with the interpretative faculties and does violence, as it were, to the imagination.
. . . the analysis of the sublime calls for a subdivision that is unnecessary for the beautiful, namely the mathematically and the dynamically sublime.
For the emotion engendered by the sublime involves a change in the temperament associated with the judgement of the object, whereas taste in respect of the beautiful presupposes and sustains a mood of calm contemplation; this change should however be judged as subjectively appropriate (because the sublime pleases); hence it is related by the imagination either to the faculty of cognition or the capacity for desire. But in both of these cases the appropriateness of the given representation is judged only in respect of the faculty or capacity (without ulterior motive or interest); since then the faculty of cognition presents the object to the imagination as a mathematical condition, and the capacity for desire as a dynamic condition, the object may be considered sublime in either of these two senses.
The sublime is that which makes everything else seem small in comparison with it. So it is obvious that nothing can exist in nature, however large, that might not be infinitesimally small by some other standard; and, conversely, nothing so small that, by some still smaller standard, might not be magnified in our imagination to the size of the world itself. Telescopes have provided us with ample evidence of the first, microscopes with evidence of the second kind of observation. Nothing, then, can by this criterion be called sublime that can be perceived empirically. Yet there is in our imagination a latent urge to reach out towards the infinite and in our reason a call for some concept of absolute phenomenal totality. The very fact, then, that our capacity to evaluate the size of things cannot match the concept itself is the first awakening in us of a feeling of some supra-sensible faculty. Judgement naturally makes use of certain objects to enhance this faculty; and it does so by using scale, large in the absolute sense, not just by the standard of the object itself, whereas as far as everything else is concerned it uses a comparatively small scale. So what should be called sublime is the state of being that is generated by a particular image rather than the object itself. We may thus add to the foregoing definitions of the sublime the following: The sublime is that which indicates some capacity to transcend all empirical standards merely by thinking of it.
The infinite is not merely comparatively great, but absolutely so. Compared with it, anything else (of the same kind of magnitude) is small. But the most significant point is that the capacity even to think of the infinite as a totality represents a capacity transcending any empirical scale. For to do so would require a capacity to comprehend that was based on a unity that bore a precise numerical relationship to infinity, which is impossible. None the less, the capacity even to think of infinity without inconsistency requires a faculty in the human temperament that in itself transcends the empirical . . .
Nature, therefore, is sublime when she conveys to us the idea of infinity as we contemplate her. This can only happen when the very mightiest effort of our imagination is inadequate to estimate an object's size. But our imagination is competent to measure the mathematical size of any object because the mind is able through progressive upgrading of the unit of measurement to adapt itself to any suitable numerical scale. Whenever an attempt is made to comprehend an object, using a valid basic scale of measurement--one that can be applied with the minimum of intellectual effort--and when that attempt produces an increasing awareness of our inability to comprehend its infinite scale, then this attempt transcends the imaginative powers and the assessment must therefore be an aesthetic one. But since this basic scale is a self-contradictory concept (because an unlimited progression towards absolute totality is impossible), then the size of any natural object on which our comprehension and the entire resources of our imagination are vainly focused must raise our idea of nature to a plane beyond the empirical. This plane which underlies both nature and our capacity to think, is so gigantic that it transcends the capacity of our senses to grasp it. Hence it is not so much the object that must be considered sublime as our mood when we apprehend it . . . .
It is obvious from this that true sublimity should be sought only in the character of the person making the judgement, not in the natural object arousing the sense of the sublime. Anyway, who could possibly describe a dark, tempestuous ocean as sublime, or formless mountain ranges, towering over one another in wild disorder, and capped with icy peaks? Yet in judging such things man experiences a sense of exaltation, regardless of their form, when he abandons himself to his imagination and reason and still cannot match them, although his reason is not following any clear course but merely enlarging the horizons.
Every case in which our imagination is presented with a larger unit of measurement rather than a numerical concept that is comparatively greater (to simplify the mathematical series) provides an example of the mathematically sublime. A tree measured by the height of a man provides at any rate a scale for a mountain; and if the latter were about a mile high, it could be used as a scale on which to measure the earth's diameter so as to make that comprehensible; the earth's diameter could be used as a scale for the planetary system known to us; the planetary system for the Milky Way; and the immeasurable host of such galactic systems, or nebulae, as they are called, which probably constitute yet another system in themselves, permit us to conceive of no limits. Now in the aesthetic judgement of such an immeasurable whole, the sublime lies not so much in the number as in the fact that we are judging on a progressively larger scale. When reason creates ideas on an appropriate scale, nature herself dwindles into insignificance in our imagination. The systematic structure of the cosmos contributes to this, by representing everything great in nature as small, or rather, small in comparison with the limitless imagination--the ideas reason creates to establish a scale adequate to their representation.
In judging nature as dynamically sublime, we must imagine her as arousing fear (though the converse is not true; not every object arousing fear is considered aesthetically sublime). For when we judge a thing aesthetically (no concept being involved) our victory over the forces in our way can be judged only in proportion to the size of the resistance we meet with. But what we endeavour to resist is a threat; and if we discover our capacity to resist is inadequate, it is an object of fear. So our faculty of aesthetic judgement can consider nature as a force, and hence as dynamically sublime, only to the extent that she is an object of fear.
But an object may be considered terrifying without causing fear in us if we judge it simply by supposing some situation in which we should wish to resist it and then finding that such resistance was totally futile. So a virtuous man fears God without being afraid of Him, because he cannot think of a situation in which he would wish to defy God and His commandments. But in every case that he thinks of as not in itself impossible, he recognises Him as an object of fear.
The sublime can no more be judged by someone who is afraid than can the beautiful by someone who is absorbed by his appetite and his desires. The former person will flee from the sight of an object that arouses his fear; and it is impossible to take pleasure in actual terror. Hence the pleasure when some unease is relieved is gladness. But this becomes gladness at the sense of being liberated from some danger, accompanied by a resolve never again to be exposed to it; in fact we do not even enjoy the memory of such a sensation, let alone the prospect of encountering it again.
Prominent, overhanging, menacing cliffs, towering stormclouds from which come lightning flashes and thunderclaps as they roll by, volcanoes in all their destructive violence, hurricanes leaving devastation in their trail, the boundless, raging ocean, a lofty waterfall on some mighty river, all render our capacity to resist insignificantly small in comparison to their power. But their aspect becomes ever more attractive the safer we feel ourselves to be; and we are happy to call such objects sublime because they elevate the powers of our soul above their normal state, causing us to discover within ourselves a capacity to resist, of quite another order, giving us courage to measure ourselves against the apparent omnipotence of nature . . . .
So sublimity is contained, not in any natural object, but in ourselves in so far as we become aware of nature and thus of our superiority over nature (to the extent that she influences us).
The moral law which so powerfully preconditions every important characteristic in us is the object of pure and unqualified intellectual pleasure; and since this power really makes its presence felt aesthetically only through sacrifice . . . any aesthetic pleasure deriving from it is negative, i.e. against the interest of the senses; yet from the intellectual standpoint, however, it is positive and involves an interest of some kind. It follows from these aesthetic considerations that something both morally good and self- consistent is to be thought of not so much as beautiful than as sublime. It arouses respect (which despises charm) rather than love or affection. The reason for this is the mighty power that the mind exercises over sensual desire, for human nature of itself does not incline to such goodness. Conversely, what we call sublime in external nature, or even in ourselves (e.g. certain emotional states (Affekten)) takes form only as a power in our character capable of overcoming certain obstacles of sense attraction by moral principles, thereby becoming as objects of interest.
Genius is the aptitude (natural gift) that gives the arts their rules. Since this aptitude, the artist's inborn creative (produktiv) capacity, is itself part of nature, it might well be defined thus: Genius is the inborn human aptitude (ingenium) through which nature provides art with rules.
Whether this definition is appropriate or not, whether it is merely arbitrary, or whether it is in keeping with the usual interpretation of the term genius or not . . . at any rate it can be shown from the start that the fine arts must necessarily be regarded as arts of genius, as we have defined the term.
For each and every art presupposes rules on which a product must be based if it is in any way to be called artistic. But the beauty of a work of fine art may not be judged on the basis of a concept derived from some rule or other, nor can any concept be formed of how it is created. Thus the fine art itself cannot devise the rules governing the creation of its product. But equally, no product can ever be termed art unless some rule pre- exists it, since nature must supply the individual, and through him art, with rules (by virtue of the sensitivity of his faculties), i.e. fine art is only possible as the product of some genius.
From this it is evident that genius (1) is an aptitude to produce something for which no definite rule can be postulated; it is not a capacity or skill for something that can be learnt from some rule or other. Its prime quality, then, must be originality. (2) Since there is such a thing as original nonsense, the products of genius must at the same time be models, i.e. they should be exemplary; and therefore, while not being products of imitation themselves, they should serve as models for others, i.e. they should provide a standard or rule of assessment. (3) The aptitude cannot of itself describe how it creates its products, or demonstrate the process theoretically, though it provides the rules by itself being a part of nature. Thus the progenitor of a work of art is indebted to his own genius and he does not himself know how the ideas for it came to him, nor does it lie within his power to calculate them methodically or, should he so wish, to communicate them to others by means of principles that would enable others to create works of equal quality . . . . (4) It is through genius that nature prescribes the rules of art though not of scholarship or science, and only here in so far as the art is a fine art.
Rhetoric may be combined with a pictorial representation of people and things alike, in a play; poetry may be combined with music in song; both may be combined with a pictorial (theatrical) representation in an opera as may the interplay of emotions in a piece of music with dance steps, and so on. The representation of the sublime, too, in so far as it is part of fine art, can be combined with beauty in an edifying poem, in a verse tragedy or an oratorio; and when so linked, the fine arts become even more artistic. Whether, however, they gain in beauty (as so many and varied kinds of pleasure interact with one another) is in some cases debatable. Yet in all fine arts, the essential thing is the form, which is the starting point for observation and judgement where pleasure is at the same time culture, attuning the spirit to ideas, and so making it receptive to more such pleasure and entertainment. The physical experience is not the issue (that is to say what charms or moves us). Where the aim is merely enjoyment, no ideas are left behind, the spirit is blunted, the object gradually becomes tedious and one becomes dissatisfied and ill-tempered with oneself, being conscious of one's resistance to the exercise of the rational powers of judgement.
If the fine arts are not associated with moral ideas, either closely or distantly, ideas which alone imply some independent pleasure, this is bound to happen. In such cases they serve only as amusements, and one comes increasingly to depend on them the more one exploits them to banish dissatisfaction; in so doing one becomes increasingly dissatisfied with oneself and ever more ineffectual. Natural beauties in particular are most conducive to moral improvement (der ersteren Absicht) if one becomes accustomed to observing, judging and admiring them from an early stage.