One of the primary themes of Emerson’s “Experience” is limitation. Emerson’s theory of the individual and his or her subjective experience of the world limits the sphere of human knowledge and agency. Although Emerson himself does not employ the term stoicism—which refers to an ancient philosophical school that sought calm and well-being by withdrawing from the world into the self—the worldview he develops in “Experience” is based on the fundamental idea expounded by the ancient Stoics: one should recognize and appreciate what is under one’s control and what is outside of it. Emerson therefore urges his readers to be skeptical of any efforts to predict the future through science and emphasizes the impossibility of ever truly knowing another human being. Yet, despite Emerson’s emphasis in the first half of “Experience” on a lonely skepticism, in the second half of the essay he hopefully suggests strategies for overcoming the limitations of the subject and bridging the gap that separates individuals from the world.
At the beginning of “Experience,” Emerson argues that individuals are detached from reality. People spend much of their time in anticipation of the future or reminiscence about the past. They have some sense that the most real experience is anywhere else but the present. Some of them will “court suffering” in order to find “the sharp peaks and edges of truth.” But Emerson insists that suffering is just as shallow as any other kind of experience of the world, for our “souls never touch their objects.” With the premature death of Waldo, his son, Emerson “seem[s] to have lost a beautiful estate,—no more.” His son was like any other kind of possession: essentially separate from Emerson himself. Misfortune, then, ultimately leaves Emerson “as it found [him],—neither better nor worse.” Just as souls never really make contact with the objects they experience, misfortune does not “touch” Emerson.
Because humans can never escape the bubble of their own experience, both nature and other people are fundamentally unknowable. Nature “does not like to be observed,” and instead of making humans privy to her workings, prefers us to “be her fools and playmates.” As a result, humans do not have the power to make firm contact with reality or with other people. Therefore “our relations to each other are oblique and casual.” One consequence of this is that “there is an optical illusion about every person we meet,” since, though we perceive them to be autonomous, in reality their experience and behavior is largely determined by their internal “temperament,” which is invisible to us when we encounter them. Another consequence is that efforts to predict the behavior of others, or of nature, through scientific laws, are ultimately in vain. Physicians who claim that they can predict a human character through the shape of the skull (phrenology) are in fact guilty of “impudent knowingness,” since each person is ultimately full of “inscrutable possibilities” that can never be known through science. The human being is too complicated to be theorized. “I accept the clangor and jangle of contrary tendencies,” Emerson writes. In general, “Life is a series of surprises” that cannot be predicted. “Nature hates calculators,” and the best way of life is the one that is more or less instinctual, the one that embraces chance. For “the individual is always mistaken” about what will happen in the future.
As a strategy to lessen the divide between individual and reality, Emerson encourages his reader to move away from reason and to immerse him- or herself in experience. Emerson urges his reader to stop searching for extreme ways of life or rare works of art, and instead to embrace what is right in front of them. People should not strive to be overly rational or overly sensual, since “the middle region of our being is the temperate zone.” This is the “equator of life, of thought, of spirit, of poetry”—the narrow part of the human being through which these higher things become accessible. Instead of contemplating the inevitability of death (and the impossibility of bringing the dead back to life), as Emerson did in the first half of “Experience,” one should not “craze [oneself] with thinking” and instead “husband the moment.” One should accept the transience of human life, since “everything good is on the highway,” even in the realm of art. Emerson will not strive to see rare works of art or find rare books, but prefers to look at great and timeless works that are hung in the great public museums and to read “the commonest books,” such as the Bible, and literary works by Homer, Dante, and Shakespeare. He will immerse himself in the ordinary, the normal, and the classic. Emerson hopes that, through relishing daily life, and appreciating the art that is easily accessible, his reader will learn once again how to simply live.
Emerson’s theory of the individual has important implications for the worldview he describes in “Experience.” The moral implication of this theory is a kind of stoicism. Because the individual only ever experiences the world and never makes direct contact with it, the individual is capable of a kind of stoic remove from his or her own life. For whenever one experiences misfortune, it is really an experience like any other—something that happens in the external world and which therefore does not directly affect the subject. The consequence of Emerson’s theory of the individual is a general skepticism. The fundamental separation from reality makes it impossible for us ever fully to understand how nature, or how our fellow human beings, behave. Efforts to predict the future are futile, and the best way to live life is to accept the fact that events are unpredictable. Ultimately, Emerson suggests that the best approach to life is to embrace the fact that human beings are always in between reason and sensual experience, and to inhabit the middle ground in all spheres of activity. The best way to live is simply to live, not to think about living.
Stoicism, Skepticism, and Hope ThemeTracker
Stoicism, Skepticism, and Hope Quotes in Experience
The lords of life, the lords of life,—
I saw them pass,
In their own guise,
Like and unlike,
Portly and grim,
Use and Surprise,
Surface and Dream,
Succession swift, and spectral Wrong,
Temperament without a tongue,
And the inventor of the game
Omnipresent without name;—
Some to see, some to be guessed,
They marched from east to west:
Little man, least of all,
Among the legs of his guardians tall,
Walked about with puzzled look:—
Him by the hand dear nature took;
Dearest nature, strong and kind,
Whispered, “Darling, never mind!
To-morrow they will wear another face,
The founder thou! these are thy race!”
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.
Life is a train of moods like a string of beads, and, as we pass through them, they prove to be many-colored lenses which paint the world their own hue, and each shows only what lies in its focus....We animate what we can, and we see only what we animate. Nature and books belong to the eyes that see them.
Into every intelligence there is a door which is never closed, through which the creator passes. The intellect, seeker of absolute truth, or the heart, lover of absolute good, intervenes for our succor, and at one whisper of these high powers, we awake from ineffectual struggles with this nightmare. We hurl it into its own hell, and cannot again contract ourselves to so base a state.
Do not craze yourself with thinking, but go about your business anywhere. Life is not intellectual or critical, but sturdy. […] To fill the hour,—that is happiness; to fill the hour, and leave no crevice for a repentance or approval.
If we will take the good we find, asking no questions, we shall have heaping measures. The great gifts are not got by analysis. Everything good is on the highway. The middle region of our being is the temperate zone. We may climb into the thin and cold realm of pure geometry and lifeless science, or sink into that sensation. Between these extremes is the equator of life, of thought, of spirit, of poetry,—a narrow belt.
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.