Steve Reads

Walter Kaufmann’s essay collection is well worth reading, if only for one reason: he believes passionately that the act of reading, and the things read, matter. It’s rare to encounter anyone who really cares about ideas, and who really believes that what you read says a lot about you. Books are normally treated as throwaway objects, like most television shows: turn them on, watch them for a little while, and move on to the next thing. Reading Kaufmann reminded me that there have been people who felt great passion in what they read; for a few hours, I was in the company of a man who valued the same things that I did, and it felt deeply relaxing.

The content of the book is an elaboration of the idea that existentialism isn’t very new at all — that it in fact has very strong roots in Shakespeare and even as far back as Socrates, and that the existentialist worldview, properly understood, is nothing more than the philosophical worldview. An existentialist, says Kaufmann, realizes that we are alone in the world without God to justify our existence; viewed as the greatest thinkers have viewed it, this confers enormous power on us, rather than desolation. Without God, we are free to shape the life we want and live it in all its potential and excess.

Kaufmann says that this was Nietzsche’s dominant idea, while embodying the true philosopher’s rejection of all ideologies. We should believe nothing unless we’ve examined it critically, said Nietzsche (or rather, says Kaufmann about Nietzsche; I’ve not yet read much of Uncle Fritz himself); From Shakespeare to Existentialism is, in essence, a mirror held up to philosopher after philosopher, examining whether they’ve achieved the Nietzschean ideal. Kaufmann is largely displeased.

When it comes to Heidegger, Kaufmann is not only dissatisfied with what he sees as Heidegger’s abandonment of critical thinking, but objects to the apparently widespread belief that Heidegger invented the notion of modern man’s being “thrown into the world” without moorings. This idea dates back at least to Nietzsche, says Kaufmann (who is, it’s fair to say, perhaps unhealthily obsessed with Nietzsche), but probably would take us back to Shakespeare, and possibly even back to the Aristotelian “great-souled man.” Indeed, one of Kaufmann’s main arguments is that the Greek understanding of tragedy — in which great-souled men are destroyed by their fate, and hold their heads high as they fall — prefigured much of “modern” existentialism.

It’s fair to say that Kaufmann sees much of existentialism — in its modern understanding — as a perversion of all that was hopeful in Nietzsche and in the Greeks. While Nietzsche would have told us that being thrown into the world is liberating, Kaufmann sees many anti-rationalist philosophers of the 19th and 20th centuries as fundamentally pessimistic and hopeless; he singles out Jaspers, Kierkegaard and Heidegger for much criticism on this score, even while praising Jaspers and Kierkegaard in other respects. Kaufmann is scrupulous in his adherence to Nietzsche’s standard: don’t believe in any idea just because someone with a great name believes it.

Kaufmann’s erudition is immense, and one of the greatest joys of the book is the discovery of new, interesting, important works to read. Nietzsche (of course), Freud, and Goethe are the big ones, and I inch ever closer to reading Kant and Hegel at Kaufmann’s prodding. Under Kaufmann’s gaze, all these philosophers become great defenders of the beauty and richness of life, rather than the black-turtleneck-clothed, clove-cigarette-smoking, morose Germans or Austrians that they’ve become over the past century. Understanding how German philosophy came to be viewed as a rather morbid and incomprehensible beast, and stripping off that imposing garb, is Kaufmann’s great goal. Inasmuch as I now intend to dive headfirst into German philosophy, he has succeeded.

On Cosma’s recommendation (naturally), I picked up Walter Kaufmann’s From Shakespeare to Existentialism; it had me immediately transfixed, and I’ve been unable to put it down since. Cosma suggested it to me a while back for its essay “Heidegger’s Castle,” and recommended it in response to my question about Arnold Toynbee; Kaufmann is merciless — though scrupulous in his mercilessness — against both Toynbee and Heidegger. In his introduction, he notes that his attack on Toynbee turned the tide against the man, and that he’s had somewhat less luck against Heidegger.

The constructive parts of the essay collection are brilliant as well. One of the first essays forcefully lays out the case that Shakespeare was more of a Greek tragedian than many people give him credit for, and very un-Christian. A later essay argues that Goethe was one of the few people in history whose behavior, rather than his works, influenced the way people lived; in this regard, says Kaufmann, Goethe deserves to be ranked alongside Socrates. That Olympian comparison on its own makes me want to read Goethe, about whom I know nothing. Kaufmann exalts Goethe’s Conversations with Eckermann, West-Eastern Divan, and Maxims and Reflections, which along with Faust I’ll need to read soon.

Kaufmann is an ardent defender of Hegel, and as such he spends an entire essay denouncing what he views as Karl Popper’s unscholarly attack on Hegel in The Open Society and Its Enemies. Kaufmann cites chapter and verse from Popper, showing that Popper never read Hegel’s original work and instead relied on a bad translation contained in a bad abridgement. Kaufmann is certain that there’s much to admire in The Open Society and its Enemies, which is why Popper’s unfair charges against Hegel — such as that, for instance, Hegel’s work is nationalist and enslaved to Prussian royalty — upset him so deeply. Kaufmann never asks, though, why Hegel, of all people, is the target of those who are looking for the philosophical roots of totalitarian dictatorships. It seems like a fairly arbitrary attack. It also seems strange that Popper — an Austrian, and early in his life a Marxist — would bother reading a translation of a German philosopher.

Kaufmann’s chapter on Hegel’s early works is quite illuminating. For one thing, those works are clearly written, easily understood, and quite sharp. I’ve been looking for an entry point into Hegel for a while; Kaufmann knows that many people are, and that chapter is his attempt to help them.

Throughout, Kaufmann’s style is deliberately anti-obscurantist and erudite. I wish I could have met the man; he seems like he would be a phenomenal fellow with whom to walk around Boston, drinking the occasional cup of coffee and discussing anything and everything.