According to Emerson, all individuals are isolated from reality and from each other, unable to plumb the depths of nature or ever fully to grasp the “temperament” that rules the life of other individuals. Emerson therefore advocates a kind of individualism, since according to his theory of experience, every person is essentially alone in his or her own mind. True social interaction is barely possible, and when it does occur, it is unsustainable. When people form communities governed by norms of action, they generally do not treat the other members as they treat themselves. Emerson suggests that this is at least partially because, while one is able to experience the complex motivations, both rational and emotional, that underlie one’s own behavior, it is difficult to extend this sensitivity to others.
Just as the individual subject is fundamentally separate from nature, and only experiences the “surfaces” of things, so is he or she fundamentally separate from other individuals. We experience other people as an “optical illusion”: they seem to be autonomous but are in fact “creatures of a given temperament,” whose behavior is governed by laws that are not possible for anyone besides God to understand. Humans, therefore, are fundamentally unpredictable. From Emerson’s perspective, those who claim that they can predict human behavior, such as phrenologists (who claim to be able to judge a person based on the shape of their skull), are guilty of the worst kind of conceit. The inability to really know others has implications beyond our day to day social life. It affects our politics and even our religion. People forget that “it is the eye which makes the horizon,” Emerson writes, “and the round mind’s eye which makes this or that man a type of representative humanity with the name of a hero or a saint.” Judgments about the virtues of others are fundamentally subjective.
True human connection is therefore extremely difficult, and most of the time impossible. It’s not just that any human relationship must rely on presuppositions about the other. It is also that both parties of any relationship are constantly in flux. “The great and crescive self,” manifesting (albeit not autonomously) the creative power of nature, “supplants all relative existence, and ruins the kingdom of mortal friendship and love.” People cannot entirely control the way they interact with others. Emerson even questions the possibility of spiritual marriage, a radical assertion in the largely Christian society of 19th-century America. Echoing Hegel’s master-slave dialectic in the Phenomenology of Spirit, Emerson claims that spiritual marriage is impossible because of the “inequality between every subject and every object”: no individual is ever really able to perceive another person as a proper subject. The other is always an object. There will always be a divide between the first and the second person, “the same gulf between every me and thee, as between the original and the picture.” At best, two human beings can connect at a single point, like the tangent point of two circles. While they connect along this single point, the other parts of the individuals are “inert” and, in a slightly confusing image, storing up “appetency” for their own connections. Every union, then, produces as much discord as it produces connection.
Emerson goes so far as to claim that life does not permit any “co-life”: that there is only really one soul. This, at least, is the fiction each self operates under, for “we believe in ourselves, as we do not believe in others.” This is why people treat themselves so differently than they treat others. One judges another much more severely than oneself. Every act looks different to the individual when he or she is the person committing it. It is finally impossible to imagine one’s way into another person’s mind. Crime (or sin) is a category that exists outside subjective experience. It is a label attached by the intellect. It has an “objective existence, but not subjective.” In the end, then, people have a “constitutional necessity of seeing things under private aspects, or saturated with our humors.” It is impossible to escape the individual subject and see people or things they way they really are. Productive co-existence, however, is not totally impossible. In order to do so, one must first have a firm grasp of the dynamics of one’s own self. The philosopher should seek to attain “self-trust”: the ability to understand what wisdom (religious, philosophical, etc.) actually applies to one’s own condition, and how it does so. Only once a philosopher has achieved this “self-trust” can he or she help others to do the same.
In “Experience,” Emerson argues that individuals are essentially separate from one another, and that subjects experience the world by themselves. This is a philosophy of individualism that, although less upbeat than the one Emerson famously articulates in “Self-Reliance,” is no less radical and far-reaching. In addition, because of their fleeting nature, humans can never achieve firm and lasting relationships, which makes social life difficult. But with the kind of philosophical introspection Emerson practices in his essays, productive co-existence is possible.
Social Life and Individualism ThemeTracker
Social Life and Individualism Quotes in Experience
There are moods in which we court suffering, in the hope that there, at least, we shall find reality, sharp peaks and edges of truth. But it turns out to be scene-painting and counterfeit. The only thing grief has taught me, is how shallow it is. […] Souls never touch their objects. An innavigable sea washes with silent waves between us and the things we aim at and converse with. Grief too will make us idealists. In the death of my son, now more than two years ago, I seem to have lost a beautiful estate,—no more. I cannot get it nearer to me. […] It does not touch me: some thing which I fancied was a part of me, which could not be torn away without tearing me, nor enlarged without enriching me, falls off from me, and leaves no scar. It was caducous. I grieve that grief can teach me nothing, nor carry me one step into real nature. […] Nothing is left us now but death.
Nature does not like to be observed, and likes that we should be her fools and playmates. We may have the sphere for our cricket-ball, but not a berry for our philosophy. Direct strokes she never gave us power to make; all our blows glance, all our hits are accidents. Our relations to each other are oblique and casual.
Power keeps quite another road than the turnpikes of choice and will, namely, the subterranean and invisible tunnels and channels and life. It is ridiculous that we are diplomatists, and doctors, and considerate people: there are no dupes like these. Life is a series of surprises, and would not be worth taking or keeping, if it were not. God delights to isolate us every day, and hide from us the past and the future. […] All good conversation, manners, and action, come from a spontaneity which forgets usages, and makes the moment great Nature hates calculators; her methods are saltatory and impulsive. Man lives by pulses; our organic movements are such; and the chemical and ethereal agents are undulatory and alternate; and the mind goes antagonizing on, and never prospers but by fits. We thrive by casualties.
It is very unhappy, but too late to be helped, the discovery we have made, that we exist. That discovery is called the Fall of Man. Ever afterwards, we suspect our instruments. We have learned that we do not see directly, but mediately, and that we have no means of correcting these colored and distorting lenses which we are, or of computing the amount of their errors. Perhaps these subject-lenses have a creative power; perhaps there are no objects. Once we lived what we saw; now, the rapaciousness of this new power, which threatens to absorb all things, engages us. Nature, art, persons, letters, religions,—subjects, successively tumble in, and God is but one of them. Nature and literature are subjective phenomena; every evil and every good thing is a shadow which we cast.
Life will be imaged, but cannot be divided or doubled. Any invasion of its unity would be chaos. The soul is not twin-born, but the only begotten, and though revealing itself as child in time, child in appearance, is of a fatal and universal power, admitting no co-life. Every day, every act betrays the ill-concealed deity. We believe in ourselves, as we do not believe in others. We permit all things to ourselves, and that which we call sin in others, is experiment for us. It is an instance of our faith in ourselves, that men never speak of crime as lightly as they think: […] The act looks very differently on the inside, and on the outside.