amendment willtempleone congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the peo ple peaceably to assemble, and to petition the government for a redress of grievances.

amendment teachingfour thefundamentalsrightsoph studioof thejunior studiopeoplesenior studioto bepraguesecuretheories of designin theirdiscourse seriespersons, houses, papers, and effects, against unreasonable searches and seizures, shall not be violated, and no warrants shall issue, but upon probable cause, supported by oath or affirmation, and particularly describing the place to be searched, and the persons or things to be seized.

amendment researchfive no person shall be held to answer for a capital, or otherwise infamous crime, unless on a presentment or indictment of a grand gury, except in cases arising in the land or naval forces, or in the militia, when in actual service in time of war or public danger; nor shall any person be subject for the same offense to be twice put in jeopardy of life or limb; nor shall be compelled in any criminal case to be a witness against himself, nor be deprived of life, liberty, or property, without due process of law; nor shall private property be taken for public use, without just compensation.

amendment communitysix in all criminal prosecutions, the accused shall enjoy the right to a speedy and public trial, by an impartial jury of the state and district wherein the crime shall have been committed, which district shall have been previously ascertained by law, and to be informed of the nature and cause of the accusation; to be confronted with the witnesses against him; to have compulsory process for obtaining witnesses in his favor, and to have the assistance of counsel for his defence.

amendment designeight excessive bail shall not be required, nor excessive fines imposed, nor cruel and unusual punishments inflicted.

amendment ten the powers not delegated to the united states by the constitution, nor prohibited by it to the states, are reserved to the states respectively, or to the people.

amendment fourteen item one. all persons born or naturalized in the united states, and subject to the jurisdiction thereof, are citizens of the united states and of the state wherein they reside. no state shall make or enforce any law which shall abridge the privileges or immunities of citizens of the united states; nor shall any state deprive any person of life, liberty, or property, without due process of law; nor deny to any person within its jurisdiction the equal protection of the laws. item two. representatives shall be apportioned among the several States according to their respective numbers, counting the whole number of persons in each State, excluding indians not taxed. but when the right to vote at any election for the choice of electors for president and vice-president of the united states, representatives in congress, the executive and judicial officers of a State, or the members of the legislature thereof, is denied to any of the male inhabitants of such state, being twenty-one years of age, and citizens of the united states, or in any way abridged, except for participation in rebellion, or other crime, the basis of representation therein shall be reduced in the proportion which the number of such male citizens shall bear to the whole number of male citizens twenty-one years of age in such state. item three. no person shall be a senator or representative in congress, or elector of president and vice-president, or hold any office, civil or military, under the united states, or under any state, who, having previously taken an oath, as a member of congress, or as an officer of the united states, or as a member of any state legislature, or as an executive or judicial officer of any state, to support the constitution of the united states, shall have engaged in insurrection or rebellion against the same, or given aid or comfort to the enemies thereof. but congress may by a vote of two-thirds of each house, remove such disability. item four. the validity of the public debt of the united states, authorized by law, including debts incurred for payment of pensions and bounties for services in suppressing insurrection or rebellion, shall not be questioned. but neither the united states nor any state shall assume or pay any debt or obligation incurred in aid of insurrection or rebellion against the united states, or any claim for the loss or emancipation of any slave; but all such debts, obligations and claims shall be held illegal and void. item five. the congress shall have power to enforce, by appropriate legislation, the provisions of this article.

manifesto of the communist party eighteen forty eight c.e. a spectre is haunting europe -- the spectre of communism. all the powers of old europe have entered into a holy alliance to exorcise this spectre: pope and tsar, metternich and guizot, french radicals and german police-spies. where is the party in opposition that has not been decried as communistic by its opponents in power? where is the opposition that has not hurled back the branding reproach of communism, against the more advanced opposition parties, as well as against its reactionary adversaries? two things result from this fact: i. communism is already acknowledged by all european powers to be itself a power. ii. it is high time that communists should openly, in the face of the whole world, publish their views, their aims, their tendencies, and meet this nursery tale of the spectre of communism with a manifesto of the party itself. to this end, communists of various nationalities have assembled in london and sketched the following manifesto, to be published in the english, french, german, italian, flemish and danish languages. part one. bourgeois and proletarians footnote one the history of all hitherto existing society footnote 2 is the history of class struggles. freeman and slave, patrician and plebian, lord and serf, guild-master footnote three and journeyman, in a word, oppressor and oppressed, stood in constant opposition to one another, carried on an uninterrupted, now hidden, now open fight, a fight that each time ended, either in a revolutionary reconstitution of society at large, or in the common ruin of the contending classes. in the earlier epochs of history, we find almost everywhere a complicated arrangement of society into various orders, a manifold gradation of social rank. in ancient rome we have patricians, knights, plebians, slaves; in the middle ages, feudal lords, vassals, guild-masters, journeymen, apprentices, serfs; in almost all of these classes, again, subordinate gradations. the modern bourgeois society that has sprouted from the ruins of feudal society has not done away with class antagonisms. it has but established new classes, new conditions of oppression, new forms of struggle in place of the old ones. our epoch, the epoch of the bourgeoisie, possesses, however, this distinct feature: it has simplified class antagonisms. society as a whole is more and more splitting up into two great hostile camps, into two great classes directly facing each other -- bourgeoisie and proletariat. from the serfs of the middle ages sprang the chartered burghers of the earliest towns. from these burgesses the first elements of the bourgeoisie were developed. the discovery of america, the rounding of the cape, opened up fresh ground for the rising bourgeoisie. the east-indian and chinese markets, the colonisation of america, trade with the colonies, the increase in the means of exchange and in commodities generally, gave to commerce, to navigation, to industry, an impulse never before known, and thereby, to the revolutionary element in the tottering feudal society, a rapid development. the feudal system of industry, in which industrial production was monopolized by closed guilds, now no longer suffices for the growing wants of the new markets. the manufacturing system took its place. the guild-masters were pushed aside by the manufacturing middle class; division of labor between the different corporate guilds vanished in the face of division of labor in each single workshop. meantime, the markets kept ever growing, the demand ever rising. even manufacturers no longer sufficed. thereupon, steam and machinery revolutionized industrial production. the place of manufacture was taken by the giant, modern industry; the place of the industrial middle class by industrial millionaires, the leaders of the whole industrial armies, the modern bourgeois. modern industry has established the world market, for which the discovery of america paved the way. this market has given an immense development to commerce, to navigation, to communication by land. this development has, in turn, reacted on the extension of industry; and in proportion as industry, commerce, navigation, railways extended, in the same proportion the bourgeoisie developed, increased its capital, and pushed into the background every class handed down from the middle ages. we see, therefore, how the modern bourgeoisie is itself the product of a long course of development, of a series of revolutions in the modes of production and of exchange. each step in the development of the bourgeoisie was accompanied by a corresponding political advance in that class. an oppressed class under the sway of the feudal nobility, an armed and self-governing association of medieval commune footnote four here independent urban republic (as in italy and germany); there taxable "third estate" of the monarchy (as in france); afterward, in the period of manufacturing proper, serving either the semi-feudal or the absolute monarchy as a counterpoise against the nobility, and, in fact, cornerstone of the great monarchies in general -- the bourgeoisie has at last, since the establishment of modern industry and of the world market, conquered for itself, in the modern representative state, exclusive political sway. the executive of the modern state is but a committee for managing the common affairs of the whole bourgeoisie. the bourgeoisie, historically, has played a most revolutionary part. the bourgeoisie, wherever it has got the upper hand, has put an end to all feudal, patriarchal, idyllic relations. it has pitilessly torn asunder the motley feudal ties that bound man to his "natural superiors", and has left no other nexus between people than naked self-interest, than callous "cash payment". it has drowned out the most heavenly ecstacies of religious fervor, of chivalrous enthusiasm, of philistine sentimentalism, in the icy water of egotistical calculation. it has resolved personal worth into exchange value, and in place of the numberless indefeasible chartered freedoms, has set up that single, unconscionable freedom -- free trade. in one word, for exploitation, veiled by religious and political illusions, it has substituted naked, shameless, direct, brutal exploitation. the bourgeoisie has stripped of its halo every occupation hitherto honored and looked up to with reverent awe. it has converted the physician, the lawyer, the priest, the poet, the man of science, into its paid wage laborers. the bourgeoisie has torn away from the family its sentimental veil, and has reduced the family relation into a mere money relation. the bourgeoisie has disclosed how it came to pass that the brutal display of vigor in the middle ages, which reactionaries so much admire, found its fitting complement in the most slothful indolence. it has been the first to show what man's activity can bring about. it has accomplished wonders far surpassing egyptian pyramids, roman aqueducts, and gothic cathedrals; it has conducted expeditions that put in the shade all former exoduses of nations and crusades. the bourgeoisie cannot exist without constantly revolutionizing the instruments of production, and thereby the relations of production, and with them the whole relations of society. conservation of the old modes of production in unaltered form, was, on the contrary, the first condition of existence for all earlier industrial classes. constant revolutionizing of production, uninterrupted disturbance of all social conditions, everlasting uncertainty and agitation distinguish the bourgeois epoch from all earlier ones. all fixed, fast frozen relations, with their train of ancient and venerable prejudices and opinions, are swept away, all new-formed ones become antiquated before they can ossify. all that is solid melts into air, all that is holy is profaned, and man is at last compelled to face with sober senses his real condition of life and his relations with his kind. the need of a constantly expanding market for its products chases the bourgeoisie over the entire surface of the globe. it must nestle everywhere, settle everywhere, establish connections everywhere. the bourgeoisie has, through its exploitation of the world market, given a cosmopolitan character to production and consumption in every country. to the great chagrin of reactionaries, it has drawn from under the feet of industry the national ground on which it stood. all old-established national industries have been destroyed or are daily being destroyed. they are dislodged by new industries, whose introduction becomes a life and death question for all civilized nations, by industries that no longer work up indigenous raw material, but raw material drawn from the remotest zones; industries whose products are consumed, not only at home, but in every quarter of the globe. in place of the old wants, satisfied by the production of the country, we find new wants, requiring for their satisfaction the products of distant lands and climes. in place of the old local and national seclusion and self-sufficiency, we have intercourse in every direction, universal inter-dependence of nations. and as in material, so also in intellectual production. the intellectual creations of individual nations become common property. national one-sidedness and narrow-mindedness become more and more impossible, and from the numerous national and local literatures, there arises a world literature. the bourgeoisie, by the rapid improvement of all instruments of production, by the immensely facilitated means of communication, draws all, even the most barbarian, nations into civilization. the cheap prices of commodities are the heavy artillery with which it forces the barbarians' intensely obstinate hatred of foreigners to capitulate. it compels all nations, on pain of extinction, to adopt the bourgeois mode of production; it compels them to introduce what it calls civilization into their midst, i.e., to become bourgeois themselves. in one word, it creates a world after its own image. the bourgeoisie has subjected the country to the rule of the towns. it has created enormous cities, has greatly increased the urban population as compared with the rural, and has thus rescued a considerable part of the population from the idiocy of rural life. just as it has made the country dependent on the towns, so it has made barbarian and semi-barbarian countries dependent on the civilized ones, nations of peasants on nations of bourgeois, the east on the west. the bourgeoisie keeps more and more doing away with the scattered state of the population, of the means of production, and of property. it has agglomerated population, centralized the means of production, and has concentrated property in a few hands. the necessary consequence of this was political centralization. independent, or but loosely connected provinces, with separate interests, laws, governments, and systems of taxation, became lumped together into one nation, with one government, one code of laws, one national class interest, one frontier, and one customs tariff. the bourgeoisie, during its rule of scarce one hundred years, has created more massive and more colossal productive forces than have all preceding generations together. subjection of nature's forces to man, machinery, application of chemistry to industry and agriculture, steam navigation, railways, electric telegraphs, clearing of whole continents for cultivation, canalization or rivers, whole populations conjured out of the ground -- what earlier century had even a presentiment that such productive forces slumbered in the lap of social labor? we see then: the means of production and of exchange, on whose foundation the bourgeoisie built itself up, were generated in feudal society. at a certain stage in the development of these means of production and of exchange, the conditions under which feudal society produced and exchanged, the feudal organization of agriculture and manufacturing industry, in one word, the feudal relations of property became no longer compatible with the already developed productive forces; they became so many fetters. they had to be burst asunder; they were burst asunder. into their place stepped free competition, accompanied by a social and political constitution adapted in it, and the economic and political sway of the bourgeois class. a similar movement is going on before our own eyes. modern bourgeois society, with its relations of production, of exchange and of property, a society that has conjured up such gigantic means of production and of exchange, is like the sorcerer who is no longer able to control the powers of the nether world whom he has called up by his spells. for many a decade past, the history of industry and commerce is but the history of the revolt of modern productive forces against modern conditions of production, against the property relations that are the conditions for the existence of the bourgeois and of its rule. it is enough to mention the commercial crises that, by their periodical return, put the existence of the entire bourgeois society on its trial, each time more threateningly. in these crises, a great part not only of the existing products, but also of the previously created productive forces, are periodically destroyed. in these crises, there breaks out an epidemic that, in all earlier epochs, would have seemed an absurdity -- the epidemic of over-production. society suddenly finds itself put back into a state of momentary barbarism; it appears as if a famine, a universal war of devastation, had cut off the supply of every means of subsistence; industry and commerce seem to be destroyed. and why? because there is too much civilization, too much means of subsistence, too much industry, too much commerce. the productive forces at the disposal of society no longer tend to further the development of the conditions of bourgeois property; on the contrary, they have become too powerful for these conditions, by which they are fettered, and so soon as they overcome these fetters, they bring disorder into the whole of bourgeois society, endanger the existence of bourgeois property. the conditions of bourgeois society are too narrow to comprise the wealth created by them. and how does the bourgeoisie get over these crises? on the one hand, by enforced destruction of a mass of productive forces; on the other, by the conquest of new markets, and by the more thorough exploitation of the old ones. that is to say, by paving the way for more extensive and more destructive crises, and by diminishing the means whereby crises are prevented. the weapons with which the bourgeoisie felled feudalism to the ground are now turned against the bourgeoisie itself. but not only has the bourgeoisie forged the weapons that bring death to itself; it has also called into existence the men who are to wield those weapons -- the modern working class -- the proletarians. in proportion as the bourgeoisie, i.e., capital, is developed, in the same proportion is the proletariat, the modern working class, developed -- a class of laborers, who live only so long as they find work, and who find work only so long as their labor increases capital. these laborers, who must sell themselves piecemeal, are a commodity, like every other article of commerce, and are consequently exposed to all the vicissitudes of competition, to all the fluctuations of the market. owing to the extensive use of machinery, and to the division of labor, the work of the proletarians has lost all individual character, and, consequently, all charm for the workman. he becomes an appendage of the machine, and it is only the most simple, most monotonous, and most easily acquired knack, that is required of him. hence, the cost of production of a workman is restricted, almost entirely, to the means of subsistence that he requires for maintenance, and for the propagation of his race. but the price of a commodity, and therefore also of labor, is equal to its cost of production. in proportion, therefore, as the repulsiveness of the work increases, the wage decreases. what is more, in proportion as the use of machinery and division of labor increases, in the same proportion the burden of toil also increases, whether by prolongation of the working hours, by the increase of the work exacted in a given time, or by increased speed of machinery, etc. modern industry has converted the little workshop of the patriarchal master into the great factory of the industrial capitalist. masses of laborers, crowded into the factory, are organized like soldiers. as privates of the industrial army, they are placed under the command of a perfect hierarchy of officers and sergeants. not only are they slaves of the bourgeois class, and of the bourgeois state; they are daily and hourly enslaved by the machine, by the overlooker, and, above all, in the individual bourgeois manufacturer himself. the more openly this despotism proclaims gain to be its end and aim, the more petty, the more hateful and the more embittering it is. the less the skill and exertion of strength implied in manual labor, in other words, the more modern industry becomes developed, the more is the labor of men superseded by that of women. differences of age and sex have no longer any distinctive social validity for the working class. all are instruments of labor, more or less expensive to use, according to their age and sex. no sooner is the exploitation of the laborer by the manufacturer, so far at an end, that he receives his wages in cash, than he is set upon by the other portion of the bourgeoisie, the landlord, the shopkeeper, the pawnbroker, etc. the lower strata of the middle class -- the small tradespeople, shopkeepers, and retired tradesmen generally, the handicraftsmen and peasants -- all these sink gradually into the proletariat, partly because their diminutive capital does not suffice for the scale on which modern industry is carried on, and is swamped in the competition with the large capitalists, partly because their specialized skill is rendered worthless by new methods of production. thus, the proletariat is recruited from all classes of the population. the proletariat goes through various stages of development. with its birth begins its struggle with the bourgeoisie. at first, the contest is carried on by individual laborers, then by the work of people of a factory, then by the operative of one trade, in one locality, against the individual bourgeois who directly exploits them. they direct their attacks not against the bourgeois condition of production, but against the instruments of production themselves; they destroy imported wares that compete with their labor, they smash to pieces machinery, they set factories ablaze, they seek to restore by force the vanished status of the workman of the middle ages. at this stage, the laborers still form an incoherent mass scattered over the whole country, and broken up by their mutual competition. if anywhere they unite to form more compact bodies, this is not yet the consequence of their own active union, but of the union of the bourgeoisie, which class, in order to attain its own political ends, is compelled to set the whole proletariat in motion, and is moreover yet, for a time, able to do so. at this stage, therefore, the proletarians do not fight their enemies, but the enemies of their enemies, the remnants of absolute monarchy, the landowners, the non-industrial bourgeois, the petty bourgeois. thus, the whole historical movement is concentrated in the hands of the bourgeoisie; every victory so obtained is a victory for the bourgeoisie. but with the development of industry, the proletariat not only increases in number; it becomes concentrated in greater masses, its strength grows, and it feels that strength more. the various interests and conditions of life within the ranks of the proletariat are more and more equalized, in proportion as machinery obliterates all distinctions of labor, and nearly everywhere reduces wages to the same low level. the growing competition among the bourgeois, and the resulting commercial crises, make the wages of the workers ever more fluctuating. the increasing improvement of machinery, ever more rapidly developing, makes their livelihood more and more precarious; the collisions between individual workmen and individual bourgeois take more and more the character of collisions between two classes. thereupon, the workers begin to form combinations (trade unions) against the bourgeois; they club together in order to keep up the rate of wages; they found permanent associations in order to make provision beforehand for these occasional revolts. here and there, the contest breaks out into riots. now and then the workers are victorious, but only for a time. the real fruit of their battles lie not in the immediate result, but in the ever expanding union of the workers. this union is helped on by the improved means of communication that are created by modern industry, and that place the workers of different localities in contact with one another. it was just this contact that was needed to centralize the numerous local struggles, all of the same character, into one national struggle between classes. but every class struggle is a political struggle. and that union, to attain which the burghers of the middle ages, with their miserable highways, required centuries, the modern proletarian, thanks to railways, achieve in a few years. this organization of the proletarians into a class, and, consequently, into a political party, is continually being upset again by the competition between the workers themselves. but it ever rises up again, stronger, firmer, mightier. it compels legislative recognition of particular interests of the workers, by taking advantage of the divisions among the bourgeoisie itself. thus, the ten-hours bill in england was carried. altogether, collisions between the classes of the old society further in many ways the course of development of the proletariat. the bourgeoisie finds itself involved in a constant battle. at first with the aristocracy; later on, with those portions of the bourgeoisie itself, whose interests have become antagonistic to the progress of industry; at all time with the bourgeoisie of foreign countries. in all these battles, it sees itself compelled to appeal to the proletariat, to ask for help, and thus to drag it into the political arena. the bourgeoisie itself, therefore, supplies the proletariat with its own elements of political and general education, in other words, it furnishes the proletariat with weapons for fighting the bourgeoisie. further, as we have already seen, entire sections of the ruling class are, by the advance of industry, precipitated into the proletariat, or are at least threatened in their conditions of existence. these also supply the proletariat with fresh elements of enlightenment and progress. finally, in times when the class struggle nears the decisive hour, the progress of dissolution going on within the ruling class, in fact within the whole range of old society, assumes such a violent, glaring character, that a small section of the ruling class cuts itself adrift, and joins the revolutionary class, the class that holds the future in its hands. just as, therefore, at an earlier period, a section of the nobility went over to the bourgeoisie, so now a portion of the bourgeoisie goes over to the proletariat, and in particular, a portion of the bourgeois ideologists, who have raised themselves to the level of comprehending theoretically the historical movement as a whole. of all the classes that stand face to face with the bourgeoisie today, the proletariat alone is a genuinely revolutionary class. the other classes decay and finally disappear in the face of modern industry; the proletariat is its special and essential product. the lower middle class, the small manufacturer, the shopkeeper, the artisan, the peasant, all these fight against the bourgeoisie, to save from extinction their existence as fractions of the middle class. they are therefore not revolutionary, but conservative. nay, more, they are reactionary, for they try to roll back the wheel of history. if, by chance, they are revolutionary, they are only so in view of their impending transfer into the proletariat; they thus defend not their present, but their future interests; they desert their own standpoint to place themselves at that of the proletariat. the "dangerous class", the social scum, that passively rotting mass thrown off by the lowest layers of the old society, may, here and there, be swept into the movement by a proletarian revolution; its conditions of life, however, prepare it far more for the part of a bribed tool of reactionary intrigue. in the condition of the proletariat, those of old society at large are already virtually swamped. the proletarian is without property; his relation to his wife and children has no longer anything in common with the bourgeois family relations; modern industry labor, modern subjection to capital, the same in england as in france, in america as in germany, has stripped him of every trace of national character. law, morality, religion, are to him so many bourgeois prejudices, behind which lurk in ambush just as many bourgeois interests. all the preceding classes that got the upper hand sought to fortify their already acquired status by subjecting society at large to their conditions of appropriation. the proletarians cannot become masters of the productive forces of society, except by abolishing their own previous mode of appropriation, and thereby also every other previous mode of appropriation. they have nothing of their own to secure and to fortify; their mission is to destroy all previous securities for, and insurances of, individual property. all previous historical movements were movements of minorities, or in the interest of minorities. the proletarian movement is the self-conscious, independent movement of the immense majority, in the interest of the immense majority. the proletariat, the lowest stratum of our present society, cannot stir, cannot raise itself up, without the whole superincumbent strata of official society being sprung into the air. though not in substance, yet in form, the struggle of the proletariat with the bourgeoisie is at first a national struggle. the proletariat of each country must, of course, first of all settle matters with its own bourgeoisie. in depicting the most general phases of the development of the proletariat, we traced the more or less veiled civil war, raging within existing society, up to the point where that war breaks out into open revolution, and where the violent overthrow of the bourgeoisie lays the foundation for the sway of the proletariat. hitherto, every form of society has been based, as we have already seen, on the antagonism of oppressing and oppressed classes. but in order to oppress a class, certain conditions must be assured to it under which it can, at least, continue its slavish existence. the serf, in the period of serfdom, raised himself to membership in the commune, just as the petty bourgeois, under the yoke of the feudal absolutism, managed to develop into a bourgeois. the modern laborer, on the contrary, instead of rising with the process of industry, sinks deeper and deeper below the conditions of existence of his own class. he becomes a pauper, and pauperism develops more rapidly than population and wealth. and here it becomes evident that the bourgeoisie is unfit any longer to be the ruling class in society, and to impose its conditions of existence upon society as an overriding law. it is unfit to rule because it is incompetent to assure an existence to its slave within his slavery, because it cannot help letting him sink into such a state, that it has to feed him, instead of being fed by him. society can no longer live under this bourgeoisie, in other words, its existence is no longer compatible with society. the essential conditions for the existence and for the sway of the bourgeois class is the formation and augmentation of capital; the condition for capital is wage labor. wage labor rests exclusively on competition between the laborers. the advance of industry, whose involuntary promoter is the bourgeoisie, replaces the isolation of the laborers, due to competition, by the revolutionary combination, due to association. the development of modern industry, therefore, cuts from under its feet the very foundation on which the bourgeoisie produces and appropriates products. what the bourgeoisie therefore produces, above all, are its own grave-diggers. its fall and the victory of the proletariat are equally inevitable. footnotes footnote one by bourgeoisie is meant the class of modern capitalists, owners of the means of social production and employers of wage labor. by proletariat, the class of modern wage laborers who, having no means of production of their own, are reduced to selling their labor power in order to live. [note by engels - 1888 english edition] footnote two that is, all _written_ history. in 1847, the pre-history of society, the social organization existing previous to recorded history, all but unknown. since then, august von haxthausen (1792-1866) discovered common ownership of land in russia, georg ludwig von maurer proved it to be the social foundation from which all teutonic races started in history, and, by and by, village communities were found to be, or to have been, the primitive form of society everywhere from india to ireland. the inner organization of this primitive communistic society was laid bare, in its typical form, by lewis henry morgan's (1818-1861) crowning discovery of the true nature of the gens and its relation to the tribe. with the dissolution of the primeaval communities, society begins to be differentiated into separate and finally antagonistic classes. i have attempted to retrace this dissolution in _der ursprung der familie, des privateigenthumus und des staats_, second edition, stuttgart, 1886. [engels, 1888 english edition] footnote three guild-master, that is, a full member of a guild, a master within, not a head of a guild. [engels: 1888 english edition] footnote four this was the name given their urban communities by the townsmen of italy and france, after they had purchased or conquered their initial rights of self-government from their feudal lords. [engels: 1890 german edition] "commune" was the name taken in france by the nascent towns even before they had conquered from their feudal lords and masters local self-government and political rights as the "third estate". generally speaking, for the economical development of the bourgeoisie, england is here taken as the typical country, for its political development, france. [engels: 1888 english edition] part two. proletarians and communists in what relation do the communists stand to the proletarians as a whole? the communists do not form a separate party opposed to the other working-class parties. they have no interests separate and apart from those of the proletariat as a whole. they do not set up any sectarian principles of their own, by which to shape and mold the proletarian movement. the communists are distinguished from the other working-class parties by this only: one - in the national struggles of the proletarians of the different countries, they point out and bring to the front the common interests of the entire proletariat, independently of all nationality. two - in the various stages of development which the struggle of the working class against the bourgeoisie has to pass through, they always and everywhere represent the interests of the movement as a whole. the communists, therefore, are on the one hand practically, the most advanced and resolute section of the working-class parties of every country, that section which pushes forward all others; on the other hand, theoretically, they have over the great mass of the proletariat the advantage of clearly understanding the lines of march, the conditions, and the ultimate general results of the proletarian movement. the immediate aim of the communists is the same as that of all other proletarian parties: formation of the proletariat into a class, overthrow of the bourgeois supremacy, conquest of political power by the proletariat. the theoretical conclusions of the communists are in no way based on ideas or principles that have been invented, or discovered, by this or that would-be universal reformer. they merely express, in general terms, actual relations springing from an existing class struggle, from a historical movement going on under our very eyes. the abolition of existing property relations is not at all a distinctive feature of communism. all property relations in the past have continually been subject to historical change consequent upon the change in historical conditions. the french revolution, for example, abolished feudal property in favor of bourgeois property. the distinguishing feature of communism is not the abolition of property generally, but the abolition of bourgeois property. but modern bourgeois private property is the final and most complete expression of the system of producing and appropriating products that is based on class antagonisms, on the exploitation of the many by the few. in this sense, the theory of the communists may be summed up in the single sentence: abolition of private property. we communists have been reproached with the desire of abolishing the right of personally acquiring property as the fruit of a man's own labor, which property is alleged to be the groundwork of all personal freedom, activity and independence. hard-won, self-acquired, self-earned property! do you mean the property of petty artisan and of the small peasant, a form of property that preceded the bourgeois form? there is no need to abolish that; the development of industry has to a great extent already destroyed it, and is still destroying it daily. or do you mean the modern bourgeois private property? but does wage labor create any property for the laborer? not a bit. it creates capital, i.e., that kind of property which exploits wage labor, and which cannot increase except upon conditions of begetting a new supply of wage labor for fresh exploitation. property, in its present form, is based on the antagonism of capital and wage labor. let us examine both sides of this antagonism. to be a capitalist, is to have not only a purely personal, but a social status in production. capital is a collective product, and only by the united action of many members, nay, in the last resort, only by the united action of all members of society, can it be set in motion. capital is therefore not only personal; it is a social power. when, therefore, capital is converted into common property, into the property of all members of society, personal property is not thereby transformed into social property. it is only the social character of the property that is changed. it loses its class character. let us now take wage labor. the average price of wage labor is the minimum wage, i.e., that quantum of the means of subsistence which is absolutely requisite to keep the laborer in bare existence as a laborer. what, therefore, the wage laborer appropriates by means of his labor merely suffices to prolong and reproduce a bare existence. we by no means intend to abolish this personal appropriation of the products of labor, an appropriation that is made for the maintenance and reproduction of human life, and that leaves no surplus wherewith to command the labor of others. all that we want to do away with is the miserable character of this appropriation, under which the laborer lives merely to increase capital, and is allowed to live only in so far as the interest of the ruling class requires it. in bourgeois society, living labor is but a means to increase accumulated labor. in communist society, accumulated labor is but a means to widen, to enrich, to promote the existence of the laborer. in bourgeois society, therefore, the past dominates the present; in communist society, the present dominates the past. in bourgeois society, capital is independent and has individuality, while the living person is dependent and has no individuality. and the abolition of this state of things is called by the bourgeois, abolition of individuality and freedom! and rightly so. the abolition of bourgeois individuality, bourgeois independence, and bourgeois freedom is undoubtedly aimed at. by freedom is meant, under the present bourgeois conditions of production, free trade, free selling and buying. but if selling and buying disappears, free selling and buying disappears also. this talk about free selling and buying, and all the other "brave words" of our bourgeois about freedom in general, have a meaning, if any, only in contrast with restricted selling and buying, with the fettered traders of the middle ages, but have no meaning when opposed to the communist abolition of buying and selling, or the bourgeois conditions of production, and of the bourgeoisie itself. you are horrified at our intending to do away with private property. but in your existing society, private property is already done away with for nine-tenths of the population; its existence for the few is solely due to its non-existence in the hands of those nine-tenths. you reproach us, therefore, with intending to do away with a form of property, the necessary condition for whose existence is the non-existence of any property for the immense majority of society. in one word, you reproach us with intending to do away with your property. precisely so; that is just what we intend. from the moment when labor can no longer be converted into capital, money, or rent, into a social power capable of being monopolized, i.e., from the moment when individual property can no longer be transformed into bourgeois property, into capital, from that moment, you say, individuality vanishes. you must, therefore, confess that by "individual" you mean no other person than the bourgeois, than the middle-class owner of property. this person must, indeed, be swept out of the way, and made impossible. communism deprives no man of the power to appropriate the products of society; all that it does is to deprive him of the power to subjugate the labor of others by means of such appropriations. it has been objected that upon the abolition of private property, all work will cease, and universal laziness will overtake us. according to this, bourgeois society ought long ago to have gone to the dogs through sheer idleness; for those who acquire anything, do not work. the whole of this objection is but another expression of the tautology: there can no longer be any wage labor when there is no longer any capital. all objections urged against the communistic mode of producing and appropriating material products, have, in the same way, been urged against the communistic mode of producing and appropriating intellectual products. just as to the bourgeois, the disappearance of class property is the disappearance of production itself, so the disappearance of class culture is to him identical with the disappearance of all culture. that culture, the loss of which he laments, is, for the enormous majority, a mere training to act as a machine. but don't wrangle with us so long as you apply, to our intended abolition of bourgeois property, the standard of your bourgeois notions of freedom, culture, law, etc. your very ideas are but the outgrowth of the conditions of your bourgeois production and bourgeois property, just as your jurisprudence is but the will of your class made into a law for all, a will whose essential character and direction are determined by the economical conditions of existence of your class. the selfish misconception that induces you to transform into eternal laws of nature and of reason the social forms stringing from your present mode of production and form of property -- historical relations that rise and disappear in the progress of production -- this misconception you share with every ruling class that has preceded you. what you see clearly in the case of ancient property, what you admit in the case of feudal property, you are of course forbidden to admit in the case of your own bourgeois form of property. abolition of the family! even the most radical flare up at this infamous proposal of the communists. on what foundation is the present family, the bourgeois family, based? on capital, on private gain. in its completely developed form, this family exists only among the bourgeoisie. but this state of things finds its complement in the practical absence of the family among proletarians, and in public prostitution. the bourgeois family will vanish as a matter of course when its complement vanishes, and both will vanish with the vanishing of capital. do you charge us with wanting to stop the exploitation of children by their parents? to this crime we plead guilty. but, you say, we destroy the most hallowed of relations, when we replace home education by social. and your education! is not that also social, and determined by the social conditions under which you educate, by the intervention direct or indirect, of society, by means of schools, etc.? the communists have not intended the intervention of society in education; they do but seek to alter the character of that intervention, and to rescue education from the influence of the ruling class. the bourgeois claptrap about the family and education, about the hallowed correlation of parents and child, becomes all the more disgusting, the more, by the action of modern industry, all the family ties among the proletarians are torn asunder, and their children transformed into simple articles of commerce and instruments of labor. but you communists would introduce community of women, screams the bourgeoisie in chorus. the bourgeois sees his wife a mere instrument of production. he hears that the instruments of production are to be exploited in common, and, naturally, can come to no other conclusion that the lot of being common to all will likewise fall to the women. he has not even a suspicion that the real point aimed at is to do away with the status of women as mere instruments of production. for the rest, nothing is more ridiculous than the virtuous indignation of our bourgeois at the community of women which, they pretend, is to be openly and officially established by the communists. the communists have no need to introduce free love; it has existed almost from time immemorial. our bourgeois, not content with having wives and daughters of their proletarians at their disposal, not to speak of common prostitutes, take the greatest pleasure in seducing each other's wives. (ah, those were the days!) bourgeois marriage is, in reality, a system of wives in common and thus, at the most, what the communists might possibly be reproached with is that they desire to introduce, in substitution for a hypocritically concealed, an openly legalized system of free love. for the rest, it is self-evident that the abolition of the present system of production must bring with it the abolition of free love springing from that system, i.e., of prostitution both public and private. the communists are further reproached with desiring to abolish countries and nationality. the workers have no country. we cannot take from them what they have not got. since the proletariat must first of all acquire political supremacy, must rise to be the leading class of the nation, must constitute itself the nation, it is, so far, itself national, though not in the bourgeois sense of the word. national differences and antagonism between peoples are daily more and more vanishing, owing to the development of the bourgeoisie, to freedom of commerce, to the world market, to uniformity in the mode of production and in the conditions of life corresponding thereto. the supremacy of the proletariat will cause them to vanish still faster. united action of the leading civilized countries at least is one of the first conditions for the emancipation of the proletariat. in proportion as the exploitation of one individual by another will also be put an end to, the exploitation of one nation by another will also be put an end to. in proportion as the antagonism between classes within the nation vanishes, the hostility of one nation to another will come to an end. the charges against communism made from a religious, a philosophical and, generally, from an ideological standpoint, are not deserving of serious examination. does it require deep intuition to comprehend that man's ideas, views, and conception, in one word, man's consciousness, changes with every change in the conditions of his material existence, in his social relations and in his social life? what else does the history of ideas prove, than that intellectual production changes its character in proportion as material production is changed? the ruling ideas of each age have ever been the ideas of its ruling class. when people speak of the ideas that revolutionize society, they do but express that fact that within the old society the elements of a new one have been created, and that the dissolution of the old ideas keeps even pace with the dissolution of the old conditions of existence. when the ancient world was in its last throes, the ancient religions were overcome by christianity. when christian ideas succumbed in the eighteenth century to rationalist ideas, feudal society fought its death battle with the then revolutionary bourgeoisie. the ideas of religious liberty and freedom of conscience merely gave expression to the sway of free competition within the domain of knowledge. "undoubtedly," it will be said, "religious, moral, philosophical, and juridicial ideas have been modified in the course of historical development. but religion, morality, philosophy, political science, and law, constantly survived this change." "there are, besides, eternal truths, such as freedom, justice, etc., that are common to all states of society. but communism abolishes eternal truths, it abolishes all religion, and all morality, instead of constituting them on a new basis; it therefore acts in contradiction to all past historical experience." what does this accusation reduce itself to? the history of all past society has consisted in the development of class antagonisms, antagonisms that assumed different forms at different epochs. but whatever form they may have taken, one fact is common to all past ages, viz., the exploitation of one part of society by the other. no wonder, then, that the social consciousness of past ages, despite all the multiplicity and variety it displays, moves within certain common forms, or general ideas, which cannot completely vanish except with the total disappearance of class antagonisms. the communist revolution is the most radical rupture with traditional relations; no wonder that its development involved the most radical rupture with traditional ideas. but let us have done with the bourgeois objections to communism. we have seen above that the first step in the revolution by the working class is to raise the proletariat to the position of ruling class to win the battle of democracy. the proletariat will use its political supremacy to wrest, by degree, all capital from the bourgeoisie, to centralize all instruments of production in the hands of the state, i.e., of the proletariat organized as the ruling class; and to increase the total productive forces as rapidly as possible. of course, in the beginning, this cannot be effected except by means of despotic inroads on the rights of property, and on the conditions of bourgeois production; by means of measures, therefore, which appear economically insufficient and untenable, but which, in the course of the movement, outstrip themselves, necessitate further inroads upon the old social order, and are unavoidable as a means of entirely revolutionizing the mode of production. these measures will, of course, be different in different countries. nevertheless, in most advanced countries, the following will be pretty generally applicable. one. abolition of property in land and application of all rents of land to public purposes. two. a heavy progressive or graduated income tax. three. abolition of all rights of inheritance. four. confiscation of the property of all emigrants and rebels. five. centralization of credit in the banks of the state, by means of a national bank with state capital and an exclusive monopoly. six. centralization of the means of communication and transport in the hands of the state. seven. extension of factories and instruments of production owned by the state; the bringing into cultivation of waste lands, and the improvement of the soil generally in accordance with a common plan. eight. equal obligation of all to work. establishment of industrial armies, especially for agriculture. nine. combination of agriculture with manufacturing industries; gradual abolition of all the distinction between town and country by a more equable distribution of the populace over the country. ten. free education for all children in public schools. abolition of children's factory labor in its present form. combination of education with industrial production, etc. when, in the course of development, class distinctions have disappeared, and all production has been concentrated in the hands of a vast association of the whole nation, the public power will lose its political character. political power, properly so called, is merely the organized power of one class for oppressing another. if the proletariat during its contest with the bourgeoisie is compelled, by the force of circumstances, to organize itself as a class; if, by means of a revolution, it makes itself the ruling class, and, as such, sweeps away by force the old conditions of production, then it will, along with these conditions, have swept away the conditions for the existence of class antagonisms and of classes generally, and will thereby have abolished its own supremacy as a class. in place of the old bourgeois society, with its classes and class antagonisms, we shall have an association in which the free development of each is the condition for the free development of all. part three. socialist and communist literature one. reactionary socialism a. feudal socialism owing to their historical position, it became the vocation of the aristocracies of france and england to write pamphlets against modern bourgeois society. in the french revolution of july 1830, and in the english reform agitation, these aristocracies again succumbed to the hateful upstart. thenceforth, a serious political struggle was altogether out of the question. a literary battle alone remained possible. but even in the domain of literature, the old cries of the restoration period had become impossible footnote one in order to arouse sympathy, the aristocracy was obliged to lose sight, apparently, of its own interests, and to formulate its indictment against the bourgeoisie in the interest of the exploited working class alone. thus, the aristocracy took their revenge by singing lampoons on their new masters and whispering in his ears sinister prophesies of coming catastrophe. in this way arose feudal socialism: half lamentation, half lampoon; half an echo of the past, half menace of the future; at times, by its bitter, witty and incisive criticism, striking the bourgeoisie to the very heart's core, but always ludicrous in its effect, through total incapacity to comprehend the march of modern history. the aristocracy, in order to rally the people to them, waved the proletarian alms-bag in front for a banner. but the people, so often as it joined them, saw on their hindquarters the old feudal coats of arms, and deserted with loud and irreverent laughter. one section of the french legitimists and "young england" exhibited this spectacle: in pointing out that their mode of exploitation was different to that of the bourgeoisie, the feudalists forget that they exploited under circumstances and conditions that were quite different and that are now antiquated. in showing that, under their rule, the modern proletariat never existed, they forget that the modern bourgeoisie is the necessary offspring of their own form of society. for the rest, so little do they conceal the reactionary character of their criticism that their chief accusation against the bourgeois amounts to this: that under the bourgeois regime a class is being developed which is destined to cut up, root and branch, the old order of society. what they upbraid the bourgeoisie with is not so much that it creates a proletariat as that it creates a _revolutionary_ proletariat. in political practice, therefore, they join in all corrective measures against the working class; and in ordinary life, despite their high falutin' phrases, they stoop to pick up the golden apples dropped from the tree of industry, and to barter truth, love, and honor, for traffic in wool, beetroot-sugar, and potato spirits. footnote two as the parson has ever gone hand in hand with the landlord, so has clerical socialism with feudal socialism. nothing is easier than to give christian asceticism a socialist tinge. has not christianity declaimed against private property, against marriage, against the state? has it not preached in the place of these, charity and poverty, celibacy and mortification of the flesh, monastic life and mother church? christian socialism is but the holy water with which the priest consecrates the heart-burnings of the aristocrat. b. petty-bourgeois socialism the feudal aristocracy was not the only class that was ruined by the bourgeoisie, not the only class whose conditions of existence pined and perished in the atmosphere of modern bourgeois society. the medieval burgesses and the small peasant proprietors were the precursors of the modern bourgeoisie. in those countries which are but little developed, industrially and commercially, these two classes still vegetate side by side with the rising bourgeoisie. in countries where modern civilization has become fully developed, a new class of petty bourgeois has been formed, fluctuating between proletariat and bourgeoisie, and ever renewing itself a supplementary part of bourgeois society. the individual members of this class, however, as being constantly hurled down into the proletariat by the action of competition, and, as modern industry develops, they even see the moment approaching when they will completely disappear as an independent section of modern society, to be replaced in manufactures, agriculture and commerce, by overlookers, bailiffs and shopmen. in countries like france, where the peasants constitute far more than half of the population, it was natural that writers who sided with the proletariat against the bourgeoisie should use, in their criticism of the bourgeois regime, the standard of the peasant and petty bourgeois, and from the standpoint of these intermediate classes, should take up the cudgels for the working class. thus arose petty-bourgeois socialism. sismondi was the head of this school, not only in france but also in england. this school of socialism dissected with great acuteness the contradictions in the conditions of modern production. it laid bare the hypocritical apologies of economists. it proved, incontrovertibly, the disastrous effects of machinery and division of labor; the concentration of capital and land in a few hands; overproduction and crises; it pointed out the inevitable ruin of the petty bourgeois and peasant, the misery of the proletariat, the anarchy in production, the crying inequalities in the distribution of wealth, the industrial war of extermination between nations, the dissolution of old moral bonds, of the old family relations, of the old nationalities. in it positive aims, however, this form of socialism aspires either to restoring the old means of production and of exchange, and with them the old property relations, and the old society, or to cramping the modern means of production and of exchange within the framework of the old property relations that have been, and were bound to be, exploded by those means. in either case, it is both reactionary and utopian. its last words are: corporate guilds for manufacture; patriarchal relations in agriculture. ultimately, when stubborn historical facts had dispersed all intoxicating effects of self-deception, this form of socialism ended in a miserable hangover. c. german or "true" socialism the socialist and communist literature of france, a literature that originated under the pressure of a bourgeoisie in power, and that was the expressions of the struggle against this power, was introduced into germany at a time when the bourgeoisie in that country had just begun its contest with feudal absolutism. german philosophers, would-be philosophers, and beaux esprits (men of letters), eagerly seized on this literature, only forgetting that when these writings immigrated from france into germany, french social conditions had not immigrated along with them. in contact with german social conditions, this french literature lost all its immediate practical significance and assumed a purely literary aspect. thus, to the german philosophers of the eighteenth century, the demands of the first french revolution were nothing more than the demands of "practical reason" in general, and the utterance of the will of the revolutionary french bourgeoisie signified, in their eyes, the laws of pure will, of will as it was bound to be, of true human will generally. the work of the german literati consisted solely in bringing the new french ideas into harmony with their ancient philosophical conscience, or rather, in annexing the french ideas without deserting their own philosophic point of view. this annexation took place in the same way in which a foreign language is appropriated, namely, by translation. it is well known how the monks wrote silly lives of catholic saints _over_ the manuscripts on which the classical works of ancient heathendom had been written. the german literati reversed this process with the profane french literature. they wrote their philosophical nonsense beneath the french original. for instance, beneath the french criticism of the economic functions of money, they wrote "alienation of humanity", and beneath the french criticism of the bourgeois state they wrote "dethronement of the category of the general", and so forth. the introduction of these philosophical phrases at the back of the french historical criticisms, they dubbed "philosophy of action", "true socialism", "german science of socialism", "philosophical foundation of socialism", and so on. the french socialist and communist literature was thus completely emasculated. and, since it ceased, in the hands of the german, to express the struggle of one class with the other, he felt conscious of having overcome "french one-sidedness" and of representing, not true requirements, but the requirements of truth; not the interests of the proletariat, but the interests of human nature, of man in general, who belongs to no class, has no reality, who exists only in the misty realm of philosophical fantasy. this german socialism, which took its schoolboy task so seriously and solemnly, and extolled its poor stock-in-trade in such a mountebank fashion, meanwhile gradually lost its pedantic innocence. the fight of the germans, and especially of the prussian bourgeoisie, against feudal aristocracy and absolute monarchy, in other words, the liberal movement, became more earnest. by this, the long-wished for opportunity was offered to "true" socialism of confronting the political movement with the socialistic demands, of hurling the traditional anathemas against liberalism, against representative government, against bourgeois competition, bourgeois freedom of the press, bourgeois legislation, bourgeois liberty and equality, and of preaching to the masses that they had nothing to gain, and everything to lose, by this bourgeois movement. german socialism forgot, in the nick of time, that the french criticism, whose silly echo it was, presupposed the existence of modern bourgeois society, with its corresponding economic conditions of existence, and the political constitution adapted thereto, the very things whose attainment was the object of the pending struggle in germany. to the absolute governments, with their following of parsons, professors, country squires, and officials, it served as a welcome scarecrow against the threatening bourgeoisie. it was a sweet finish, after the bitter pills of flogging and bullets, with which these same governments, just at that time, dosed the german working-class risings. while this "true" socialism thus served the government as a weapon for fighting the german bourgeoisie, it, at the same time, directly represented a reactionary interest, the interest of german philistines. in germany, the petty-bourgeois class, a relic of the sixteenth century, and since then constantly cropping up again under the various forms, is the real social basis of the existing state of things. to preserve this class is to preserve the existing state of things in germany. the industrial and political supremacy of the bourgeoisie threatens it with certain destruction -- on the one hand, from the concentration of capital; on the other, from the rise of a revolutionary proletariat. "true" socialism appeared to kill these two birds with one stone. it spread like an epidemic. the robe of speculative cobwebs, embroidered with flowers of rhetoric, steeped in the dew of sickly sentiment, this transcendental robe in which the german socialists wrapped their sorry "eternal truths", all skin and bone, served to wonderfully increase the sale of their goods amongst such a public. and on its part german socialism recognized, more and more, its own calling as the bombastic representative of the petty-bourgeois philistine. it proclaimed the german nation to be the model nation, and the german petty philistine to be the typical man. to every villainous meanness of this model man, it gave a hidden, higher, socialistic interpretation, the exact contrary of its real character. it went to the extreme length of directly opposing the "brutally destructive" tendency of communism, and of proclaiming its supreme and impartial contempt of all class struggles. with very few exceptions, all the so-called socialist and communist publications that now (1847) circulate in germany belong to the domain of this foul and enervating literature. footnote three two. conservative or bourgeois socialism a part of the bourgeoisie is desirous of redressing social grievances in order to secure the continued existence of bourgeois society. to this section belong economists, philanthropists, humanitarians, improvers of the condition of the working class, organizers of charity, members of societies for the prevention of cruelty to animals, temperance fanatics, hole-and-corner reformers of every imaginable kind. this form of socialism has, moreover, been worked out into complete systems. we may cite proudhon's philosophy of poverty as an example of this form. the socialistic bourgeois want all the advantages of modern social conditions without the struggles and dangers necessarily resulting therefrom. they desire the existing state of society, minus its revolutionary and disintegrating elements. they wish for a bourgeoisie without a proletariat. the bourgeoisie naturally conceives the world in which it is supreme to be the best; and bourgeois socialism develops this comfortable conception into various more or less complete systems. in requiring the proletariat to carry out such a system, and thereby to march straightaway into the social new jerusalem, it but requires in reality that the proletariat should remain within the bounds of existing society, but should cast away all its hateful ideas concerning the bourgeoisie. a second, and more practical, but less systematic, form of this socialism sought to depreciate every revolutionary movement in the eyes of the working class by showing that no mere political reform, but only a change in the material conditions of existence, in economical relations, could be of any advantage to them. by changes in the material conditions of existence, this form of socialism, however, by no means understands abolition of the bourgeois relations of production, an abolition that can be affected only by a revolution, but administrative reforms, based on the continued existence of these relations; reforms, therefore, that in no respect affect the relations between capital and labor, but, at the best, lessen the cost, and simplify the administrative work of bourgeois government. bourgeois socialism attains adequate expression when, and only when, it becomes a mere figure of speech. free trade: for the benefit of the working class. protective duties: for the benefit of the working class. prison reform: for the benefit of the working class. this is the last word and the only seriously meant word of bourgeois socialism. it is summed up in the phrase: the bourgeois is a bourgeois -- for the benefit of the working class. three. critical-utopian socialism and communism we do not here refer to that literature which, in every great modern revolution, has always given voice to the demands of the proletariat, such as the writings of babeuf footnote four and others. the first direct attempts of the proletariat to attain its own ends, made in times of universal excitement, when feudal society was being overthrown, necessarily failed, owing to the then undeveloped state of the proletariat, as well as to the absence of the economic conditions for its emancipation, conditions that had yet to be produced, and could be produced by the impending bourgeois epoch alone. the revolutionary literature that accompanied these first movements of the proletariat had necessarily a reactionary character. it inculcated universal asceticism and social levelling in its crudest form. the socialist and communist systems, properly so called, those of saint-simon footnote five, fourier footnote six, owen footnote seven, and others, spring into existence in the early undeveloped period, described above, of the struggle between proletariat and bourgeoisie (see section 1. bourgeois and proletarians). the founders of these systems see, indeed, the class antagonisms, as well as the action of the decomposing elements in the prevailing form of society. but the proletariat, as yet in its infancy, offers to them the spectacle of a class without any historical initiative or any independent political movement. since the development of class antagonism keeps even pace with the development of industry, the economic situation, as they find it, does not as yet offer to them the material conditions for the emancipation of the proletariat. they therefore search after a new social science, after new social laws, that are to create these conditions. historical action is to yield to their personal inventive action; historically created conditions of emancipation to fantastic ones; and the gradual, spontaneous class organization of the proletariat to an organization of society especially contrived by these inventors. future history resolves itself, in their eyes, into the propaganda and the practical carrying out of their social plans. in the formation of their plans, they are conscious of caring chiefly for the interests of the working class, as being the most suffering class. only from the point of view of being the most suffering class does the proletariat exist for them. the undeveloped state of the class struggle, as well as their own surroundings, causes socialists of this kind to consider themselves far superior to all class antagonisms. they want to improve the condition of every member of society, even that of the most favored. hence, they habitually appeal to society at large, without the distinction of class; nay, by preference, to the ruling class. for how can people when once they understand their system, fail to see in it the best possible plan of the best possible state of society? hence, they reject all political, and especially all revolutionary action; they wish to attain their ends by peaceful means, necessarily doomed to failure, and by the force of example, to pave the way for the new social gospel. such fantastic pictures of future society, painted at a time when the proletariat is still in a very undeveloped state and has but a fantastic conception of its own position, correspond with the first instinctive yearnings of that class for a general reconstruction of society. but these socialist and communist publications contain also a critical element. they attack every principle of existing society. hence, they are full of the most valuable materials for the enlightenment of the working class. the practical measures proposed in them -- such as the abolition of the distinction between town and country, of the family, of the carrying on of industries for the account of private individuals, and of the wage system, the proclamation of social harmony, the conversion of the function of the state into a more superintendence of production -- all these proposals point solely to the disappearance of class antagonisms which were, at that time, only just cropping up, and which, in these publications, are recognized in their earliest indistinct and undefined forms only. these proposals, therefore, are of a purely utopian character. the significance of critical-utopian socialism and communism bears an inverse relation to historical development. in proportion as the modern class struggle develops and takes definite shape, this fantastic standing apart from the contest, these fantastic attacks on it, lose all practical value and all theoretical justifications. therefore, although the originators of these systems were, in many respects, revolutionary, their disciples have, in every case, formed mere reactionary sects. they hold fast by the original views of their masters, in opposition to the progressive historical development of the proletariat. they, therefore, endeavor, and that consistently, to deaden the class struggle and to reconcile the class antagonisms. they still dream of experimental realization of their social utopias, of founding isolated phalansteres, of establishing "home colonies", or setting up a "little icaria" footnote eight-- pocket editions of the new jerusalem -- and to realize all these castles in the air, they are compelled to appeal to the feelings and purses of the bourgeois. by degrees, they sink into the category of the reactionary conservative socialists depicted above, differing from these only by more systematic pedantry, and by their fanatical and superstitious belief in the miraculous effects of their social science. they, therefore, violently oppose all political action on the part of the working class; such action, according to them, can only result from blind unbelief in the new gospel. the owenites in england, and the fourierists in france, respectively, oppose the chartists and the reformistes. footnotes footnote one.note by engels to 1888 english edition: not the english restoration (1660-1689), but the french restoration (1814-1830). footnote two. note by engels to 1888 english edition: this applies chiefly to germany, where the landed aristocracy and squirearchy have large portions of their estates cultivated for their own account by stewards, and are, moreover, extensive beetroot-sugar manufacturers and distillers of potato spirits. the wealthier british aristocracy are, as yet, rather above that; but they, too, know how to make up for declining rents by lending their names to floaters or more or less shady joint-stock companies. footnote threenote by engels to 1888 german edition: the revolutionary storm of 1848 swept away this whole shabby tendency and cured its protagonists of the desire to dabble in socialism. the chief representative and classical type of this tendency is mr karl gruen. footnote four francois noel babeuf (1760-1797): french political agitator; plotted unsuccessfully to destroy the directory in revolutionary france and established a communistic system. footnote fivecomte de saint-simon, claude henri de rouvroy (1760-1825): french social philosopher; generally regarded as founder of french socialism. he thought society should be reorganized along industrial lines and that scientists should be the new spiritual leaders. his most important work is _nouveau_christianisme_ (1825). footnote six charles fourier (1772-1837): french social reformer; propounded a system of self-sufficient cooperatives known as fourierism, especially in his work _le_nouveau_monde_industriel_ (1829-30) footnote seven richard owen (1771-1858): welsh industrialist and social reformer. he formed a model industrial community at new lanark, scotland, and pioneered cooperative societies. his books include _new_view_of_society_ (1813). footnote eightnote by engels to 1888 english edition: "home colonies" were what owen called his communist model societies. _phalansteres_ were socialist colonies on the plan of charles fourier; icaria was the name given by caber to his utopia and, later on, to his american communist colony. part four position of the communists in relation to the various existing opposition parties section ii has made clear the relations of the communists to the existing working-class parties, such as the chartists in england and the agrarian reformers in america. the communists fight for the attainment of the immediate aims, for the enforcement of the momentary interests of the working class; but in the movement of the present, they also represent and take care of the future of that movement. in france, the communists ally with the social democrats. asterick. against the conservative and radical bourgeoisie, reserving, however, the right to take up a critical position in regard to phases and illusions traditionally handed down from the great revolution. in switzerland, they support the radicals, without losing sight of the fact that this party consists of antagonistic elements, partly of democratic socialists, in the french sense, partly of radical bourgeois. in poland, they support the party that insists on an agrarian revolution as the prime condition for national emancipation, that party which fomented the insurrection of krakow in 1846. in germany, they fight with the bourgeoisie whenever it acts in a revolutionary way, against the absolute monarchy, the feudal squirearchy, and the petty-bourgeoisie. but they never cease, for a single instant, to instill into the working class the clearest possible recognition of the hostile antagonism between bourgeoisie and proletariat, in order that the german workers may straightway use, as so many weapons against the bourgeoisie, the social and political conditions that the bourgeoisie must necessarily introduce along with its supremacy, and in order that, after the fall of the reactionary classes in germany, the fight against the bourgeoisie itself may immediately begin. the communists turn their attention chiefly to germany, because that country is on the eve of a bourgeois revolution that is bound to be carried out under more advanced conditions of european civilization and with a much more developed proletariat than that of england was in the seventeenth, and france in the eighteenth century, and because the bourgeois revolution in germany will be but the prelude to an immediately following proletarian revolution. in short, the communists everywhere support every revolutionary movement against the existing social and political order of things. in all these movements, they bring to the front, as the leading question in each, the property question, no matter what its degree of development at the time. finally, they labor everywhere for the union and agreement of the democratic parties of all countries. the communists disdain to conceal their views and aims. they openly declare that their ends can be attained only by the forcible overthrow of all existing social conditions. let the ruling classes tremble at a communist revolution. the proletarians have nothing to lose but their chains. they have a world to win. proletarians of all countries, unite! footnotes asterick . note by engels to 1888 english edition: the party then represented in parliament by ledru-rollin, in literature by louis blanc (1811-82), in the daily press by the reforme. the name of social-democracy signifies, with these its inventors, a section of the democratic or republican party more or less tinged with socialism. a spectre is haunting europe -- the spectre of communism. all the powers of old europe have entered into a holy alliance to exorcise this spectre: pope and tsar, metternich and guizot, french radicals and german police-spies. where is the party in opposition that has not been decried as communistic by its opponents in power? where is the opposition that has not hurled back the branding reproach of communism, against the more advanced opposition parties, as well as against its reactionary adversaries? two things result from this fact: i. communism is already acknowledged by all european powers to be itself a power. ii. it is high time that communists should openly, in the face of the whole world, publish their views, their aims, their tendencies, and meet this nursery tale of the spectre of communism with a manifesto of the party itself. to this end, communists of various nationalities have assembled in london and sketched the following manifesto, to be published in the english, french, german, italian, flemish and danish languages. the history of all hitherto existing society is the history of class struggles. freeman and slave, patrician and plebian, lord and serf, guild-master and journeyman, in a word, oppressor and oppressed, stood in constant opposition to one another, carried on an uninterrupted, now hidden, now open fight, a fight that each time ended, either in a revolutionary reconstitution of society at large, or in the common ruin of the contending classes. in the earlier epochs of history, we find almost everywhere a complicated arrangement of society into various orders, a manifold gradation of social rank. in ancient rome we have patricians, knights, plebians, slaves; in the middle ages, feudal lords, vassals, guild-masters, journeymen, apprentices, serfs; in almost all of these classes, again, subordinate gradations. the modern bourgeois society that has sprouted from the ruins of feudal society has not done away with class antagonisms. it has but established new classes, new conditions of oppression, new forms of struggle in place of the old ones. our epoch, the epoch of the bourgeoisie, possesses, however, this distinct feature: it has simplified class antagonisms. society as a whole is more and more splitting up into two great hostile camps, into two great classes directly facing each other -- bourgeoisie and proletariat. from the serfs of the middle ages sprang the chartered burghers of the earliest towns. from these burgesses the first elements of the bourgeoisie were developed. the discovery of america, the rounding of the cape, opened up fresh ground for the rising bourgeoisie. the east-indian and chinese markets, the colonisation of america, trade with the colonies, the increase in the means of exchange and in commodities generally, gave to commerce, to navigation, to industry, an impulse never before known, and thereby, to the revolutionary element in the tottering feudal society, a rapid development. the feudal system of industry, in which industrial production was monopolized by closed guilds, now no longer suffices for the growing wants of the new markets. the manufacturing system took its place. the guild-masters were pushed aside by the manufacturing middle class; division of labor between the different corporate guilds vanished in the face of division of labor in each single workshop. meantime, the markets kept ever growing, the demand ever rising. even manufacturers no longer sufficed. thereupon, steam and machinery revolutionized industrial production. the place of manufacture was taken by the giant, modern industry; the place of the industrial middle class by industrial millionaires, the leaders of the whole industrial armies, the modern bourgeois. modern industry has established the world market, for which the discovery of america paved the way. this market has given an immense development to commerce, to navigation, to communication by land. this development has, in turn, reacted on the extension of industry; and in proportion as industry, commerce, navigation, railways extended, in the same proportion the bourgeoisie developed, increased its capital, and pushed into the background every class handed down from the middle ages. we see, therefore, how the modern bourgeoisie is itself the product of a long course of development, of a series of revolutions in the modes of production and of exchange. each step in the development of the bourgeoisie was accompanied by a corresponding political advance in that class. an oppressed class under the sway of the feudal nobility, an armed and self-governing association of medieval commune Ý: here independent urban republic (as in italy and germany); there taxable "third estate" of the monarchy (as in france); afterward, in the period of manufacturing proper, serving either the semi-feudal or the absolute monarchy as a counterpoise against the nobility, and, in fact, cornerstone of the great monarchies in general -- the bourgeoisie has at last, since the establishment of modern industry and of the world market, conquered for itself, in the modern representative state, exclusive political sway. the executive of the modern state is but a committee for managing the common affairs of the whole bourgeoisie. the bourgeoisie, historically, has played a most revolutionary part. the bourgeoisie, wherever it has got the upper hand, has put an end to all feudal, patriarchal, idyllic relations. it has pitilessly torn asunder the motley feudal ties that bound man to his "natural superiors", and has left no other nexus between people than naked self-interest, than callous "cash payment". it has drowned out the most heavenly ecstacies of religious fervor, of chivalrous enthusiasm, of philistine sentimentalism, in the icy water of egotistical calculation. it has resolved personal worth into exchange value, and in place of the numberless indefeasible chartered freedoms, has set up that single, unconscionable freedom -- free trade. in one word, for exploitation, veiled by religious and political illusions, it has substituted naked, shameless, direct, brutal exploitation. the bourgeoisie has stripped of its halo every occupation hitherto honored and looked up to with reverent awe. it has converted the physician, the lawyer, the priest, the poet, the man of science, into its paid wage laborers. the bourgeoisie has torn away from the family its sentimental veil, and has reduced the family relation into a mere money relation. the bourgeoisie has disclosed how it came to pass that the brutal display of vigor in the middle ages, which reactionaries so much admire, found its fitting complement in the most slothful indolence. it has been the first to show what man's activity can bring about. it has accomplished wonders far surpassing egyptian pyramids, roman aqueducts, and gothic cathedrals; it has conducted expeditions that put in the shade all former exoduses of nations and crusades. the bourgeoisie cannot exist without constantly revolutionizing the instruments of production, and thereby the relations of production, and with them the whole relations of society. conservation of the old modes of production in unaltered form, was, on the contrary, the first condition of existence for all earlier industrial classes. constant revolutionizing of production, uninterrupted disturbance of all social conditions, everlasting uncertainty and agitation distinguish the bourgeois epoch from all earlier ones. all fixed, fast frozen relations, with their train of ancient and venerable prejudices and opinions, are swept away, all new-formed ones become antiquated before they can ossify. all that is solid melts into air, all that is holy is profaned, and man is at last compelled to face with sober senses his real condition of life and his relations with his kind. the need of a constantly expanding market for its products chases the bourgeoisie over the entire surface of the globe. it must nestle everywhere, settle everywhere, establish connections everywhere. the bourgeoisie has, through its exploitation of the world market, given a cosmopolitan character to production and consumption in every country. to the great chagrin of reactionaries, it has drawn from under the feet of industry the national ground on which it stood. all old-established national industries have been destroyed or are daily being destroyed. they are dislodged by new industries, whose introduction becomes a life and death question for all civilized nations, by industries that no longer work up indigenous raw material, but raw material drawn from the remotest zones; industries whose products are consumed, not only at home, but in every quarter of the globe. in place of the old wants, satisfied by the production of the country, we find new wants, requiring for their satisfaction the products of distant lands and climes. in place of the old local and national seclusion and self-sufficiency, we have intercourse in every direction, universal inter-dependence of nations. and as in material, so also in intellectual production. the intellectual creations of individual nations become common property. national one-sidedness and narrow-mindedness become more and more impossible, and from the numerous national and local literatures, there arises a world literature. the bourgeoisie, by the rapid improvement of all instruments of production, by the immensely facilitated means of communication, draws all, even the most barbarian, nations into civilization. the cheap prices of commodities are the heavy artillery with which it forces the barbarians' intensely obstinate hatred of foreigners to capitulate. it compels all nations, on pain of extinction, to adopt the bourgeois mode of production; it compels them to introduce what it calls civilization into their midst, i.e., to become bourgeois themselves. in one word, it creates a world after its own image. the bourgeoisie has subjected the country to the rule of the towns. it has created enormous cities, has greatly increased the urban population as compared with the rural, and has thus rescued a considerable part of the population from the idiocy of rural life. just as it has made the country dependent on the towns, so it has made barbarian and semi-barbarian countries dependent on the civilized ones, nations of peasants on nations of bourgeois, the east on the west. the bourgeoisie keeps more and more doing away with the scattered state of the population, of the means of production, and of property. it has agglomerated population, centralized the means of production, and has concentrated property in a few hands. the necessary consequence of this was political centralization. independent, or but loosely connected provinces, with separate interests, laws, governments, and systems of taxation, became lumped together into one nation, with one government, one code of laws, one national class interest, one frontier, and one customs tariff. the bourgeoisie, during its rule of scarce one hundred years, has created more massive and more colossal productive forces than have all preceding generations together. subjection of nature's forces to man, machinery, application of chemistry to industry and agriculture, steam navigation, railways, electric telegraphs, clearing of whole continents for cultivation, canalization or rivers, whole populations conjured out of the ground -- what earlier century had even a presentiment that such productive forces slumbered in the lap of social labor? we see then: the means of production and of exchange, on whose foundation the bourgeoisie built itself up, were generated in feudal society. at a certain stage in the development of these means of production and of exchange, the conditions under which feudal society produced and exchanged, the feudal organization of agriculture and manufacturing industry, in one word, the feudal relations of property became no longer compatible with the already developed productive forces; they became so many fetters. they had to be burst asunder; they were burst asunder. into their place stepped free competition, accompanied by a social and political constitution adapted in it, and the economic and political sway of the bourgeois class. a similar movement is going on before our own eyes. modern bourgeois society, with its relations of production, of exchange and of property, a society that has conjured up such gigantic means of production and of exchange, is like the sorcerer who is no longer able to control the powers of the nether world whom he has called up by his spells. for many a decade past, the history of industry and commerce is but the history of the revolt of modern productive forces against modern conditions of production, against the property relations that are the conditions for the existence of the bourgeois and of its rule. it is enough to mention the commercial crises that, by their periodical return, put the existence of the entire bourgeois society on its trial, each time more threateningly. in these crises, a great part not only of the existing products, but also of the previously created productive forces, are periodically destroyed. in these crises, there breaks out an epidemic that, in all earlier epochs, would have seemed an absurdity -- the epidemic of over-production. society suddenly finds itself put back into a state of momentary barbarism; it appears as if a famine, a universal war of devastation, had cut off the supply of every means of subsistence; industry and commerce seem to be destroyed. and why? because there is too much civilization, too much means of subsistence, too much industry, too much commerce. the productive forces at the disposal of society no longer tend to further the development of the conditions of bourgeois property; on the contrary, they have become too powerful for these conditions, by which they are fettered, and so soon as they overcome these fetters, they bring disorder into the whole of bourgeois society, endanger the existence of bourgeois property. the conditions of bourgeois society are too narrow to comprise the wealth created by them. and how does the bourgeoisie get over these crises? on the one hand, by enforced destruction of a mass of productive forces; on the other, by the conquest of new markets, and by the more thorough exploitation of the old ones. that is to say, by paving the way for more extensive and more destructive crises, and by diminishing the means whereby crises are prevented. the weapons with which the bourgeoisie felled feudalism to the ground are now turned against the bourgeoisie itself. but not only has the bourgeoisie forged the weapons that bring death to itself; it has also called into existence the men who are to wield those weapons -- the modern working class -- the proletarians. in proportion as the bourgeoisie, i.e., capital, is developed, in the same proportion is the proletariat, the modern working class, developed -- a class of laborers, who live only so long as they find work, and who find work only so long as their labor increases capital. these laborers, who must sell themselves piecemeal, are a commodity, like every other article of commerce, and are consequently exposed to all the vicissitudes of competition, to all the fluctuations of the market. owing to the extensive use of machinery, and to the division of labor, the work of the proletarians has lost all individual character, and, consequently, all charm for the workman. he becomes an appendage of the machine, and it is only the most simple, most monotonous, and most easily acquired knack, that is required of him. hence, the cost of production of a workman is restricted, almost entirely, to the means of subsistence that he requires for maintenance, and for the propagation of his race. but the price of a commodity, and therefore also of labor, is equal to its cost of production. in proportion, therefore, as the repulsiveness of the work increases, the wage decreases. what is more, in proportion as the use of machinery and division of labor increases, in the same proportion the burden of toil also increases, whether by prolongation of the working hours, by the increase of the work exacted in a given time, or by increased speed of machinery, etc. modern industry has converted the little workshop of the patriarchal master into the great factory of the industrial capitalist. masses of laborers, crowded into the factory, are organized like soldiers. as privates of the industrial army, they are placed under the command of a perfect hierarchy of officers and sergeants. not only are they slaves of the bourgeois class, and of the bourgeois state; they are daily and hourly enslaved by the machine, by the overlooker, and, above all, in the individual bourgeois manufacturer himself. the more openly this despotism proclaims gain to be its end and aim, the more petty, the more hateful and the more embittering it is. the less the skill and exertion of strength implied in manual labor, in other words, the more modern industry becomes developed, the more is the labor of men superseded by that of women. differences of age and sex have no longer any distinctive social validity for the working class. all are instruments of labor, more or less expensive to use, according to their age and sex. no sooner is the exploitation of the laborer by the manufacturer, so far at an end, that he receives his wages in cash, than he is set upon by the other portion of the bourgeoisie, the landlord, the shopkeeper, the pawnbroker, etc. the lower strata of the middle class -- the small tradespeople, shopkeepers, and retired tradesmen generally, the handicraftsmen and peasants -- all these sink gradually into the proletariat, partly because their diminutive capital does not suffice for the scale on which modern industry is carried on, and is swamped in the competition with the large capitalists, partly because their specialized skill is rendered worthless by new methods of production. thus, the proletariat is recruited from all classes of the population. the proletariat goes through various stages of development. with its birth begins its struggle with the bourgeoisie. at first, the contest is carried on by individual laborers, then by the work of people of a factory, then by the operative of one trade, in one locality, against the individual bourgeois who directly exploits them. they direct their attacks not against the bourgeois condition of production, but against the instruments of production themselves; they destroy imported wares that compete with their labor, they smash to pieces machinery, they set factories ablaze, they seek to restore by force the vanished status of the workman of the middle ages. at this stage, the laborers still form an incoherent mass scattered over the whole country, and broken up by their mutual competition. if anywhere they unite to form more compact bodies, this is not yet the consequence of their own active union, but of the union of the bourgeoisie, which class, in order to attain its own political ends, is compelled to set the whole proletariat in motion, and is moreover yet, for a time, able to do so. at this stage, therefore, the proletarians do not fight their enemies, but the enemies of their enemies, the remnants of absolute monarchy, the landowners, the non-industrial bourgeois, the petty bourgeois. thus, the whole historical movement is concentrated in the hands of the bourgeoisie; every victory so obtained is a victory for the bourgeoisie. but with the development of industry, the proletariat not only increases in number; it becomes concentrated in greater masses, its strength grows, and it feels that strength more. the various interests and conditions of life within the ranks of the proletariat are more and more equalized, in proportion as machinery obliterates all distinctions of labor, and nearly everywhere reduces wages to the same low level. the growing competition among the bourgeois, and the resulting commercial crises, make the wages of the workers ever more fluctuating. the increasing improvement of machinery, ever more rapidly developing, makes their livelihood more and more precarious; the collisions between individual workmen and individual bourgeois take more and more the character of collisions between two classes. thereupon, the workers begin to form combinations (trade unions) against the bourgeois; they club together in order to keep up the rate of wages; they found permanent associations in order to make provision beforehand for these occasional revolts. here and there, the contest breaks out into riots. now and then the workers are victorious, but only for a time. the real fruit of their battles lie not in the immediate result, but in the ever expanding union of the workers. this union is helped on by the improved means of communication that are created by modern industry, and that place the workers of different localities in contact with one another. it was just this contact that was needed to centralize the numerous local struggles, all of the same character, into one national struggle between classes. but every class struggle is a political struggle. and that union, to attain which the burghers of the middle ages, with their miserable highways, required centuries, the modern proletarian, thanks to railways, achieve in a few years. this organization of the proletarians into a class, and, consequently, into a political party, is continually being upset again by the competition between the workers themselves. but it ever rises up again, stronger, firmer, mightier. it compels legislative recognition of particular interests of the workers, by taking advantage of the divisions among the bourgeoisie itself. thus, the ten-hours bill in england was carried. altogether, collisions between the classes of the old society further in many ways the course of development of the proletariat. the bourgeoisie finds itself involved in a constant battle. at first with the aristocracy; later on, with those portions of the bourgeoisie itself, whose interests have become antagonistic to the progress of industry; at all time with the bourgeoisie of foreign countries. in all these battles, it sees itself compelled to appeal to the proletariat, to ask for help, and thus to drag it into the political arena. the bourgeoisie itself, therefore, supplies the proletariat with its own elements of political and general education, in other words, it furnishes the proletariat with weapons for fighting the bourgeoisie. further, as we have already seen, entire sections of the ruling class are, by the advance of industry, precipitated into the proletariat, or are at least threatened in their conditions of existence. these also supply the proletariat with fresh elements of enlightenment and progress. finally, in times when the class struggle nears the decisive hour, the progress of dissolution going on within the ruling class, in fact within the whole range of old society, assumes such a violent, glaring character, that a small section of the ruling class cuts itself adrift, and joins the revolutionary class, the class that holds the future in its hands. just as, therefore, at an earlier period, a section of the nobility went over to the bourgeoisie, so now a portion of the bourgeoisie goes over to the proletariat, and in particular, a portion of the bourgeois ideologists, who have raised themselves to the level of comprehending theoretically the historical movement as a whole. of all the classes that stand face to face with the bourgeoisie today, the proletariat alone is a genuinely revolutionary class. the other classes decay and finally disappear in the face of modern industry; the proletariat is its special and essential product. the lower middle class, the small manufacturer, the shopkeeper, the artisan, the peasant, all these fight against the bourgeoisie, to save from extinction their existence as fractions of the middle class. they are therefore not revolutionary, but conservative. nay, more, they are reactionary, for they try to roll back the wheel of history. if, by chance, they are revolutionary, they are only so in view of their impending transfer into the proletariat; they thus defend not their present, but their future interests; they desert their own standpoint to place themselves at that of the proletariat. the "dangerous class", the social scum, that passively rotting mass thrown off by the lowest layers of the old society, may, here and there, be swept into the movement by a proletarian revolution; its conditions of life, however, prepare it far more for the part of a bribed tool of reactionary intrigue. in the condition of the proletariat, those of old society at large are already virtually swamped. the proletarian is without property; his relation to his wife and children has no longer anything in common with the bourgeois family relations; modern industry labor, modern subjection to capital, the same in england as in france, in america as in germany, has stripped him of every trace of national character. law, morality, religion, are to him so many bourgeois prejudices, behind which lurk in ambush just as many bourgeois interests. all the preceding classes that got the upper hand sought to fortify their already acquired status by subjecting society at large to their conditions of appropriation. the proletarians cannot become masters of the productive forces of society, except by abolishing their own previous mode of appropriation, and thereby also every other previous mode of appropriation. they have nothing of their own to secure and to fortify; their mission is to destroy all previous securities for, and insurances of, individual property. all previous historical movements were movements of minorities, or in the interest of minorities. the proletarian movement is the self-conscious, independent movement of the immense majority, in the interest of the immense majority. the proletariat, the lowest stratum of our present society, cannot stir, cannot raise itself up, without the whole superincumbent strata of official society being sprung into the air. though not in substance, yet in form, the struggle of the proletariat with the bourgeoisie is at first a national struggle. the proletariat of each country must, of course, first of all settle matters with its own bourgeoisie. in depicting the most general phases of the development of the proletariat, we traced the more or less veiled civil war, raging within existing society, up to the point where that war breaks out into open revolution, and where the violent overthrow of the bourgeoisie lays the foundation for the sway of the proletariat. hitherto, every form of society has been based, as we have already seen, on the antagonism of oppressing and oppressed classes. but in order to oppress a class, certain conditions must be assured to it under which it can, at least, continue its slavish existence. the serf, in the period of serfdom, raised himself to membership in the commune, just as the petty bourgeois, under the yoke of the feudal absolutism, managed to develop into a bourgeois. the modern laborer, on the contrary, instead of rising with the process of industry, sinks deeper and deeper below the conditions of existence of his own class. he becomes a pauper, and pauperism develops more rapidly than population and wealth. and here it becomes evident that the bourgeoisie is unfit any longer to be the ruling class in society, and to impose its conditions of existence upon society as an overriding law. it is unfit to rule because it is incompetent to assure an existence to its slave within his slavery, because it cannot help letting him sink into such a state, that it has to feed him, instead of being fed by him. society can no longer live under this bourgeoisie, in other words, its existence is no longer compatible with society. the essential conditions for the existence and for the sway of the bourgeois class is the formation and augmentation of capital; the condition for capital is wage labor. wage labor rests exclusively on competition between the laborers. the advance of industry, whose involuntary promoter is the bourgeoisie, replaces the isolation of the laborers, due to competition, by the revolutionary combination, due to association. the development of modern industry, therefore, cuts from under its feet the very foundation on which the bourgeoisie produces and appropriates products. what the bourgeoisie therefore produces, above all, are its own grave-diggers. its fall and the victory of the proletariat are equally inevitable.

the nature of gothic excerpt from the stones of venice eighteen hundred and fifty-three c.e. we are now about to enter upon the examination of that school of venetian architecture which forms an intermediate step between the byzantine and gothic forms; but which i did find may be conveniently considered in its connection with the latter style. in order that we may discern the tendency of each step of this change, it will be wise in the outset to endeavour to form some general idea of its final result. we know already what the byzantine architecture is from which the transition was made, but we ought to know something of the gothic architecture into which it led. i shall endeavour therefore to give the reader in this chapter an idea, at once broad and definite, of the true nature of gothic architecture, properly so called; not of that of venice only, but of universal gothic. the principal difficulty in doing this arises from the fact that every building of the gothic period differs in some important respect from every other; and many include features which, if they occurred in other buildings, would not be considered gothic at all; so that all we have to reason upon is merely, if i may be allowed so to express it, a greater or less degree of gothicness in each building we examine. and it is this gothicness the character which according as it is found more or less in a building makes it more or less gothic--of which i want to define the nature; and i feel the same kind of difficulty in doing so which would be encountered by anyone who undertook to explain for instance, the nature of redness, without any actually red thing to point to, but only orange and purple things. suppose he had only a piece of heather and a dead oak-leaf to do it with. he might say "the colour which is mixed with the yellow in this oak-leaf, and with the blue in this heather, would be red, if you had it separate; but it would be difficult, nevertheless, to make the abstraction perfectly intelligible; and it is so in a far greatest degree to make the abstraction of the gothic character intelligible because that character itself is made up of many mingled ideas and can consist only in their union. that is to say, pointed arches do not constitute gothic--nor vaulted roofs--nor flying buttresses, nor grotesque sculptures; but all or some of these things--amid many other things with them--when they come together so as to have life. observe also that in the definition proposed i shall only endeavor to analyze the idea which i suppose already to exist in the readers mind. we all have some notion, most of us a very determined one, of the meaning of the term gothic; but i know that many persons have this idea in their minds without being able to define it: that is to say understanding generally that westminster abbey is gothic and st. paul's is not, that strasburg cathedral is gothic, and st. peter's is not, they are nevertheless, no clear notion of what it is that they recognize in the one or miss in the other such as would enable them to say how far the work at westminster or strasburg is good and pure of its kind; still less to say of any nondescript building, like st. james palace or windsor castle how much right gothic element there is in and how much wanting. and i believe this inquiry to be a pleasant and profitable one; and that there will be found something more than usually interesting in tracing out this grey shadow many-pinnacled image of the gothic spirit in us; and discerning what fellowship there is between it and our northern hearts. and if, at any point of the inquiry, i should interfere with any of the reader's previously formed conceptions, and use the term gothic in any sense which he would not willingly attach to it, i do not ask to accept, but only to examine and understand, my interpretation, as necessary to the intelligibility of what follows in the rest of the work. we have; then, the gothic character submitted to our analysis, just as the rough mineral is submitted to that of the chemist, entangled with many other foreign substances, itself perhaps in no place pure, or ever to be obtained or seen in purity for more than an instant; but nevertheless a thing of definite and separate nature; however inextricable or confused in appearance. now observe: the chemist defines his mineral by two separate kinds of character; one external, its crystalline form, hardness, lustre, etc., the other internal, the proportions and nature of its constituent atoms. exactly in the same manner, we shall find that gothic architecture has external forms and internal elements. its elements are certain mental tendencies of the builders, legibly expressed in it; as fancifulness, love of variety , love of richness, and such others. its external forms are pointed arches, vaulted roofs, etc. and unless both .the elements and the forms are there, we have no right to call the style gothic. it is not enough that it has the form, if it have not also the power and life. it is not enough that it has the power, if it have not the form. we must therefore inquire into each of these characters successively; and determine first, what is the mental expression, and secondly, what the material form of gothic architecture, properly so called. Ý first mental power or expression. what characters, we have to discover, did the gothic builders love, or instinctively express in their work, as distinguished from all other builders ? let us go back for a moment to our chemistry, and note that, in defining a mineral by its constituent parts, it is not one nor another of them, that can make up the mineral, but the union of all: for instance, it is neither in charcoal nor in oxygen, not in lime, that there is the making of chalk, but in the combination of all three in certain measures; they are all found in very different things from chalk, and there is nothing like chalk either in charcoal or oxygen but they are nevertheless necessary to its existence. so in the various mental characters which make up the soul of gothic. it is not one nor another that produces it; but their union in certain measures. each one of them is found in many other architectures beside gothic; but gothic cannot exist where they are not found or, at least, where their place is not in some way supplied. only there is this great difference between the composition of the mineral and of the architectural style, that if we withdraw one of its elements from the stone, its form is utterly changed and its existence as such and such a mineral is destroyed; but if we withdraw one of its mental elements from the gothic style it is only a little less gothic than it was before, and the, union of two or three of its elements is enough already to bestow a certain gothicness of character, which gains in intensity as well as the others, and loses as we again withdraw them. i believe, then, that the characteristic or of gothic are the following, placed in the order of their importance : 1. savageness. 2. changefulness. 3. naturalism. 4. grotesquenes. 5. rigidity. 6. redundance. these characters are here expressed as belonging to the building; as belonging to the builder they would be expressed thus :1. savageness or rudeness. 2. love of change. 3. love of nature 4. disturbed imagination. 5.obstinacy. 6.generosity. and i repeat that the withdrawal of any one, or any two will not at once destroy the gothic character of a building, but the removal of a majority of them will. i shall proceed to examine them in their order. savageness-i am not sure when the word "gothic" was first generically applied to the architecture of the north but i presume that, whatever the date of its original usage, it was intended to imply reproach, and express the barbaric character of the nations among whom that architecture arose. it never implied that they were literally of gothic lineage, far less that their architecture had been originally invented by the goths themselves; but it did imply that they and their buildings together exhibited a degree of sternness and rudeness, which, in contra-distinction to the character of southern and eastern nations, appeared like a perpetual reflection of the contrast between the goth and the roman in their first encounter. and when that fallen roman, in the utmost impotence of his luxury , and insolence of his guilt, became the model for the imitation of civilized europe, at the close of the so-called dark ages, the word gothic became a term of unmitigated contempt, not unmixed with aversion. from that contempt, by the exertion of the antiquaries and architects of this century , gothic architecture has been sufficiently vindicated; and perhaps some among us, in our admiration of the magnificent science of its structure, and sacredness of its expression, might desire that the term of ancient reproach should be withdrawn, and some other, of more apparent honourableness, adopted in its place. there is no chance, as there is no need, of such a substitution. as far as the epithet was used scornfully, it was used falsely; but there is no reproach in the word, rightly understood; on the contrary, there is a profound truth, which the instinct of mankind almost unconsciously recognizes. it is true, greatly and deeply true, that the architecture of the north is rude and wild; -but it is not true, that, for this reason, we are to condemn it, or despise. far otherwise: i believe it is in this very character that it deserves our profoundest reverence. the charts of the world which have been drawn up by modern science have thrown into a narrow space the expression of a vast amount of knowledge, but i have never yet seen any one pictorial enough to enable the spectator to imagine the kind of contrast in physical character which exists between northern and southern countries. we know the differences in detail, but we have not that broad glance and grasp which would enable us to feel them in their fulness. we know that gentians grow on the alps, and olives on the apennines ; but we do not enough conceive for ourselves that variegated mosaic of the world's surface which a bird sees in its migration, that difference between the district of the gentian and of the olive which the stork and the swallow see far off, as they lean upon the sirocco wind. let us, for a moment, try to raise ourselves even above the level of their flight, and imagine the mediterranean lying beneath us like an irregular lake, and an its ancient promontories sleeping in the sun: here and there an angry spot of thunder, a grey stain of storm, moving upon the burning field; and here and there a fixed wreath of white volcano smoke, surrounded by its circle of ashes; but for the most part a great peacefulness of light, syria and greece, italy and spain, laid like pieces of a golden pavement into the sea-blue, chased, as we stoop nearer to them, with bossy beaten work of mountain chains, and glowing softly with terraced gardens, and flowers heavy with frankincense, mixed among masses of laurel, and orange, and plumy palm, that abate with their grey-green shadows the burning of the marble rocks, and of the ledges of porphyry sloping under lucent sand. then let us pass farther towards the north, until we see the orient colours change gradually into a vast belt of rainy green, where the pastures of switzerland, and poplar valleys of france, and dark forests of the danube and carpathians stretch from the mouths of the loire to those of the volga, seen through clefts in grey swirls of rain-cloud and flaky veils of the mist of the brooks, spreading low along the pasture lands: and then, farther north still, to see the earth heave into mighty masses of leaden rock and heathy moor, bordering with a broad waste of gloomy purple that belt of field and wood, and splintering into irregular and grisly islands amidst the northern seas, beaten by storm, and chilled by ice- i drift, and tormented by furious pulses of contending tide, until i the roots of the last forests fail from among the hill ravines, and the hunger of the north wind bites their peaks into barrenness; and, at last, the wall of ice, durable like iron, sets, deathlike, its white teeth against us out of the polar twilight. and, having once traversed in thought this gradation of the zoned iris of the earth in all its material vastness, let us go down nearer to it, and watch the parallel change in the belt of animal life ; the multitudes of swift and brilliant creatures that glance in the air and sea, or tread the sands of the southern zone; striped zebras and spotted leopards, glistening serpents, and birds arrayed in purple and scarlet. let us contrast their delicacy and brilliancy of colour and swiftness of motion, with the frost-cramped strength, and shaggy covering, and dusky plumage of the northern tribes; contrast the arabian horse with the shetland, the tiger and leopard with the wolf and bear, the antelope with the elk, the bird of paradise with the osprey: and then, submissively acknowledging the great laws by which the earth and all that it bears are ruled throughout their being, let us not condemn, but rejoice in the expression by man of his own rest in the statues of the lands that gave him birth. let us watch him with reverence as he sets side by side the burning gems, and smoothes with soft sculpture the jasper pillars, that are to reflect a ceaseless sunshine, and rise into a cloudless sky: but not with less reverence let us stand by him, when, with rough strength and hurried stroke, he smites an uncouth animation out of the rocks t which he has torn from, among the moss of the moorland, and heaves into the darkened air of the pile of iron buttress and rugged wall, instinct with a work of an imagination as wild and wayward as the northern sea; creations of ungain1y shape and rigid limb, but full of wolfish life; fierce as the winds that beat, and changeful as the clouds that shade them. there is, i repeat, no degradation, no reproach in this, but all dignity and honourableness: and we should err grievously in refusing either to recognize as an essential character of the existing architecture of the north, or to admit as a desirable character in that which it yet may be, this wildness of thought, and roughness of work; this look of mountain brotherhood between the cathedral and the alp; this magnificence of sturdy power, put forth only the more energetically because the fine .finger-touch was chilled away by the frosty wind, and the eye dimmed by the moor-mist, or blinded by the hail ; this out- speaking of the strong spirit of men who may not gather redundant fruitage from the earth, nor bask in dreamy benignity of sunshine, but must break the rock for bread, and cleave the forest for fire, and show, even in what they did for their delight; some of the hard habits of the arm and heart that grew on them as they swung the axe or pressed the plough. **** the second mental element above named was changefullness, or variety . i have already enforced the allowing independent operation to the inferior workman, simply as a duty to him, and as ennobling the architecture by rendering it more christian. we have now to consider what reward we obtain for the performance of this duty, namely, the perpetual variety of every feature of the building. wherever the workman is utterly enslaved, the parts of the building must of course be absolutely like each other; for the perfection of his execution can only be reached by exercising him in doing one thing, and giving him nothing else to do. the degree in which the workman is degraded may be thus known at a glance, by observing whether the several parts of the building are similar or not; and if, as in greek work, all the capitals are alike, and all the mouldings unvaried, then the degradation is complete; if, as in egyptian or ninevite work, though the manner of executing certain figures is always the same, the order of design is perpetually varied, the degradation less total; if, as in gothic work, there is perpetual change both in design and execution, the workman must have been altogether set free. how much the beholder gains from the liberty if the labourer may perhaps be questioned in england, where one of the strongest instincts in nearly every mind is that love of order which makes us desire that our house windows should pair like our carriage horses, and allows us to yield our faith unhesitatingly to architectural theories which fix a form for everything, and forbid variation from it. i would not impeach love of order: it is one of the most useful elements of the english mind; it helps us in our commerce and in all purely practical matters; and it is in many cases one of the foundation stones of morality. only do not let us suppose that love of order is love of art. it is true that order, in its highest sense, is one of the necessities of art, just as time is a necessity of music; but love of order has no more to do with our right enjoyment of architecture or painting, than love of punctuality with the appreciation of an opera. experience, i fear, teaches us that accurate and methodical habits in daily life are seldom characteristic of those who either quickly perceive or richly possess, the creative powers of art; there is, however, nothing inconsistent between the two instincts, and nothing to hinder us from retaining our business habits, and yet fully allowing and enjoying the noblest gifts of invention. we already do so, in every other branch of art except architecture, and we only do not so there because we have been taught that it would be wrong. our architects gravely inform us that, as there are four rules of arithmetic, there are five orders of architecture; we, in our simplicity , think that this sounds consistent, and believe them. they inform us also that there is one proper form for corinthian capitals, another for doric, and another for ionic. we, considering that there is also a proper form for the letters a, b, and c, think that this also sounds consistent, and accept the pro- position. understanding, therefore, that one form of the capitals is proper and no other, and having a conscientious horror of a impropriety we allow the architect to provide us with the said capitals, of the proper form, in such and such a quantity, and in all other points to take care that the legal forms are observed; which haying done, we:. rest in forced confidence that we are well housed. but our higher instincts are not deceived. we take no pleasure in the building provided for us, resembling that which we take in a new book or a new picture. we may be proud of its size, complacent in its correctness, and happy in its convenience. we may take the same pleasure in its symmetry and workmanship as in a well-ordered room, or a skilful piece of manufacture. and this we suppose to be all the pleasure that architecture was ever intended to give us. the idea of reading a building as we would read milton or dante, and getting the. same kind of delight out of the stones as out of the stanzas, never enters our mind for a moment. and for good reason; --there is indeed rhythm in the verses, quite as strict as the symmetries or rhythm of the architecture, and a thousand times more beautiful' but there is something else than rhythm. the verses were neither made to order, nor to match, as the capitals were; and we have therefore a kind of pleasure in them other than a sense of propriety .but it requires a strong effort of common sense to shake ourselves quit of all that we have been taught for the last two centuries, and wake to. the perception of a truth just as simple and certain as it is new: that great art, whether expressing itself in words, colours, or stones, does not say the same thing over and over again ; that the merit of architectural, as of every other art, consists in its saying new .d different things; that to repeat itself is no more a characteristic of genius in marble than it is of genius in print; and that we may without offending any laws of good taste, require of an architect, as we do of a novelist, that he should be not only correct, but entertaining. yet all this is true, and self-evident; only hidden from us, as many other self-evident things are by false teaching. nothing millions of variations in itself ; for the proportions of a pointed arch are changeable to infinity , while a circular arch is always the same. the grouped shaft was not merely a bold variation from the single one, but it admitted of millions of variations in its grouping, and in the proportions resultant from its grouping. the introduction of tracery was not only a startling change in the treatment of window lights, but admitted endless changes in the interlacement of the tracery bars themselves. so that, while in all living christian architecture the love of variety exists, the gothic schools exhibited that love in culminating energy ; and their influence, wherever it extended itself, may be sooner and farther traced by this character than by any other; the tendency to the adoption of gothic types being always first shown by greater irregularity and richer variation in the forms of the architecture it is about to supersede, long before the appearance of the pointed arch or of any other recognizable outward sign of the gothic mind. the variety of the gothic schools is the more healthy and beautiful, because in many cases it is entirely unstudied, and results, not from mere love of change, but from practical necessities. for in one point of view gothic is not only the best, but the only rational architecture, as being that which can fit itself most easily to all services, vulgar or noble. undefined in its slope of roof, height of shaft, breadth of arch, or disposition of ground plan, it can shrink into a turret, expand into a hall, coil into a staircase, or spring into a spire, with undegraded grace and unexhausted energy; and whenever it finds occasion for change in its form or purpose, it submits to it without the slightest sense of loss either to its unity or majesty,-subtle and flexible like a fiery serpent, but ever attentive to the voice of the charmer. and it is one of the chief virtues of the gothic builders, that they never suffered ideas of outside symmetries and consistencies to interfere with the real use and value of what they did. if they wanted a window, they opened one; a room, they added one; a buttress, they built one; utterly regardless of any established conventionalities of external appearance, knowing (as indeed it always happened) that such daring interruptions of the formal plan would rather give additional interest to its symmetry than injure it. so that, in the best times of gothic, a useless window would rather have been opened in an unexpected place for the sake of the surprise, than a useful one forbidden for the sake of symmetry every successive architect, employed upon a great work, built the pieces he added in his own way, utterly regardless of the style adopted by his predecessors; and if two towers were raised in nominal correspondence at the sides of a cathedral front, one was nearly sure to be different from the other, and in each the style at the top to be different from the style at the bottom. the third constituent element of the gothic mind was stated to be naturalism; that is to say, the love of natural objects for their own sake, and the effort to represent them frankly, unconstrained by artistical laws. this characteristic of the style partly follows in necessary connection with those named above. for, so soon as the work- man is left free to represent what subjects he chooses, he must look to the nature that is round him for material, and will endeavour to represent it as he sees it, with more or less accuracy according to the skill he possesses, and with much play of fancy, but with small respect for law. there is, however, a marked distinction between the imaginations of the western and eastern races, even when both are left free; the western, or gothic, delighting most in the representation of facts, and the eastern (arabian, persian, and chinese) in the harmony of colours and forms. the gothic builders were of that central class which unites fact with design; but the part of the work which was more especially their own was the truthfulness. their power of artistical invention or arrangement was not greater than that of romanesque and byzantine workmen: by those workmen they were taught the principles, and from them received their models. is a great work of art, for the production of which either rules or models can be given. exactly so far as architecture works on. known rules, and from given models, it is not an art, but a manufacture; and it is, of the two procedures, rather less rational (because more easy) to copy capitals or mouldings from phidias, and call ourselves architects, than to copy heads and hands from titian and call ourselves painters. let us then understand at once that change or variety is as much a necessity to the human heart and brain in buildings as in books; that there is no merit, though there is some occasional use, in monotony; and that we must no more expect to derive either pleasure or profit from an architecture whose ornaments are of one pattern, and whose pillars are of one proportion, than we should out of a universe in which the clouds were all of one shape, and the trees all of one size. and this we confess, in deeds, though not in words. all the pleasure which the people of the nineteenth century take in art, is in pictures, sculpture, minor objects of virtue or medieval architecture, which we enjoy under the term picturesque: no pleasure is taken anywhere in modern buildings, and we :find all men of true feeling delighting to escape out of modern cities into natural scenery: here that peculiar love of landscape which is characteristic of the age. it would be well, if, in all other matters, we were as ready to put up with what we dislike, for the sake of compliance with established law) as we are in architecture. how so debased a law ever came to be established, we shall see when we come to describe the renaissance schools; here we have only to note, as a second most essential element of-the gothic spirit, that it broke through that law wherever it found it in existence; it not only dared, but delighted in, the infringement of every servile principle; and invented a series of forms of which the merit was, not merely that they were new, but that they were capable of perpetual novelty. the pointed arch was not merely a bold variation from the round, but it admitted of design; but to the ornamental feeling and rich fancy of the byzantii1e the gothic builder added a love of fact which is never found in the south. both greek and roman used conventional foliage in their ornament, passing into something that was not foliage at all, knotting itself into strange cup-like buds or clusters, and growing out of lifeless rods instead of stems; the gothic sculptor received these types, at first, as things that ought to be, just as we have a second time received them; but he could not rest in them. he saw there was no veracity in them, no know- ledge, no vitality. do what he would, he could not help liking the true leaves better; and cautiously, a little at a time, he put more of nature into his work, until at last it was all true, retaining, nevertheless, every valuable character of the original well- disciplined and designed arrangement. nor is it only in external and visible subject that the gothic workman wrought for truth: he is as firm in his rendering of imaginative as of actual truth; that is to say, when an idea would have been by a roman, or byzantine, symbolically represented, the gothic mind realizes it to the utmost. for instance, the purgatorial fire is represented in the mosaic of torcello (romanesque) as a red stream, longitudinally striped like a riband, descending out of the throne of christ, and gradually extending itself to envelop the wicked. when we are once infor'tt1ed what this means, it is enough for its purpose; but the gothic inventor does not leave the sign in need of interpretation. he makes the fire as like real fire as he can ; and at the porch of st. maclou at rouen the sculptured flames burst out of the hades gate, and flicker up, in writhing tongues of stone, through the interstices of the niches, as if the church itself were on fire. this is an extreme instance, but it is all the more illustrative of the difference in temper and thought between the two school of art, and of the intense love of veracity which influenced the gothic design. in the second place, gothic work, when referred to the arrangement of all art, as purist, naturalist, or sensualist, is naturalist. this character follows necessarily on its extreme love of truth, prevailing over the sense of beauty , and causing it to take delight in portraiture of every kind, and to express the various characters of the human countenance and form, as it did the varieties of leaves and the ruggedness of brahches. and this tendency is both increased and ennobled by the same christian humility which we -saw expressed in the first character of gothic work, its rudeness. for as that resulted front a humility which confessed the imperfection of the workman, so this naturalist portraiture is rendered more faithful by the humility which confesses the imperfection of the subject. the greek sculptor could neither bear to confess his own feebleness, nor to tell the faults of the forms that he portrayed. but the christian work- man, believing that all is finally to work together for good, freely confesses both, and neither seeks to disguise his own roughness of work, nor his subject's roughness of make. yet this frankness being joined, for the most part, with depth of religious feeling in other directions, and especially with charity , there is some- times a tendency to purism in the best gothic sculpture; so that it frequently reaches great dignity of form and tenderness of expression, yet never so as to lose the veracity of portraiture wherever portraiture is possible; not exalting its kings into demi-gods, nor its saints into archangels, but giving what kingliness and sanctity was in them, to the full, mixed with due record of their faults; and this in the most part with a great indifference like that of scripture history , which sets down, with unmoved and unexcusing resoluteness, the virtues and errors of all men of whom it speaks, often leaving the reader to form his own estimate of them, without an indication of the judgment of the historian. and this veracity is carried out by the gothic sculptors in the minuteness and generality , as well as the equity , of their delineation: for they do not limit their art to the portraiture of saints and kings, but introduce the most familiar scenes and most simple subjects: :filling up the backgrounds of scripture histories with vivid and curious representations of the commonest incidents of daily life and availing themselves of every occasion in which, either as a symbol, or an explanation of a scene or time the things familiar to the eye of the workman could be introduced and made of account. hence gothic sculpture and painting are not only full of valuable portraiture of the greatest men, but copious records of all the domestic customs and inferior arts of the ages in which it flourishes. there is however, one direction in which the naturalism of the gothic workmen is peculiarly manifested; and this direction is even more characteristic of the school than the naturalism itself; i mean their peculiar fondness for the forms of vegetation. to the gothic workman the living foliage became a subject of intense affection and he struggled to render all its characters with as much accuracy as was compatible with the laws of his design and the nature of his material not unfrequently tempted in his enthusiasm to transgress the one and disguise the other. there is a peculiar significance in this, indicative both of higher civilization and gentler temperament, than had before been manifested in architecture. rudeness and the love of change, which we have. insisted upon as the first elements of gothic, are also elements common to all healthy schools. but here is a softer element mingled with them peculiar to the gothic itself. the rudeness of ignorance which would have been painfully exposed in the treatment of the human form, is still not so great as to prevent the successful rendering of the wayside herbage; and the love of change which becomes morbid and feverish in following the haste of the hunter and the rage of the combatant, is at once soothed and satisfied as it watches the wandering of the tendril, and the budding of the flower. nor is this all : the new direction of mental interest marks an infinite change in the means and the habits of life. the nations whose chief support was in the chase, whose chief interest was in the battle whose chief pleasure was in the banquet would take small care respecting the shapes of leaves and flowers; and notice little in the forms of the forest trees which sheltered them, except the signs indicative of the wood which would make the toughest lance, the closest roof, or the clearest fire. the affectionate observation of the grace and outward character of vegetation is the sure sign of a more tranquil and gentle existence, --sustained by the gifts, and gladdened by the splendour, of the earth. in that careful distinction of species, and richness of delicate and undisturbed organization, which characterize the gothic design, there is the history of rural and thoughtful life influenced by habitual tenderness, and devoted to subtle inquiry ; and every discriminating and delicate touch of the chisel, as it rounds the petal or guides the branch, is a prophecy of the development of the entire body of the natural sciences, beginning with that of medicine, of the recovery of literature, and the establishment of the most necessary principles of domestic wisdom and national peace. the fourth essential element of the gothic mind was above stated to be the sense of the grotesque; but i shall defer the endeavour to define this most curious and subtle character until we have occasion to examine one of the divisions of the renaissance schools, which was morbidly influenced by it. it is the less necessary to insist upon it here, because every reader familiar with gothic architecture must understand what i mean, and will, i believe, have no hesitation in admitting that the tendency to delight in fantastic and ludicrous, as well as in sublime, images, is a universal instinct of the gothic imagination. the fifth element above named was rigidity ; and this character i must endeavour carefully to define, for neither the word i have used, nor any other that i can think of, will express it accurately. for i mean, not merely stable, but active rigidity ; the peculiar energy which gives tension to movement, and stiff. ness to resistance, which makes the fiercest lightning forked rather than curved, and the stoutest oak-branch angular rather than bending, and is as much seen in the quivering of the lance as in the glittering of the icicle.

the history of all hitherto existing society is the history of class struggle. freeman and slave, patrician and plebian, lord and serf, guild-master and journeyman, in a word, oppressor and oppressed, stood in constant opposition to one another, carried on an uninterrupted, now hidden, now open fight, a fight that each time ended, either in a revolutionary reconstitution of society at large, or in the common ruin of the contending classes. in the earlier epochs of history, we find almost everywhere a complicated arrangement of society into various orders, a manifold gradation of social rank. in ancient rome we have patricians, knights, plebians, slaves; in the middle ages, feudal lords, vassals, guild-masters, journeymen, apprentices, serfs; in almost all of these classes, again, subordinate gradations. the modern bourgeois society that has sprouted from the ruins of feudal society has not done away with class antagonisms. it has but established new classes, new conditions of oppression, new forms of struggle in place of the old ones. our epoch, the epoch of the bourgeoisie, possesses, however, this distinct feature: it has simplified class antagonisms. society as a whole is more and more splitting up into two great hostile camps, into two great classes directly facing each other -- bourgeoisie and proletariat. from the serfs of the middle ages sprang the chartered burghers of the earliest towns. from these burgesses the first elements of the bourgeoisie were developed. the discovery of america, the rounding of the cape, opened up fresh ground for the rising bourgeoisie. the east-indian and chinese markets, the colonisation of america, trade with the colonies, the increase in the means of exchange and in commodities generally, gave to commerce, to navigation, to industry, an impulse never before known, and thereby, to the revolutionary element in the tottering feudal society, a rapid development. the feudal system of industry, in which industrial production was monopolized by closed guilds, now no longer suffices for the growing wants of the new markets. the manufacturing system took its place. the guild-masters were pushed aside by the manufacturing middle class; division of labor between the different corporate guilds vanished in the face of division of labor in each single workshop. meantime, the markets kept ever growing, the demand ever rising. even manufacturers no longer sufficed. thereupon, steam and machinery revolutionized industrial production. the place of manufacture was taken by the giant, modern industry; the place of the industrial middle class by industrial millionaires, the leaders of the whole industrial armies, the modern bourgeois. modern industry has established the world market, for which the discovery of america paved the way. this market has given an immense development to commerce, to navigation, to communication by land. this development has, in turn, reacted on the extension of industry; and in proportion as industry, commerce, navigation, railways extended, in the same proportion the bourgeoisie developed, increased its capital, and pushed into the background every class handed down from the middle ages. we see, therefore, how the modern bourgeoisie is itself the product of a long course of development, of a series of revolutions in the modes of production and of exchange. each step in the development of the bourgeoisie was accompanied by a corresponding political advance in that class. an oppressed class under the sway of the feudal nobility, an armed and self-governing association of medieval commune Ý: here independent urban republic (as in italy and germany); there taxable "third estate" of the monarchy (as in france); afterward, in the period of manufacturing proper, serving either the semi-feudal or the absolute monarchy as a counterpoise against the nobility, and, in fact, cornerstone of the great monarchies in general -- the bourgeoisie has at last, since the establishment of modern industry and of the world market, conquered for itself, in the modern representative state, exclusive political sway. the executive of the modern state is but a committee for managing the common affairs of the whole bourgeoisie. the bourgeoisie, historically, has played a most revolutionary part. the bourgeoisie, wherever it has got the upper hand, has put an end to all feudal, patriarchal, idyllic relations. it has pitilessly torn asunder the motley feudal ties that bound man to his "natural superiors", and has left no other nexus between people than naked self-interest, than callous "cash payment". it has drowned out the most heavenly ecstacies of religious fervor, of chivalrous enthusiasm, of philistine sentimentalism, in the icy water of egotistical calculation. it has resolved personal worth into exchange value, and in place of the numberless indefeasible chartered freedoms, has set up that single, unconscionable freedom -- free trade. in one word, for exploitation, veiled by religious and political illusions, it has substituted naked, shameless, direct, brutal exploitation. the bourgeoisie has stripped of its halo every occupation hitherto honored and looked up to with reverent awe. it has converted the physician, the lawyer, the priest, the poet, the man of science, into its paid wage laborers. the bourgeoisie has torn away from the family its sentimental veil, and has reduced the family relation into a mere money relation. the bourgeoisie has disclosed how it came to pass that the brutal display of vigor in the middle ages, which reactionaries so much admire, found its fitting complement in the most slothful indolence. it has been the first to show what man's activity can bring about. it has accomplished wonders far surpassing egyptian pyramids, roman aqueducts, and gothic cathedrals; it has conducted expeditions that put in the shade all former exoduses of nations and crusades. the bourgeoisie cannot exist without constantly revolutionizing the instruments of production, and thereby the relations of production, and with them the whole relations of society. conservation of the old modes of production in unaltered form, was, on the contrary, the first condition of existence for all earlier industrial classes. constant revolutionizing of production, uninterrupted disturbance of all social conditions, everlasting uncertainty and agitation distinguish the bourgeois epoch from all earlier ones. all fixed, fast frozen relations, with their train of ancient and venerable prejudices and opinions, are swept away, all new-formed ones become antiquated before they can ossify. all that is solid melts into air, all that is holy is profaned, and man is at last compelled to face with sober senses his real condition of life and his relations with his kind. the need of a constantly expanding market for its products chases the bourgeoisie over the entire surface of the globe. it must nestle everywhere, settle everywhere, establish connections everywhere. the bourgeoisie has, through its exploitation of the world market, given a cosmopolitan character to production and consumption in every country. to the great chagrin of reactionaries, it has drawn from under the feet of industry the national ground on which it stood. all old-established national industries have been destroyed or are daily being destroyed. they are dislodged by new industries, whose introduction becomes a life and death question for all civilized nations, by industries that no longer work up indigenous raw material, but raw material drawn from the remotest zones; industries whose products are consumed, not only at home, but in every quarter of the globe. in place of the old wants, satisfied by the production of the country, we find new wants, requiring for their satisfaction the products of distant lands and climes. in place of the old local and national seclusion and self-sufficiency, we have intercourse in every direction, universal inter-dependence of nations. and as in material, so also in intellectual production. the intellectual creations of individual nations become common property. national one-sidedness and narrow-mindedness become more and more impossible, and from the numerous national and local literatures, there arises a world literature. the bourgeoisie, by the rapid improvement of all instruments of production, by the immensely facilitated means of communication, draws all, even the most barbarian, nations into civilization. the cheap prices of commodities are the heavy artillery with which it forces the barbarians' intensely obstinate hatred of foreigners to capitulate. it compels all nations, on pain of extinction, to adopt the bourgeois mode of production; it compels them to introduce what it calls civilization into their midst, i.e., to become bourgeois themselves. in one word, it creates a world after its own image. the bourgeoisie has subjected the country to the rule of the towns. it has created enormous cities, has greatly increased the urban population as compared with the rural, and has thus rescued a considerable part of the population from the idiocy of rural life. just as it has made the country dependent on the towns, so it has made barbarian and semi-barbarian countries dependent on the civilized ones, nations of peasants on nations of bourgeois, the east on the west. the bourgeoisie keeps more and more doing away with the scattered state of the population, of the means of production, and of property. it has agglomerated population, centralized the means of production, and has concentrated property in a few hands. the necessary consequence of this was political centralization. independent, or but loosely connected provinces, with separate interests, laws, governments, and systems of taxation, became lumped together into one nation, with one government, one code of laws, one national class interest, one frontier, and one customs tariff. the bourgeoisie, during its rule of scarce one hundred years, has created more massive and more colossal productive forces than have all preceding generations together. subjection of nature's forces to man, machinery, application of chemistry to industry and agriculture, steam navigation, railways, electric telegraphs, clearing of whole continents for cultivation, canalization or rivers, whole populations conjured out of the ground -- what earlier century had even a presentiment that such productive forces slumbered in the lap of social labor? we see then: the means of production and of exchange, on whose foundation the bourgeoisie built itself up, were generated in feudal society. at a certain stage in the development of these means of production and of exchange, the conditions under which feudal society produced and exchanged, the feudal organization of agriculture and manufacturing industry, in one word, the feudal relations of property became no longer compatible with the already developed productive forces; they became so many fetters. they had to be burst asunder; they were burst asunder. into their place stepped free competition, accompanied by a social and political constitution adapted in it, and the economic and political sway of the bourgeois class. a similar movement is going on before our own eyes. modern bourgeois society, with its relations of production, of exchange and of property, a society that has conjured up such gigantic means of production and of exchange, is like the sorcerer who is no longer able to control the powers of the nether world whom he has called up by his spells. for many a decade past, the history of industry and commerce is but the history of the revolt of modern productive forces against modern conditions of production, against the property relations that are the conditions for the existence of the bourgeois and of its rule. it is enough to mention the commercial crises that, by their periodical return, put the existence of the entire bourgeois society on its trial, each time more threateningly. in these crises, a great part not only of the existing products, but also of the previously created productive forces, are periodically destroyed. in these crises, there breaks out an epidemic that, in all earlier epochs, would have seemed an absurdity -- the epidemic of over-production. society suddenly finds itself put back into a state of momentary barbarism; it appears as if a famine, a universal war of devastation, had cut off the supply of every means of subsistence; industry and commerce seem to be destroyed. and why? because there is too much civilization, too much means of subsistence, too much industry, too much commerce. the productive forces at the disposal of society no longer tend to further the development of the conditions of bourgeois property; on the contrary, they have become too powerful for these conditions, by which they are fettered, and so soon as they overcome these fetters, they bring disorder into the whole of bourgeois society, endanger the existence of bourgeois property. the conditions of bourgeois society are too narrow to comprise the wealth created by them. and how does the bourgeoisie get over these crises? on the one hand, by enforced destruction of a mass of productive forces; on the other, by the conquest of new markets, and by the more thorough exploitation of the old ones. that is to say, by paving the way for more extensive and more destructive crises, and by diminishing the means whereby crises are prevented. the weapons with which the bourgeoisie felled feudalism to the ground are now turned against the bourgeoisie itself. but not only has the bourgeoisie forged the weapons that bring death to itself; it has also called into existence the men who are to wield those weapons -- the modern working class -- the proletarians. in proportion as the bourgeoisie, i.e., capital, is developed, in the same proportion is the proletariat, the modern working class, developed -- a class of laborers, who live only so long as they find work, and who find work only so long as their labor increases capital. these laborers, who must sell themselves piecemeal, are a commodity, like every other article of commerce, and are consequently exposed to all the vicissitudes of competition, to all the fluctuations of the market. owing to the extensive use of machinery, and to the division of labor, the work of the proletarians has lost all individual character, and, consequently, all charm for the workman. he becomes an appendage of the machine, and it is only the most simple, most monotonous, and most easily acquired knack, that is required of him. hence, the cost of production of a workman is restricted, almost entirely, to the means of subsistence that he requires for maintenance, and for the propagation of his race. but the price of a commodity, and therefore also of labor, is equal to its cost of production. in proportion, therefore, as the repulsiveness of the work increases, the wage decreases. what is more, in proportion as the use of machinery and division of labor increases, in the same proportion the burden of toil also increases, whether by prolongation of the working hours, by the increase of the work exacted in a given time, or by increased speed of machinery, etc. modern industry has converted the little workshop of the patriarchal master into the great factory of the industrial capitalist. masses of laborers, crowded into the factory, are organized like soldiers. as privates of the industrial army, they are placed under the command of a perfect hierarchy of officers and sergeants. not only are they slaves of the bourgeois class, and of the bourgeois state; they are daily and hourly enslaved by the machine, by the overlooker, and, above all, in the individual bourgeois manufacturer himself. the more openly this despotism proclaims gain to be its end and aim, the more petty, the more hateful and the more embittering it is. the less the skill and exertion of strength implied in manual labor, in other words, the more modern industry becomes developed, the more is the labor of men superseded by that of women. differences of age and sex have no longer any distinctive social validity for the working class. all are instruments of labor, more or less expensive to use, according to their age and sex. no sooner is the exploitation of the laborer by the manufacturer, so far at an end, that he receives his wages in cash, than he is set upon by the other portion of the bourgeoisie, the landlord, the shopkeeper, the pawnbroker, etc. the lower strata of the middle class -- the small tradespeople, shopkeepers, and retired tradesmen generally, the handicraftsmen and peasants -- all these sink gradually into the proletariat, partly because their diminutive capital does not suffice for the scale on which modern industry is carried on, and is swamped in the competition with the large capitalists, partly because their specialized skill is rendered worthless by new methods of production. thus, the proletariat is recruited from all classes of the population. the proletariat goes through various stages of development. with its birth begins its struggle with the bourgeoisie. at first, the contest is carried on by individual laborers, then by the work of people of a factory, then by the operative of one trade, in one locality, against the individual bourgeois who directly exploits them. they direct their attacks not against the bourgeois condition of production, but against the instruments of production themselves; they destroy imported wares that compete with their labor, they smash to pieces machinery, they set factories ablaze, they seek to restore by force the vanished status of the workman of the middle ages. at this stage, the laborers still form an incoherent mass scattered over the whole country, and broken up by their mutual competition. if anywhere they unite to form more compact bodies, this is not yet the consequence of their own active union, but of the union of the bourgeoisie, which class, in order to attain its own political ends, is compelled to set the whole proletariat in motion, and is moreover yet, for a time, able to do so. at this stage, therefore, the proletarians do not fight their enemies, but the enemies of their enemies, the remnants of absolute monarchy, the landowners, the non-industrial bourgeois, the petty bourgeois. thus, the whole historical movement is concentrated in the hands of the bourgeoisie; every victory so obtained is a victory for the bourgeoisie. but with the development of industry, the proletariat not only increases in number; it becomes concentrated in greater masses, its strength grows, and it feels that strength more. the various interests and conditions of life within the ranks of the proletariat are more and more equalized, in proportion as machinery obliterates all distinctions of labor, and nearly everywhere reduces wages to the same low level. the growing competition among the bourgeois, and the resulting commercial crises, make the wages of the workers ever more fluctuating. the increasing improvement of machinery, ever more rapidly developing, makes their livelihood more and more precarious; the collisions between individual workmen and individual bourgeois take more and more the character of collisions between two classes. thereupon, the workers begin to form combinations (trade unions) against the bourgeois; they club together in order to keep up the rate of wages; they found permanent associations in order to make provision beforehand for these occasional revolts. here and there, the contest breaks out into riots. now and then the workers are victorious, but only for a time. the real fruit of their battles lie not in the immediate result, but in the ever expanding union of the workers. this union is helped on by the improved means of communication that are created by modern industry, and that place the workers of different localities in contact with one another. it was just this contact that was needed to centralize the numerous local struggles, all of the same character, into one national struggle between classes. but every class struggle is a political struggle. and that union, to attain which the burghers of the middle ages, with their miserable highways, required centuries, the modern proletarian, thanks to railways, achieve in a few years. this organization of the proletarians into a class, and, consequently, into a political party, is continually being upset again by the competition between the workers themselves. but it ever rises up again, stronger, firmer, mightier. it compels legislative recognition of particular interests of the workers, by taking advantage of the divisions among the bourgeoisie itself. thus, the ten-hours bill in england was carried. altogether, collisions between the classes of the old society further in many ways the course of development of the proletariat. the bourgeoisie finds itself involved in a constant battle. at first with the aristocracy; later on, with those portions of the bourgeoisie itself, whose interests have become antagonistic to the progress of industry; at all time with the bourgeoisie of foreign countries. in all these battles, it sees itself compelled to appeal to the proletariat, to ask for help, and thus to drag it into the political arena. the bourgeoisie itself, therefore, supplies the proletariat with its own elements of political and general education, in other words, it furnishes the proletariat with weapons for fighting the bourgeoisie. further, as we have already seen, entire sections of the ruling class are, by the advance of industry, precipitated into the proletariat, or are at least threatened in their conditions of existence. these also supply the proletariat with fresh elements of enlightenment and progress. finally, in times when the class struggle nears the decisive hour, the progress of dissolution going on within the ruling class, in fact within the whole range of old society, assumes such a violent, glaring character, that a small section of the ruling class cuts itself adrift, and joins the revolutionary class, the class that holds the future in its hands. just as, therefore, at an earlier period, a section of the nobility went over to the bourgeoisie, so now a portion of the bourgeoisie goes over to the proletariat, and in particular, a portion of the bourgeois ideologists, who have raised themselves to the level of comprehending theoretically the historical movement as a whole. of all the classes that stand face to face with the bourgeoisie today, the proletariat alone is a genuinely revolutionary class. the other classes decay and finally disappear in the face of modern industry; the proletariat is its special and essential product. the lower middle class, the small manufacturer, the shopkeeper, the artisan, the peasant, all these fight against the bourgeoisie, to save from extinction their existence as fractions of the middle class. they are therefore not revolutionary, but conservative. nay, more, they are reactionary, for they try to roll back the wheel of history. if, by chance, they are revolutionary, they are only so in view of their impending transfer into the proletariat; they thus defend not their present, but their future interests; they desert their own standpoint to place themselves at that of the proletariat. the "dangerous class", the social scum, that passively rotting mass thrown off by the lowest layers of the old society, may, here and there, be swept into the movement by a proletarian revolution; its conditions of life, however, prepare it far more for the part of a bribed tool of reactionary intrigue. in the condition of the proletariat, those of old society at large are already virtually swamped. the proletarian is without property; his relation to his wife and children has no longer anything in common with the bourgeois family relations; modern industry labor, modern subjection to capital, the same in england as in france, in america as in germany, has stripped him of every trace of national character. law, morality, religion, are to him so many bourgeois prejudices, behind which lurk in ambush just as many bourgeois interests. all the preceding classes that got the upper hand sought to fortify their already acquired status by subjecting society at large to their conditions of appropriation. the proletarians cannot become masters of the productive forces of society, except by abolishing their own previous mode of appropriation, and thereby also every other previous mode of appropriation. they have nothing of their own to secure and to fortify; their mission is to destroy all previous securities for, and insurances of, individual property. all previous historical movements were movements of minorities, or in the interest of minorities. the proletarian movement is the self-conscious, independent movement of the immense majority, in the interest of the immense majority. the proletariat, the lowest stratum of our present society, cannot stir, cannot raise itself up, without the whole superincumbent strata of official society being sprung into the air. though not in substance, yet in form, the struggle of the proletariat with the bourgeoisie is at first a national struggle. the proletariat of each country must, of course, first of all settle matters with its own bourgeoisie. in depicting the most general phases of the development of the proletariat, we traced the more or less veiled civil war, raging within existing society, up to the point where that war breaks out into open revolution, and where the violent overthrow of the bourgeoisie lays the foundation for the sway of the proletariat. hitherto, every form of society has been based, as we have already seen, on the antagonism of oppressing and oppressed classes. but in order to oppress a class, certain conditions must be assured to it under which it can, at least, continue its slavish existence. the serf, in the period of serfdom, raised himself to membership in the commune, just as the petty bourgeois, under the yoke of the feudal absolutism, managed to develop into a bourgeois. the modern laborer, on the contrary, instead of rising with the process of industry, sinks deeper and deeper below the conditions of existence of his own class. he becomes a pauper, and pauperism develops more rapidly than population and wealth. and here it becomes evident that the bourgeoisie is unfit any longer to be the ruling class in society, and to impose its conditions of existence upon society as an overriding law. it is unfit to rule because it is incompetent to assure an existence to its slave within his slavery, because it cannot help letting him sink into such a state, that it has to feed him, instead of being fed by him. society can no longer live under this bourgeoisie, in other words, its existence is no longer compatible with society. the essential conditions for the existence and for the sway of the bourgeois class is the formation and augmentation of capital; the condition for capital is wage labor. wage labor rests exclusively on competition between the laborers. the advance of industry, whose involuntary promoter is the bourgeoisie, replaces the isolation of the laborers, due to competition, by the revolutionary combination, due to association. the development of modern industry, therefore, cuts from under its feet the very foundation on which the bourgeoisie produces and appropriates products. what the bourgeoisie therefore produces, above all, are its own grave-diggers. its fall and the victory of the proletariat are equally inevitable.

the master-slave dialectic excerpt from the the phenomenology of mind eighteen hundred and seven c.e. part b self consciousness a: independence and dependence of self-consciousness: lordship and bondage self-consciousness exists in itself and for itself, in that, and by the fact that it exists for another self-consciousness; that is to say, it is only by being acknowledged or "recognized". the conception of this its unity in its duplication, of infinitude realizing itself in self-consciousness, has many sides to it and encloses within it elements of varied significance. thus its moments must on the one hand be strictly kept apart in detailed distinctiveness, and, on the other, in this distinction must, at the same time, also be taken as not distinguished, or must always be accepted and understood in their opposite sense. this double meaning of what is distinguished lies in the nature of self-consciousness: ó of its being infinite, or directly the opposite of the determinateness in which it is fixed. the detailed exposition of the notion of this spiritual unity in its duplication will bring before us the process of recognition. one. duplicated self-consciousness self-consciousness has before it another self-consciousness; it has come outside itself. this has a double significance. first it has lost its own self, since it finds itself as an other being; secondly, it has thereby sublated that other, for it does not regard the other as essentially real, but sees its own self in the other. it must cancel this its other. to do so is the sublation of that first double meaning, and is therefore a second double meaning. first, it must set itself to sublate the other independent being, in order thereby to become certain of itself as true being, secondly, it thereupon proceeds to sublate its own self, for this other is itself. this sublation in a double sense of its otherness in a double sense is at the same time a return in a double sense into its self. for, firstly, through sublation, it gets back itself, because it becomes one with itself again through the cancelling of its otherness; but secondly, it likewise gives otherness back again to the other self-consciousness, for it was aware of being in the other, it cancels this its own being in the other and thus lets the other again go free. this process of self-consciousness in relation to another self-consciousness has in this manner been represented as the action of one alone. but this action on the part of the one has itself the double significance of being at once its own action and the action of that other as well. for the other is likewise independent, shut up within itself, and there is nothing in it which is not there through itself. the first does not have the object before it only in the passive form characteristic primarily of the object of desire, but as an object existing independently for itself, over which therefore it has no power to do anything for its own behalf, if that object does not per se do what the first does to it. the process then is absolutely the double process of both self-consciousnesses. each sees the other do the same as itself; each itself does what it demands on the part of the other, and for that reason does what it does, only so far as the other does the same. action from one side only would be useless, because what is to happen can only be brought about by means of both. the action has then a double entente not only in the sense that it is an act done to itself as well as to the other, but also in the sense that the act simpliciter is the act of the one as well as of the other regardless of their distinction. in this movement we see the process repeated which came before us as the play of forces; in the present case, however, it is found in consciousness. what in the former had effect only for us [contemplating experience], holds here for the terms themselves. the middle term is self-consciousness which breaks itself up into the extremes; and each extreme is this interchange of its own determinateness, and complete transition into the opposite. while qua consciousness, it no doubt comes outside itself, still, in being outside itself, it is at the same time restrained within itself, it exists for itself, and its self-externalization is for consciousness. consciousness finds that it immediately is and is not another consciousness, as also that this other is for itself only when it cancels itself as existing for itself , and has self-existence only in the self-existence of the other. each is the mediating term to the other, through which each mediates and unites itself with itself; and each is to itself and to the other an immediate self-existing reality, which, at the same time, exists thus for itself only through this mediation. they recognize themselves as mutually recognizing one another. two. the conflict of self-consciousness in self-opposition this pure conception of recognition, of duplication of self-consciousness within its unity, we must now consider in the way its process appears for self-consciousness. it will, in the first place, present the aspect of the disparity of the two, or the break-up of the middle term into the extremes, which, qua extremes, are opposed to one another, and of which one is merely recognized, while the other only recognizes. self-consciousness is primarily simple existence for self, self-identity by exclusion of every other from itself. it takes its essential nature and absolute object to be ego; and in this immediacy, in this bare fact of its self-existence, it is individual. that which for it is other stands as unessential object, as object with the impress and character of negation. but the other is also a self-consciousness; an individual makes its appearance in antithesis to an individual. appearing thus in their immediacy, they are for each other in the manner of ordinary objects. they are independent individual forms, modes of consciousness that have not risen above the bare level of life (for the existent object here has been determined as life). they are, moreover, forms of consciousness which have not yet accomplished for one another the process of absolute abstraction, of uprooting all immediate existence, and of being merely the bare, negative fact of self-identical consciousness; or, in other words, have not yet revealed themselves to each other as existing purely for themselves, i.e., as self-consciousness. each is indeed certain of its own self, but not of the other, and hence its own certainty of itself is still without truth. for its truth would be merely that its own individual existence for itself would be shown to it to be an independent object, or, which is the same thing, that the object would be exhibited as this pure certainty of itself. by the notion of recognition, however, this is not possible, except in the form that as the other is for it, so it is for the other; each in its self through its own action and again through the action of the other achieves this pure abstraction of existence for self. the presentation of itself, however, as pure abstraction of self-consciousness consists in showing itself as a pure negation of its objective form, or in showing that it is fettered to no determinate existence, that it is not bound at all by the particularity everywhere characteristic of existence as such, and is not tied up with life. the process of bringing all this out involves a twofold action ó action on the part of the other and action on the part of itself. in so far as it is the otherís action, each aims at the destruction and death of the other. but in this there is implicated also the second kind of action, self-activity; for the former implies that it risks its own life. the relation of both self-consciousnesses is in this way so constituted that they prove themselves and each other through a life-and-death struggle. they must enter into this struggle, for they must bring their certainty of themselves, the certainty of being for themselves, to the level of objective truth, and make this a fact both in the case of the other and in their own case as well. and it is solely by risking life that freedom is obtained; only thus is it tried and proved that the essential nature of self-consciousness is not bare existence, is not the merely immediate form in which it at first makes its appearance, is not its mere absorption in the expanse of life. rather it is thereby guaranteed that there is nothing present but what might be taken as a vanishing moment ó that self-consciousness is merely pure self-existence, being-for-self. the individual, who has not staked his life, may, no doubt, be recognized as a person; but he has not attained the truth of this recognition as an independent self-consciousness. in the same way each must aim at the death of the other, as it risks its own life thereby; for that other is to it of no more worth than itself; the otherís reality is presented to the former as an external other, as outside itself; it must cancel that externality. the other is a purely existent consciousness and entangled in manifold ways; it must view its otherness as pure existence for itself or as absolute negation. this trial by death, however, cancels both the truth which was to result from it, and therewith the certainty of self altogether. for just as life is the natural ìpositionî of consciousness, independence without absolute negativity, so death is the natural ìnegationî of consciousness, negation without independence, which thus remains without the requisite significance of actual recognition. through death, doubtless, there has arisen the certainty that both did stake their life, and held it lightly both in their own case and in the case of the other; but that is not for those who underwent this struggle. they cancel their consciousness which had its place in this alien element of natural existence; in other words, they cancel themselves and are sublated as terms or extremes seeking to have existence on their own account. but along with this there vanishes from the play of change the essential moment, viz. that of breaking up into extremes with opposite characteristics; and the middle term collapses into a lifeless unity which is broken up into lifeless extremes, merely existent and not opposed. and the two do not mutually give and receive one another back from each other through consciousness; they let one another go quite indifferently, like things. their act is abstract negation, not the negation characteristic of consciousness, which cancels in such a way that it preserves and maintains what is sublated, and thereby survives its being sublated. three. lord and bondsman in this experience self-consciousness becomes aware that life is as essential to it as pure self-consciousness. in immediate self-consciousness the simple ego is absolute object, which, however, is for us or in itself absolute mediation, and has as its essential moment substantial and solid independence. the dissolution of that simple unity is the result of the first experience; through this there is posited a pure self-consciousness, and a consciousness which is not purely for itself, but for another, i.e. as an existent consciousness, consciousness in the form and shape of thinghood. both moments are essential, since, in the first instance, they are unlike and opposed, and their reflexion into unity has not yet come to light, they stand as two opposed forms or modes of consciousness. the one is independent, and its essential nature is to be for itself; the other is dependent, and its essence is life or existence for another. the former is the master, or lord, the latter the bondsman. the master is the consciousness that exists for itself; but no longer merely the general notion of existence for self. rather, it is a consciousness existing on its own account which is mediated with itself through an other consciousness, i.e. through an other whose very nature implies that it is bound up with an independent being or with thinghood in general. the master brings himself into relation to both these moments, to a thing as such, the object of desire, and to the consciousness whose essential character is thinghood. and since the master, is (a) qua notion of self-consciousness, an immediate relation of self-existence, but (b) is now moreover at the same time mediation, or a being-for-self which is for itself only through an other ó he [the master] stands in relation (a) immediately to both, (b) mediately to each through the other. the master relates himself to the bondsman mediately through independent existence, for that is precisely what keeps the bondsman in thrall; it is his chain, from which he could not in the struggle get away, and for that reason he proved himself to be dependent, to have his independence in the shape of thinghood. the master, however, is the power controlling this state of existence, for he has shown in the struggle that he holds it to be merely something negative. since he is the power dominating existence, while this existence again is the power controlling the other [the bondsman], the master holds, par consequence, this other in subordination. in the same way the master relates himself to the thing mediately through the bondsman. the bondsman being a self-consciousness in the broad sense, also takes up a negative attitude to things and cancels them; but the thing is, at the same time, independent for him and, in consequence, he cannot, with all his negating, get so far as to annihilate it outright and be done with it; that is to say, he merely works on it. to the master, on the other hand, by means of this mediating process, belongs the immediate relation, in the sense of the pure negation of it, in other words he gets the enjoyment. what mere desire did not attain, he now succeeds in attaining, viz. to have done with the thing, and find satisfaction in enjoyment. desire alone did not get the length of this, because of the independence of the thing. the master, however, who has interposed the bondsman between it and himself, thereby relates himself merely to the dependence of the thing, and enjoys it without qualification and without reserve. the aspect of its independence he leaves to the bondsman, who labours upon it. (a). lordship in these two moments, the master gets his recognition through an other consciousness, for in them the latter affirms itself as unessential, both by working upon the thing, and, on the other hand, by the fact of being dependent on a determinate existence; in neither case can this other get the mastery over existence, and succeed in absolutely negating it. we have thus here this moment of recognition, viz. that the other consciousness cancels itself as self-existent, and, ipso facto, itself does what the first does to it. in the same way we have the other moment, that this action on the part of the second is the action proper of the first; for what is done by the bondsman is properly an action on the part of the master. the latter exists only for himself, that is his essential nature; he is the negative power without qualification, a power to which the thing is naught. and he is thus the absolutely essential act in this situation, while the bondsman is not so, he is an unessential activity. but for recognition proper there is needed the moment that what the master does to the other he should also do to himself, and what the bondsman does to himself, he should do to the other also. on that account a form of recognition has arisen that is one-sided and unequal. in all this, the unessential consciousness is, for the master, the object which embodies the truth of his certainty of himself. but it is evident that this object does not correspond to its notion; for, just where the master has effectively achieved lordship, he really finds that something has come about quite different from an independent consciousness. it is not an independent, but rather a dependent consciousness that he has achieved. he is thus not assured of self-existence as his truth; he finds that his truth is rather the unessential consciousness, and the fortuitous unessential action of that consciousness. the truth of the independent consciousness is accordingly the consciousness of the bondsman. this doubtless appears in the first instance outside itself, and not as the truth of self-consciousness. but just as lordship showed its essential nature to be the reverse of what it wants to be, so, too, bondage will, when completed, pass into the opposite of what it immediately is: being a consciousness repressed within itself, it will enter into itself, and change round into real and true independence. (b). fear we have seen what bondage is only in relation to lordship. but it is a self-consciousness, and we have now to consider what it is, in this regard, in and for itself. in the first instance, the master is taken to be the essential reality for the state of bondage; hence, for it, the truth is the independent consciousness existing for itself, although this truth is not taken yet as inherent in bondage itself. still, it does in fact contain within itself this truth of pure negativity and self-existence, because it has experienced this reality within it. for this consciousness was not in peril and fear for this element or that, nor for this or that moment of time, it was afraid for its entire being; it felt the fear of death, the sovereign master. it has been in that experience melted to its inmost soul, has trembled throughout its every fibre, and all that was fixed and steadfast has quaked within it. this complete perturbation of its entire substance, this absolute dissolution of all its stability into fluent continuity, is, however, the simple, ultimate nature of self-consciousness, absolute negativity, pure self-referrent existence, which consequently is involved in this type of consciousness. this moment of pure self-existence is moreover a fact for it; for in the master it finds this as its object. further, this bondsmanís consciousness is not only this total dissolution in a general way; in serving and toiling the bondsman actually carries this out. by serving he cancels in every particular aspect his dependence on and attachment to natural existence, and by his work removes this existence away. the feeling of absolute power, however, realized both in general and in the particular form of service, is only dissolution implicitly; and albeit the fear of the lord is the beginning of wisdom, consciousness is not therein aware of being self-existent. through work and labour, however, this consciousness of the bondsman comes to itself. in the moment which corresponds to desire in the case of the masterís consciousness, the aspect of the non-essential relation to the thing seemed to fall to the lot of the servant, since the thing there retained its independence. desire has reserved to itself the pure negating of the object and thereby unalloyed feeling of self. this satisfaction, however, just for that reason is itself only a state of evanescence, for it lacks objectivity or subsistence. labour, on the other hand, is desire restrained and checked, evanescence delayed and postponed; in other words, labour shapes and fashions the thing. the negative relation to the object passes into the form of the object, into something that is permanent and remains; because it is just for the labourer that the object has independence. this negative mediating agency, this activity giving shape and form, is at the same time the individual existence, the pure self-existence of that consciousness, which now in the work it does is externalized and passes into the condition of permanence. the consciousness that toils and serves accordingly attains by this means the direct apprehension of that independent being as its self. but again, shaping or forming the object has not only the positive significance that the bondsman becomes thereby aware of himself as factually and objectively self-existent; this type of consciousness has also a negative import, in contrast with its moment, the element of fear. for in shaping the thing it only becomes aware of its own proper negativity, existence on its own account, as an object, through the fact that it cancels the actual form confronting it. but this objective negative element is precisely alien, external reality, before which it trembled. now, however, it destroys this extraneous alien negative, affirms and sets itself up as a negative in the element of permanence, and thereby becomes for itself a self-existent being. in the master, the bondsman feels self-existence to be something external, an objective fact; in fear self-existence is present within himself; in fashioning the thing, self-existence comes to be felt explicitly as his own proper being, and he attains the consciousness that he himself exists in its own right and on its own account (an und f¸r sich). by the fact that the form is objectified, it does not become something other than the consciousness moulding the thing through work; for just that form is his pure self existence, which therein becomes truly realized. thus precisely in labour where there seemed to be merely some outsiderís mind and ideas involved, the bondsman becomes aware, through this re-discovery of himself by himself, of having and being a ìmind of his ownî. (c). the formative process of self-enfranchisement for this reflection of self into self the two moments, fear and service in general, as also that of formative activity, are necessary: and at the same time both must exist in a universal manner. without the discipline of service and obedience, fear remains formal and does not spread over the whole known reality of existence. without the formative activity shaping the thing, fear remains inward and mute, and consciousness does not become objective for itself. should consciousness shape and form the thing without the initial state of absolute fear, then it has a merely vain and futile ìmind of its ownî; for its form or negativity is not negativity per se, and hence its formative activity cannot furnish the consciousness of itself as essentially real. if it has endured not absolute fear, but merely some slight anxiety, the negative reality has remained external to it, its substance has not been through and through infected thereby. since the entire content of its natural consciousness has not tottered and shaken, it is still inherently a determinate mode of being; having a ìmind of its ownî (der eigene sinn) is simply stubbornness (eigensinn), a type of freedom which does not get beyond the attitude of bondage. as little as the pure form can become its essential nature, so little is that form, considered as extending over particulars, a universal formative activity, an absolute notion; it is rather a piece of cleverness which has mastery within a certain range, but not over the universal power nor over the entire objective reality.

what is enlightenment . question mark. an answer to the question: "what is enlightenment. question mark." seventeen hundred and eighty four c.e. enlightenment is man's release from his self-incurred tutelage. tutelage s man's inability to make use of his understanding without direction from another. self-incurred is this tutelage when its cause lies not in lack of reason but in lack of resolution and courage to use it without direction from another. sapere aude. exclamation point. "have courage to use your own reason. exclamation point."- that is the motto of enlightenment. laziness and cowardice are the reasons why so great a portion of mankind, after nature has long since discharged them from external direction (naturaliter maiorennes), nevertheless remains under lifelong tutelage, and why it is so easy for others to set themselves up as their guardians. it is so easy not to be of age. if i have a book which understands for me, a pastor who has a conscience for me, a physician who decides my diet, and so forth, i need not trouble myself. i need not think, if i can only pay - others will easily undertake the irksome work for me. that the step to competence is held to be very dangerous by the far greater portion of mankind (and by the entire fair sex) - quite apart from its being arduous is seen to by those guardians who have so kindly assumed superintendence over them. after the guardians have first made their domestic cattle dumb and have made sure that these placid creatures will not dare take a single step without the harness of the cart to which they are tethered, the guardians then show them the danger which threatens if they try to go alone. actually, however, this danger is not so great, for by falling a few times they would finally learn to walk alone. but an example of this failure makes them timid and ordinarily frightens them away from all further trials. for any single individua1 to work himself out of the life under tutelage which has become almost his nature is very difficult. he has come to be fond of his state, and he is for the present really incapable of making use of his reason, for no one has ever let him try it out. statutes and formulas, those mechanical tools of the rational employment or rather misemployment of his natural gifts, are the fetters of an everlasting tutelage. whoever throws them off makes only an uncertain leap over the narrowest ditch because he is not accustomed to that kind of free motion. therefore, there are few who have succeeded by their own exercise of mind both in freeing themselves from incompetence and in achieving a steady pace. but that the public should enlighten itself is more possible; indeed, if only freedom is granted enlightenment is almost sure to follow. for there will always be some independent thinkers, even among the established guardians of the great masses, who, after throwing off the yoke of tutelage from their own shoulders, will disseminate the spirit of the rational appreciation of both their own worth and every man's vocation for thinking for himself. but be it noted that the public, which has first been brought under this yoke by their guardians, forces the guardians themselves to renain bound when it is incited to do so by some of the guardians who are themselves capable of some enlightenment - so harmful is it to implant prejudices, for they later take vengeance on their cultivators or on their descendants. thus the public can only slowly attain enlightenment. perhaps a fall of personal despotism or of avaricious or tyrannical oppression may be accomplished by revolution, but never a true reform in ways of thinking. farther, new prejudices will serve as well as old ones to harness the great unthinking masses. for this enlightenment, however, nothing is required but freedom, and indeed the most harmless among all the things to which this term can properly be applied. it is the freedom to make public use of one's reason at every point. but i hear on all sides, "do not argue. exclamation point." the officer says: "do not argue but drill. exclamation point." the tax collector: "do not argue but pay. exclamation point." the cleric: "do not argue but believe. exclamation point." only one prince in the world says, "argue as much as you will, and about what you will, but obey. exclamation point." everywhere there is restriction on freedom. which restriction is an obstacle to enlightenment, and which is not an obstacle but a promoter of it. question mark. i answer: the public use of one's reason must always be free, and it alone can bring about enlightenment among men. the private use of reason, on the other hand, may often be very narrowly restricted without particularly hindering the progress of enlightenment. by the public use of one's reason i understand the use which a person makes of it as a scholar before the reading public. private use i call that which one may make of it in a particular civil post or office which is entrusted to him. many affairs which are conducted in the interest of the community require a certain mechanism through which some members of the community must passively conduct themselves with an artificial unanimity, so that the government may direct them to public ends, or at least prevent them from destroying those ends. here argument is certainly not allowed - one must obey. but so far as a part of the mechanism regards himself at the same time as a member of the whole community or of a society of world citizens, and thus in the role of a scholar who addresses the public (in the proper sense of the word) through his writings, he certainly can argue without hurting the affairs for which he is in part responsible as a passive member. thus it would be ruinous for an officer in service to debate about the suitability or utility of a command given to him by his superior; he must obey. but the right to make remarks on errors in the military service and to lay them before the public for judgment cannot equitably be refused him as a scholar. the citizen cannot refuse to pay the taxes imposed on him; indeed, an impudent complaint at those levied on him can be punished as a scandal (as it could occasion general refractoriness). but the same person nevertheless does not act contrary to his duty as a citizen, when, as a scholar, he publicly expresses his thoughts on the inappropriateness or even the injustices of these levies, similarly a clergyman is obligated to make his sermon to his pupils in catechism and his congregation conform to the symbol of the church which he serves, for he has been accepted on this condition. but as a scholar he has complete freedom, even the calling, to communicate to the public all his carefully tested and well meaning thoughts on that which is erroneous in the symbol and to make suggestions for the better organization of the religious body and church. in doing this there is nothing that could be laid as a burden on his conscience. for what he teaches as a consequence of his office as a representative of the church, this he considers something about which he has not freedom to teach according to his own lights; it is something which he is appointed to propound at the dictation of and in the name of another. he will say, "our church teaches this or that; those are the proofs which it adduces." he thus extracts all practical uses for his congregation from statutes to which he himself would not subscribe with full conviction but to the enunciation of which he can very well pledge himself because it is not impossible that truth lies hidden in them, and, in any case, there is at least nothing in them contradictory to inner religion. for if he believed he had found such in them, he could not conscientiously discharge the duties of his office; he would have to give it up. the use, therefore, which an appointed teacher makes of his reason before his congregation is merely private, because this congregation is only a domestic one (even if it be a large gathering); with respect to it, as a priest, he is not free, nor can he be free, because he carries out the orders of another. but as a scholar, whose writings speak to his public, the world, the clergyman in the public use of his reason enjoys an unlimited freedom to use his own reason to speak in his own person. that the guardian of the people (in spiritual things) should themselves be incompetent is an absurdity which amounts to the eternalization of absurdities. but would not a society of clergymen, perhaps a church conference or a venerable classis (as they call themselves among the dutch) , be justified in obligating itself by oath to a certain unchangeable symbol inorder to enjoy an unceasing guardianship over each of its numbers and thereby over the people as a whole , and even to make it eternal. question mark. i answer that this is altogether impossible. such contract, made to shut off all further enlightenment from the human race, is absolutely null and void even if confirmed by the supreme power , by parliaments, and by the most ceremonious of peace treaties. an age cannot bind itself and ordain to put the succeeding one into such a condition that it cannot extend its (at best very occasional) knowledge , purify itself of errors, and progress in general enlightenment. that would be a crime against human nature, the proper destination of which lies precisely in this progress and the descendants would be fully justified in rejecting those decrees as having been made in an unwarranted and malicious manner. the touchstone of everything that can be concluded as a law for a people lies in the question whether the people could have imposed such a law on itself. now such religious compact might be possible for a short and definitely limited time, as it were, in expectation of a better. one might let every citizen, and especially the clergyman, in the role of scholar, make his comments freely and publicly, i.e. through writing, on the erroneous aspects of the present institution. the newly introduced order might last until insight into the nature of these things had become so general and widely approved that through uniting their voices (even if not unanimously) they could bring a proposal to the throne to take those congregations under protection which had united into a changed religious organization according to their better ideas, without, however hindering others who wish to remain in the order. but to unite in a permanent religious institution which is not to be subject to doubt before the public even in the lifetime of one man, and thereby to make a period of time fruitless in the progress of mankind toward improvement, thus working to the disadvantage of posterity - that is absolutely forbidden. for himself (and only for a short time) a man may postpone enlightenment in what he ought to know, but to renounce it for posterity is to injure and trample on the rights of mankind. and what a people may not decree for itself can even less be decreed for them by a monarch, for his lawgiving authority rests on his uniting the general public will in his own. if he only sees to it that all true or alleged improvement stands together with civil order, he can leave it to his subjects to do what they find necessary for their spiritual welfare. this is not his concern, though it is incumbent on him to prevent one of them from violently hindering another in determining and promoting this welfare to the best of his ability. to meddle in these matters lowers his own majesty, since by the writings in which his own subjects seek to present their views he may evaluate his own governance. he can do this when, with deepest understanding, he lays upon himself the reproach, caesar non est supra grammaticos. far more does he injure his own majesty when he degrades his supreme power by supporting the ecclesiastical despotism of some tyrants in his state over his other subjects. if we are asked , "do we now live in an enlightened age. question mark." the answer is, "no ," but we do live in an age of enlightenment. as things now stand, much is lacking which prevents men from being, or easily becoming, capable of correctly using their own reason in religious matters with assurance and free from outside direction. but on the other hand, we have clear indications that the field has now been opened wherein men may freely dea1 with these things and that the obstacles to general enlightenment or the release from self-imposed tutelage are gradually being reduced. in this respect, this is the age of enlightenment, or the century of frederick. a prince who does not find it unworthy of himself to say that he holds it to be his duty to prescribe nothing to men in religious matters but to give them complete freedom while renouncing the haughty name of tolerance, is himself enlightened and deserves to be esteemed by the grateful world and posterity as the first, at least from the side of government , who divested the human race of its tutelage and left each man free to make use of his reason in matters of conscience. under him venerable ecclesiastics are allowed, in the role of scholar, and without infringing on their official duties, freely to submit for public testing their judgments and views which here and there diverge from the established symbol. and an even greater freedom is enjoyed by those who are restricted by no official duties. this spirit of freedom spreads beyond this land, even to those in which it must struggle with external obstacles erected by a government which misunderstands its own interest. for an example gives evidence to such a government that in freedom there is not the least cause for concern about public peace and the stability of the community. men work themselves gradually out of barbarity if only intentional artifices are not made to hold them in it. i have placed the main point of enlightenment - the escape of men from their self-incurred tutelage - chiefly in matters of religion because our rulers have no interest in playing guardian with respect to the arts and sciences and also because religious incompetence is not only the most harmful but also the most degrading of all. but the manner of thinking of the head of a state who favors religious enlightenment goes further, and he sees that there is no danger to his lawgiving in allowing his subjects to make public use of their reason and to publish their thoughts on a better formulation of his legislation and even their open-minded criticisms of the laws already made. of this we have a shining example wherein no monarch is superior to him we honor. but only one who is himself enlightened, is not afraid of shadows, and has a numerous and well-disciplined army to assure public peace, can say: "argue as much as you will , and about what you will , only obey. exclamation point." a republic could not dare say such a thing. here is shown a strange and unexpected trend in human affairs in which almost everything, looked at in the large , is paradoxical. a greater degree of civil freedom appears advantageous to the freedom of mind of the people, and yet it places inescapable limitations upon it. a lower degree of civil freedom, on the contrary, provides the mind with room for each man to extend himself to his full capacity. as nature has uncovered from under this hard shell the seed for which she most tenderly cares - the propensity and vocation to free thinking - this gradually works back upon the character of the people, who thereby gradually become capable of managing freedom; finally, it affects the principles of government, which finds it to its advantage to treat men, who are now more than machines, in accordance with their dignity.

structure, sign, and play in the discourse of the human sciences nineteen hundred and seventy eight c.e. perhaps something has occurred in the history of the concept of structure that could be called an "event," if this loaded word did not entail a meaning which it is precisely the function of structural-or structuralist-thought to reduce or to suspect. but let me use the term "event" anyway, employing it with caution and as if in quotation marks. in this sense, this event will have the exterior form of a rupture and a redoubling. it would be easy enough to show that the concept of structure and even the word "structure" itself are as old as the episteme -that is to say, as old as western science and western philosophy-and that their roots thrust deep into the soil of ordinary language, into whose deepest recesses the episteme plunges to gather them together once more, making them part of itself in a metaphorical displacement. nevertheless, up until the event which i wish to mark out and define, structure-or rather the structurality of structure-although it has always been involved, has always been neutralized or reduced, and this by a process of giving it a center or referring it to a point of presence, a fixed origin. the function of this center was not only to orient, balance, and organize the structure-one cannot in fact conceive of an unorganized structure-but above all to make sure that the organizing principle of the structure would limit what we might call the freeplay of the structure. no doubt that by orienting and organizing the coherence of the system, the center of a structure permits the freeplay of its elements inside the total form. and even today the notion of a structure lacking any center represents the unthinkable itself. nevertheless, the center also closes off the freeplay it opens up and makes possible. qua center, it is the point at which the substitution of contents, elements, or terms is no longer possible. at the center, the permutation or the transformation of elements (which may of course be structures enclosed within a structure) is forbidden. at least this permutation has always remained interdicted (i use this word deliberately). thus it has always been thought that the center, which is by definition unique, constituted that very thing within a structure which governs the structure, while escaping structurality. this is why classical thought concerning structure could say that the center is, paradoxically, within the structure and outside it. the center is at the center of the totality, and yet, since the center does not belong to the totality (is not part of the totality), the totality has its center elsewhere. the center is not the center. the concept of centered structure-although it represents coherence itself, the condition of the episteme as philosophy or science-is contradictorily coherent. and, as always, coherence in contradiction expresses the force of a desire. the concept of centered structure is in fact the concept of a freeplay based on a fundamental ground, a freeplay which is constituted upon a fundamental immobility and a reassuring certitude, which is itself beyond the reach of the freeplay. with this certitude anxiety can be mastered, for anxiety is invariably the result of a certain mode of being implicated in the game, of being caught by the game, of being as it were from the very beginning at stake in the game. from the basis of what we therefore call the center (and which, because it can be either inside or outside, is as readily called the origin as the end, as readily archÈ as telos), the repetitions, the substitutions. the transformations, and the permutations are always taken from a history of meaning [sens]-that is, a history, period-whose origin may always be revealed or whose end may always be anticipated in the form of presence. this is why one could perhaps say that the movement of any archeology, like that of any eschatology, is an accomplice of this reduction of the structuralality of structure and always attempts to conceive of structure from the basis of a full presence which is out of play. if this is so, the whole history of the concept of structure, before the rupture i spoke of, must be thought of as a series of substitutions of center for center, as a linked chain of determinations of the center. successively, and in a regulated fashion, the center receives different forms or names. the history of metaphysics, like the history of the west, is the history of these metaphors and metonymies. its matrix-if you will pardon me for demonstrating so little and for being so elliptical in order to bring me more quickly to my principal theme-is the determination of being as presence in all the senses of this word. it would be possible to show that all the names related to fundamentals, to principles, or to the i center have always designated the constant of a presence-eidos, arche, telos, energeia, ousia (essence, existence, substance, subject) aletheia [truth], transcendentality, consciousness, or conscience, god, man, and so forth. the event i called a rupture, the disruption alluded to at the beginning of this paper, would presumably have come about when the structurality of structure had to begin to be thought, that is to say, repeated, and this is why i said that this disruption was repetition in all of the senses of this word. from then on it became necessary to think the law which governed, as it were, the desire for the center in the constitution of structure and the process of signification prescribing its displacements and its substitutions for this law of the central presence-but a central presence which was never itself, which has always already been transported outside itself in its surrogate. the surrogate does not substitute itself for anything which has somehow pre-existed it. from then on it was probably necessary to begin to think that there was no center, that the center could not be thought in the form of a beingpresent, that the center had no natural locus, that it was not a fixed locus but a function, a sort of non-locus in which an infinite number of sign-substitutions came into play. this moment was that in which language invaded the universal problematic; that in which, in the absence of a center or origin, everything became discourse-provided we can agree on this word-that is to say, when everything became a system where the central signified, the original or transcendental signified, is never absolutely present outside a system of differences. the absence of the transcendental signified extends the domain and the interplay of signification ad infinitum. where and how does this decentering, this notion of the structurality of structure, occur. question mark. it would be somewhat naive to refer to an event, a doctrine, or an author in order to designate this occurrence. it is no doubt part of the totality of an era, our own, but still it has already begun to proclaim itself and begun to work. nevertheless, if i wished to give some sort of indication by choosing one or two "names," and by recalling those authors in whose discourses this occurrence has most nearly maintained its most radical formulation, i would probably cite the nietzschean critique of metaphysics, the critique of the concepts of being and truth, for which were substituted the concepts of play, interpretation, and sign (sign without truth present); the freudian critique of self-presence, that is, the critique of consciousness, of the subject, of self-identity and of self-proximity or self-possession; and, more radically, the heideggerean destruction of metaphysics, of onto-theology, of the determination of being as presence. but all these destructive discourses and all their analogues are trapped in a sort of circle. this circle is unique. it describes the form of the relationship between the history of metaphysics and the destruction of the history of metaphysics. there is no sense in doing without the concepts of metaphysics in order to attack metaphysics. we have no language-no syntax and no lexicon-which is alien to this history; we cannot utter a single destructive proposition which has not already slipped into the form, the logic, and the implicit postulations of precisely what it seeks to contest. to pick out one example from many: the metaphysics of presence is attacked with the help of the concept of the sign. but from the moment anyone wishes this to show, as i suggested a moment ago, that there is no transcendental or privileged signified and that the domain or the interplay of signification has, henceforth, no limit, he ought to extend his refusal to the concept and to the word sign itself-which is precisely what cannot be done. for the signification "sign" has always been comprehended and determined, in its sense, as sign-of, signifier referring to a signified, signifier different from its signified. if one erases the radical difference between signifier and signified, it is the word signifier itself which ought to be abandoned as a metaphysical concept. when levi-strauss says in the preface to the raw and the cooked that he has "sought to transcend the opposition between the sensible and the intelligible by placing [himself] from the very beginning at the level of signs," the necessity, the force, and the legitimacy of his act cannot make us forget that the concept of the sign cannot in itself surpass or bypass this opposition between the sensible and the intelligible. the concept of the sign is determined by this opposition: through and throughout the totality of its history and by its system. but we cannot do without the concept of the sign, we cannot give up this metaphysical complicity without also giving up the critique we are directing against this complicity, without the risk of erasing difference [altogether] in the self-identity of a signified reducing into itself its signifier, or, what amounts to the same thing, simply expelling it outside itself. for there are two heterogenous ways of erasing the difference between the signifier and the signified: one, the classic way, consists in reducing or deriving the signifier, that is to say, ultimately in submitting the sign to thought; the other, the one we are using here against the first one, consists in putting into question the system in which the preceding reduction functioned: first and foremost, the opposition between the sensible and the intelligible. the paradox is that the metaphysical reduction of the sign needed the opposition it was reducing. the opposition is part of the system, along with the reduction. and what i am saying here about the sign can be extended to all the concepts and all the sentences of metaphysics, in particular to the discourse on "structure." but there are many ways of being caught in this circle. they are all more or less naive, more or less empirical, more or less systematic, more or less close to the formulation or even to the formalization of this circle. it is these differences which explain the multiplicity of destructive discourses and the disagreement between those who make them. it was within concepts inherited from metaphysics that nietzsche, freud, and heidegger worked, for example. since these concepts are not elements or atoms and since they are taken from a syntax and a system, every particular borrowing drags along with it the whole of metaphysics. this is what allows these destroyers to destroy each other reciprocally-for example, heidegger considering nietzsche, with as much lucidity and rigor as bad faith and misconstruction, as the last metaphysician, the last "platonist." one could do the same for heidegger himself, for freud, or for a number of others. and today no exercise is more widespread. what is the relevance of this formal schema when we turn to what are called the "human sciences". question mark. one of them perhaps occupies a privileged place-ethnology. one can in fact assume that ethnology could have been born as a science only at the moment when a de-centenng had come about: at the moment when european culture-and, in consequence, the history of metaphysics and of its concepts-had been dislocated, driven from its locus, and forced to stop considering itself as the culture of reference. this moment is not first and foremost a moment of philosophical or scientific discourse, it is also a moment which is political, economic, technical, and so forth. one can say in total assurance that there is nothing fortuitous about the fact that the critique of ethnocentrism-the very condition of ethnology-should be systematically and historically contemporaneous with the destruction of the history of metaphysics. both belong to a single and same era. ethnology-like any science-comes about within the element of discourse. and it is primarily a european science employing traditional concepts, however much it may struggle against them. consequently, whether he wants to or not-and this does not depend on a decision on his part-the ethnologist accepts into his discourse the premises of ethnocentrism at the very moment when he is employed in denouncing them this necessity is irreducible; it is not a historical contingency. we ought to consider very carefully all its implications. but if nobody can escape this necessity, and if no one is therefore responsible for giving in to it, however little, this does not mean that all the ways of giving in to it are of an equal pertinence. the quality and the fecundity of a discourse are perhaps measured by the critical rigor with which this relationship to the history of metaphysics and to inherited concepts is thought. here it is a question of a critical relationship to the language of the human sciences and a question of a critical responsibility of the discourse. it is a question of putting expressly and systematically the problem of a discourse which borrows from a heritage the resources necessary of that heritage itself. a problem of economy and strategy. if i now go on to employ an examination of the texts of levi-strauss as an example, it is not only because of the privilege accorded to ethnology among the human sciences, nor yet because the thought of levi-strauss weighs heavily on the contemporary theoretical situation. it is above all because a certain choice has made itself evident in the work of levi-strauss and because a certain doctrine has been elaborated there, and precisely in a more or less explicit manner, in relation to this critique of language and to this critical language in the human sciences. in order to follow this movement in the text of levi-strauss, let me choose as one guiding thread among others the oppostion between nature and culture. in spite of all its rejuvenations and its disguises, this opposition is congenital to philosophy. it is even older than plato. it is at least as old as the sophists. since the statement of the opposition - physis/nomos, physis/techne [nature/culture, nature/art or making] - it has been passed on to us by a whole historical chain which opposes "nature" to the law, to education, to art, to technics - and also to liberty, to the arbitrary, to history, to society, to the mind, and so on. from thebeginnings of his quest and from his first book, the elementary structures of kinship, levi-strauss has felt at one and the same time the necessity of utilizing this opposition and the impossibility of making it acceptable. in the elementary structures, he begins from this axiom or definition: that belongs to nature which is universal and spontaneous, not depending on any particular culture or on any determinate norm. that belongs to culture, on the other hand, which depends on a system of norms regulating society and is therefore capable of varying from one social structure to another. these two definitions are of the traditional type. but, in the very first pages of the elementary structures, levi-strauss, who has begun to give these concepts an acceptable standing, encounters what he calls a scandal, that is to say, something which no longer tolerates the nature/culture opposition he has accepted and which seems to require at one and the same time the predicates of nature and those of culture. this scandal is the incest-prohibition. the incest-prohibition is universal; in this sense one could call it natural. but it is also a prohibition, a system of norms and interdicts; in this sense one could call it cultural. let us assume therefore that everything universal in man derives from the order of nature and is charactenzed by spontaneity, that everything which is subject to a norm belongs to culture and presents the attributes of the relative and the particular. we then find ourselves confronted by a fact, or rather an ensemble of facts, which, in the light of the preceding definitions, is not far from appeanog as a scandal: the prohibition of incest presents without the least equivocation, and indissolubly linked together, the two characteristics in which we recognized the contradictory attributes of two exclusive orders. the prohibition of incest constitutes a rule, but a rule, alone of all the social rules, which possesses at the same time a universal character. obviously, there is no scandal except in the interior of a system of concepts sanctioning the difference between nature and culture. in beginning his work with the factum of the incest-prohibition, levi-strauss thus puts himself in a position entailing that this difference, which has always been assumed to be self-evident, becomes obliterated or disputed. for, from the moment that the incest-prohibition can no longer be conceived within the nature/culture opposition, it can no longer be said that it is a scandalous fact, a nucleus of opacity within a network of transparent significations. the incest-prohibition is no longer a scandal one meets with or comes up against in the domain of traditional concepts; it is something which escapes these concepts and certainly precedes them--probably as the condition of their possibility. it could perhaps be said that the whole of philosophical conceptualization, systematically relating itself to the nature/culture opposition, is designed to leave in the domain of the unthinkable the very thing that makes this conceptualization possible: the origin of the prohibition of incest. i have dealt too cursorily with this example, only one among so many others, but the example nevertheless reveals that language bears within itself the necessity of its own critique. this critique may be undertaken along two tracks, in two "manners." once the limit of nature/culture opposition makes itself felt, one might want to question systematically and rigorously the history of these concepts. this is a first action. such a systematic and historic questioning would be neither a philological nor a philosophical action in the classic sense of these words. concerning oneself with the founding concepts of the whole history of philosophy, de-constituting them, is not to undertake the task of the philologist or of the classic historian of philosophy. in spite of appearances, it is probably the most daring way of making the beginnings of a step outside of philosophy. the step "outside philosophy" is much more difficult to conceive than is generally imagined by those who think they made it long ago with cavalier ease, and who are in general swallowed up in metaphysics by the whole body of the discourse that they claim to have disengaged from it. in order to avoid the possibly sterilizing effect of the first way, the other choice-which i feel corresponds more nearly to the way chosen by levi-strauss-consists in conserving in the field of empirical discovery all these old concepts, while at the same time exposing here and there their limits, treating them as tools which can still be of use. no longer is any truth-value attributed to them; there is a readiness to abandon them if necessary if other instruments should appear more useful. in the meantime, their relative efficacy is exploited, and they are employed to destroy the old machinery to which they belong and of which they themselves are pieces. thus it is that the language of the human sciences criticizes itself. levi-strauss thinks that in this way he can separate method from truth, the instruments of the method and the objective significations aimed at by it. one could almost say that this is the primary affirmation of levi-strauss; in any event, the first words of the elementary structures are: "one begins to understand that the distinction between state of nature and state of society (we would be more apt to say today: state of nature and state of culture). while lacking any acceptable historical signification, presents a value which fully just)fies its use by modern sociology: its value as a methodological instrument." levi-strauss will always remain faithful to this double intention: to preserve as an instrument that whose truth-value he criticizes. on the one hand, he will continue in effect to contest the value of the nature/culture opposition. more than thirteen years after the elementary structures, the savage mind faithfully echoes the text i have just quoted: "the opposition between nature and culture which i have previously insisted on seems today to offer a value which is above all methodological." and this methodological value is not affected by its "ontological" non-value (as could be said, if this notion were not suspect here): "it would not be enough to have absorbed particular humanities into a general humanity; this first enterprise prepares the way for others . . . which belong to the natural and exact sciences: to reintegrate culture into nature, and finally, to reintegrate life into the totality of its physiochemical conditions." on the other hand, still in the savage mind, he presents as what he calls bricolage what might be called the discourse of this method. the bricoleur, says levi-strauss, is someone who uses "the means at hand," that is, the instruments he finds at his disposition around him, those which are already there, which had not been especially conceived with an eye to the operation for which they are to be used and to which one tries by trial and error to adapt them, not hesitating to change them whenever it appears necessary, or to try several of them at once, even if their form and their origin are heterogenous -- and so forth. there is therefore a critique of language in the form of bricolage, and it has even been possible to say that bricolage is the critical language itself. i am thinking in particular of the article by g[erard] genette, "structuralisme et critique litteraire," published in homage to levi-strauss in a special issue of l'arc, where it is stated that the analysis of bricolage could "be applied almost word for word'' to criticism, and especially to "literary criticism." if one calls bricolage the necessity of borrowing one's concept from the text of a heritage which is more or less coherent or ruined, it must be said that every discourse is bricoleur. the engi~eer, whom levi-strauss opposes to the bricoleur, should be one to construct the totality of his language, syntax, and lexicon. in this sense the engineer is a myth. a subject who would supposedly be the absolute origin of his own discourse and would supposedly construct it "out of nothing," "out of whole cloth," would be the creator of the verbe, the verbe itself. the notion of the engineer who had supposedly broken with all forms of bricolage is therefore a theological idea; and since levi-strauss tells us elsewhere that bricolage is mythopoetic, the odds are that thee engineer is a myth produced by the bricoleur. from the moment that we cease to believe in such an engineer and in a discourse breaking with the received historical discourse, as soon as it is admitted that every finite discourse is bound by a cenain bricolage, and that the engineer and the scientist are also species of bricoleurs then the very idea of bricolage is menaced and the difference in which it took on its meaning decomposes. this brings out the second thread which might guide us in what is being unraveled here. levi-strauss describes bricolage not only as ;n intellectual activity but also as a mythopoetical activity. one reads in the savage mind, "like bricolage on the technical level, mythical reflection can attain brilliant and unforeseen results on the intellectual level. reciprocally, the mythopoetical character of bricolage has often been noted." but the remarkable endeavor of levi-strauss is not simply to put forward, notably in the most recent of his investigations, a structural science or knowledge of myths and of mythological activity. his endeavor also appears-i would say almost from the first-in the status which he accords to his own discourse on myths, to what he calls his "mythologicals." it is here that his discourse on the myth reflects on itself and criticizes itself. and this moment, this critical period, is evidently of concern to all the languages which share the field of the human sciences. what does levi-strauss say of his "mythologicals". question mark. it is here that we rediscover the mythopoetical virtue (power) of bricolage. in effect, what appears most fascinating in this critical search for a new status of the discourse is the stated abandonment of all reference to a center, to a subject, to a privileged reference, to an origin, or to an absolute arche'. the theme of this decentering could be followed throughout the "overture" to his last book, the raw and the cooked. i shall simply remark on a few key points. 1. from the very start, levi-strauss recognizes that the bororo myth which he employs in the book as the "reference-myth" does not merit this name and this treatment. the name is specious and the use of the myth improper. this myth deserves no more than any other its referential privilege: in fact the bororo myth which will from now on be designated by the name reference-myth is, as i shall try to show, nothing other than a more or less forced transformation of other myths originating either in the same society or in societies more or less far removed. it would therefore have been legitimate to choose as my point of departure any representative of the group whatsoever. from this point of view, the interest of the reference-myth does not depend on its typical character, but rather on its irregular position in the midst of a group. 2. there is no unity or absolute source of the myth. the focus or the source of the myth are always shadows and virtualities which are elusive, unactualizable, and nonexistent in the first place. everything begins with the structure, the configuration, the relationship. the discourse on this acentric structure, the myth, that is, cannot itself have an absolute subject or an absolute center. in order not to short change the form and the movement of the myth, that violence which consists in centering a language which is describing an acentric structure must be avoided. in this context, therefore, it is necessary to forego scientific or philosophical discourse, to renounce the episteme which absolutely requires, which is the absolute requirement that we go back to the source, to the center, to the founding basis, to the principle, and so on. in opposition to epistemic discourse, structural discourse on myths- mythological discourse-must itself be mythomorphic. it must have the form of that of which it speaks. this is what levi-strauss says in the raw and the cooked, from which i would now like to quote a long and remarkable passage: in effect the study of myths poses a methodological problem by the fact that it cannot conform to the cartesian principle of dividing the difficulty into as miany piarts as are necessiary to resolve it. there exists no veritable end or term to mythical analysis, no secret unity which could be grasped at the end of the work of decomposition. the themes duplicate themselves to infinity. when we think we have disentiangled them from each other and can hold them separate, it is only to realize that they are joining together again, in response to the attraction of unforeseen affinities. in consequence, the unity of the myth is only tendential and projective; it never reflects a state or a moment of the myth. an imaginary phenomenon implied by the endeavor to interpret, its role is to give a synthetic form to the myth and to impede its dissolution into the confusion of contraries. it could therefore be said that the science or knowledge of myths is an anaclastic, taking this ancient term in the widest sense authorized by its etymology, a science which admits into its definition the study of the reflected rays along with that of the broken ones. but, unlike philosophical reflection, which claims to go all the way back to its source, the reflections in question here concern rays without any other than a virtual focus. . . . in wanting to imitate the spontaneous movement of mythical thought, my enterprise, itself too brief and too long, has had to yield to its demands and respect its rhythm. thus is this book, on myths itself and in its own way, a myth. this statement is repeated a little farther on: "since myths themselves rest on second-order codes (the first-order codes being those in which language consists), this book thus offers the rough draft of a third-order code, destined to insure the reciprocal possibility of translation of several myths. this is why it would not be wrong to consider it a myth: the myth of mythology, as it were." it is by this absence of any real and fixed center of the mythical or mythological discourse that the musical model chosen by levi strauss for the composition of his book is apparently justified. the absence of a center is here the absence of a subject and the absence of an author: "the myth and the musical work thus appear as orchestra conductors whose listeners are the silent performers. if it be asked where the real focus of the work is to be found, it must be replied that its determination is impossible. music and mythology bring man face to face with virtual objects whose shadow alone is actual. . . . myths have no authors." thus it is at this point that ethnographic bricolage deliberately assumes its mythopoetic function. but by the same token, this function makes the philosophical or epistemological requirement of a center appear as mythological, that is to say, as a historical illusion. nevertheless, even if one yields to the necessity of what levi-strauss has done, one cannot ignore its risks. if the mythological is mythomorphic, are all discourses on myths equivalent. question mark. shall we have to abandon any epistemologica; requirement which permits us to distinguish between several qualities of discourse on the myth. question mark. a classic question, but inevitable. we cannot reply-and i do not believe levi-strauss replies to it-as long as the problem of the relationships between the philosopheme or the theorem. on the one hand, and the mytheme or the mythopoem(e), on the other, has not been expressly posed. this is no small problem. for lack of expressly posing this problem, we condemn ourselves to transforming the claimed transgression of philosophy into an unperceived fault in the interior of the philosophical field. empiricism would be the genus of which these faults would always be the species. trans-philosophical concepts would be transformed into philosophical naivetes. one could give many examples to demonstrate this risk: the concepts of sign, history, truth, and so forth. what i want to emphasize is simply that the passage beyond philosophy does not consist in turning the page of philosophy (which usually comes down to philosophizing badly), but in continuing to read philosophers in a certain way. the risk i am speaking of is always assumed by levi-strauss and it is the very price of his endeavor. i have said that empiricism is the matrix of all the faults menacing a discourse which continues, as with levi-strauss in particular, to elect to be scientific. if we wanted to pose the problem of empiricism and bricolage in depth, we would probably end up very quickly with a number of propositions absolutely contradictory in relation to the status of discourse in structural ethnography. on the one hand, structuralism justly claims to be the critique of empiricism. but at the same time there is not a single book or study by levi-strauss which does not offer itself as an empirical essay which can always be completed or invalidated by new information. the structural schemata are always proposed as hypotheses resulting from a finite quantity of information and which are subjected to the proof of experience. numerous texts could be used to demonstrate this double postulation. let us turn once again to the "overture" of the raw and the cooked, where it seems clear that if this postulation is double, it is because it is a guestion here of a language on language: critics who might take me to task for not having begun by making an exhaustive inventory of south american myths before analyzing them would be making a serious mistake about the nature and the role of these documents. the totality of the myths of a people is of the order of the discourse. provided that this people does not become physically or morally extinct, this totality is never closed. such a criticism would therefore be equivalent to reproaching a linguist with writing the grammar of a language without having recorded the totality of the words which have been uttered since that language came into existence and without knowing the verbal exchanges which will take place as long as the language continues to exist. experience proves that an absurdly small number of sentences . . . allows the linguist to elaborate a grammar of the language he is studying. and even a partial grammar or an outline of a grammar represents valuable acquisitions in the case of unknown languages. syntax does not wait until it has been possible to enumerate a theoretically unlimited series of events before becoming manifest, because syntax consists in the body of rules which presides over the generation of these events. and it is precisely a syntax of south american mythology that i wanted to outline. should new texts appear to enrich the mythical discourse, then this will provide an opportunity to check or modify the way in which certain grammatical laws have been formulated, an opportunity to discard certain of them and an opportunity to discover new ones. but in no instance can the requirement of a total mythical discourse be raised as an objection. for we have just seen that such a requirement has no meaning. totalization is therefore defined at one time as useless, at another time as impossible. this is no doubt the result of the fact that there are two ways of conceiving the limit of totalization. and i assert once again that these two determinations coexist implicitly in the discourses of levi-strauss. totalization can be judged impossible in the classical style: one then refers to the empirical endeavor of a subject or of a finite discourse in a vain and breathless quest of an infinite richness which it can never master. there is too much, more than one can say. but nontotalization can also be determined in another way: not from the standpoint of the concept of finitude as assigning us to an empirical view, but from the standpoint of the concept of freeplay. if totalization no longer has any meaning, it is not because the infinity of a field cannot be covered by a finite glance or a finite discourse, but because the nature of the field-that is, language and a finite language-excludes totalization. this field is in fact that of freeplay, that is to say, a field of infinite substitutions in the closure of a finite ensemble. this field permits these infinite substitutions only because it is finite, that is to say, because instead of being an inexhaustible field, as in the classical hypothesis, instead of being too large, there is something missing from it: a center which arrests and founds the freeplay of substitutions. one could say-rigorously using that word whose scandalous signification is always obliterated in french-that this movement of the freeplay, permitted by the lack, the absence of a center or origin, is the movement of supplementarily. one cannot determine the center, the sign which supplements it, which takes its place in its absence-because this sign adds itself, occurs in addition, over and above, comes as a supplement. the movement of signification adds something, which results in the fact that there is always more, but this addition is a floating one because it comes to perform a vicarious function, to supplement a lack on the part of the signified. although levi-strauss in his use of the word supplementary never emphasizes as i am doing here the two directions of meaning which are so strangely compounded within it, it is not by chance that he uses this word twice in his "introduction to the work of marcel mauss,'' at the point where he is speaking of the "superabundance of signifier, in relation to the signifieds to which this superabundance can refer": in his endeavor to understand the world. question mark. man therefore always has at his disposition a surplus of signification (which he portions out amongst things according to the laws of symbolic thought-which it is the task of ethnologists and linguists to study). this distribution of a supplementary allowance [ration supplementaire]-if it is permissible to put it that way-is absolutely necessary in order that on the whole the available signifier and the signified it aims at may remain in the relationship of complementarity which is the very condition of the use of symbolic thought. (it could no doubt be demonstrated that this ration supplementaire of signification is the origin of the ratio itself.) the word reappears a little farther on, after levi-strauss has mentioned "this floating signifier, which is the finite thought": in other words-and taking as our guide mauss's. precept that all social phenomena can be assimilated to language-we see in mana, wakau, oranda and other notions of the same type, the conscious expression of a semantic function, whose role it is to permit symbolic thought to operate in spite of the contradiction which is proper to it. in this way are explained the apparently insoluble 1 antinomies attached to this notion. . . . at one and the same time force and action, quality and state, substantive and verb; abstract and concrete, omnipresent and localized-mana is in effect all these things. but is it not precisely because it is none of these things that mana is a simple form, or more exactly, a symbol in the pure state, and therefore capable of becoming charged with any sort of symbolic content whatever. question mark. in the system of symbols constituted by all cosmologies, manawould simply be a valeur symbolique zero, that isto say, a sign marking the necessity of a symbolic content supplementary [my italics] to that with which the signified is already loaded, but which can take on any value required, provided only that this value still remains part of the available reserve and is not, as phonologists put it, a group-term. levi-strauss adds the note: linguists have already been led to formulate hypotheses of this type. for example: "a zero phoneme is opposed to all the other phonemes in french in that it entails no differential chararacters and no constant phonetic value. on the contrary, the proper function of the zero phoneme is to be opposed to phoneme absence." (r. jakobson and j. lutz, "notes on the french phonemic pattern" word, vol. 5, no. 2 [august, 1949], p. 155). similarly, if we schematize the conception i am posing here, it could almost be said that the function of notions like mana is to be opposed to the absence of signification, without entailing by itself any particular signification. the superabundance of the signifier, its supplementary character, is thus the result of a finitude, that is to say, the result of a lack which must be supplemented. it can now be understood why the concept of freeplay is important in levi-strauss. his references to all sorts of games, notably to roulette, are very frequent, especially in his conversations, in race and histotory, and in the savage mind. this reference to the game or free-play is always caught up in a tension. it is in tension with history, first of all. this is a classical problem, objections to which are i now well worn or used up. i shall simply indicate i what seems to me the formality of the problem: by reducing history, levi-strauss has treated as it deserves a concept which has always been in complicity with a teleological and eschatological metaphysics, in other words, paradoxically, in complicity with that philosophy of presence to which it was believed history could be opposed. the thematic of historicity, although it seems to be a somewhat late arrival in philosophy, has always been required by the determination of being as presence. with or without etymology, and in spite of the classic antagonism which opposes these significations throughout all of classical thought, it could be shown that the concept of episteme has always called forth that of historia, if history is always the unity of a becoming, as tradition of truth or development of science or knowledge oriented toward the appropriation of truth in presence and self-presence, toward knowledge in consciousness-of-self. history has always been conceived as the movement of a resumption of history, a diversion between two presences. but if it is legitimate to suspect this concept of history, there is a risk, if it is reduced without an express statement of the problem i am indicating here, of falling back into an anhistoricism of a classical type, that is to say, in a determinate moment of the history of metaphysics. such is the algebraic formality of the problem as i see it. more concretely, in the work of levi-strauss it must be recognized that the respect for structurality, for the internal originality of the structure, compels a neutralization of time and history. for example, the appearance of a new structure, of an original system, always comes about-and this is the very condition of its structural specificity-by a rupture with its past, its origin, and its cause. one can therefore describe what is peculiar to the structural organization only by not taking into account, in the very moment of this description, its past conditions: by failing to pose the problem of the passage from one structure to another, by putting history into parentheses. in this "structuralist" moment, the concepts of chance and discontinuity are indispensable. and levi-strauss does in fact often appeal to them as he does, for instance, for that structure of structures, language, of which he says in the "introduction to the work of marcel mauss" that it "could only have been born in one fell swoop": whatever may have been the moment and the circumstances of its appearance in the scale of animal life, language could only have been born in one fell swoop. things could not have set about signifying progressively. following a transformation the study of which is not the concern of the social sciences, but rather of biology and psychology, a crossing over came about from a stage where nothing had a meaning to another where everything possessed it. this standpoint does not prevent levi-strauss from recognizing the slowness, the process of maturing, the continuous toil of factual transformations, history (for example, in race and history). but, in accordance with an act which was also rousseau's and husserl's, he must "brush aside all the facts" at the moment when he wishes to recapture the specificity of a structure. like rousseau, he must always conceive of the origin of a new structure on the model of catastrophe -an overturning of nature in nature, a natural interruption of the natural sequence, a brushing aside of nature. besides the tension of freeplay with history, there is also the tension of freeplay with presence. freeplay is the disruption of presence. the presence of an element is always a signifying and substitutive reference inscribed in a system of differences and the movement of a chain. freeplay is always an interplay of absence and presence, but if it is to be radically conceived, freeplay must be conceived of before the alternativeof presence and absence; being must be conceived of as presence or absence beginning with the possibility of freeplay and not the other way around. if levi-strauss, better than any other, has brought to light the freeplay of repetition and the repetition of freeplay, one no less perceives in his work a sort of ethic presence, an ethic of nostalgia for origins, an ethic of archaic and natural innocence, of a purity of presence and self-presence in speech-an ethic, nostalgia, and even remorse which he often presents as the motivation of the ethnological project when he moves toward archaic societies-exemplary societies in his eyes. these texts are well known. as a turning toward the presence, lost or impossible, of the absent origin, this structuralist thematic of broken immediateness is thus the sad, negative, nostalgic, guilty, rousseauist facet of the thinking of freeplay of which the nietzschean affirmation-the joyous affirmation of the freeplay of the world and without truth, without origin, offered to an active interpretation-would be the other side. this affirmation then determines the non-center otherwise than as loss of the center. and it plays the game without security. for there is a sure freeplay: that which is limited to the substitution of given and existing, present, pieces. in absolute chance, affirmation also surrenders itself to genetic indetermination, to the seminal adventure of the trace. there are thus two interpretations of interpretation, of structure, of sign, of freeplay. the one seeks to decipher, dreams of deciphering, a truth or an origin which is free from freeplay and from the order of the sign, and lives like an exile the necessity of interpretation. the other, which is no longer turned toward the origin, affirms freeplay and tries to pass beyond man and humanism, the name man being the name of that being who, throughout the history of metaphysics or of ontotheology-in other words, through the history of all of his history-has dreamed of full presence, the reassuring foundation, the origin and the end of the game. the second interpretation of interpretation, to which nietzsche showed us the way, does not seek in ethnography, as levi-strauss wished, the "inspiration of a new humanism" (again from the "introduction to the work of marcel mauss"). there are more than enough indications today to suggest we might perceive that these two interpretations of interpretation-which are absolutely irreconcilable even if we live them simultaneously and reconcile them in an obscure economy-together share the field which we call, in such a problematic fashion, the human sciences. for my part, although these two interpretations must acknowledge and accentuate their difference and define their irreducibility, i do not believe that today there is any question of choosing-in the first place because here we are in a region (let's say, provisionally, a region of historicity) where the category of choice seems particularly trivial; and in the second, because we must first try to conceive of the common ground, and the difference of this irreducible difference. here there is a sort of question, call it historical, of which we are only glimpsing today the conception, theformation, the gestation, the labor. i employ these words, i admit, with a glance toward the business of childbearing-but also with a glance toward those who, in a company from which i do not exclude myself, turn their eyes away in the face of the as yet unnameable which is proclaiming itself and which can do so, as is necessary whenever a birth is in the offing, only under the species of the non-species, in the formless, mute, infant, and terrifying form of monstrosity.

chapter six. the dream-work sections a and b exerpt from the interpretation of dreams all other previous attempts to solve the problems of dreams have concerned themselves directly with the manifest dream-content as it is retained in the memory. they have sought to obtain an interpretation of the dream from this content, or, if they dispensed with an interpretation, to base their conclusions concerning the dream on the evidence provided by this content. we, however, are confronted by a different set of data; for us a new psychic material interposes itself between the dream-content and the results of our investigations: the latent dream-content, or dream-thoughts, which are obtained only by our method. we develop the solution of the dream from this latent content, and not from the manifest dream-content. we are thus confronted with a new problem, an entirely novel task- that of examining and tracing the relations between the latent dream-thoughts and the manifest dream-content, and the processes by which the latter has grown out of the former. the dream-thoughts and the dream-content present themselves as two descriptions of the same content in two different languages; or, to put it more clearly, the dream-content appears to us as a translation of the dream-thoughts into another mode of expression, whose symbols and laws of composition we must learn by comparing the origin with the translation. the dream-thoughts we can understand without further trouble the moment we have ascertained them. the dream-content is, as it were, presented in hieroglyphics, whose symbols must be translated, one by one, into the language of the dream-thoughts. it would of course, be incorrect to attempt to read these symbols in accordance with their values as pictures, instead of in accordance with their meaning as symbols. for instance, i have before me a picture- puzzle (rebus)- a house, upon whose roof there is a boat; then a single letter; then a running figure, whose head has been omitted, and so on. as a critic i might be tempted to judge this composition and its elements to be nonsensical. a boat is out of place on the roof of a house, and a headless man cannot run; the man, too, is larger than the house, and if the whole thing is meant to represent a landscape the single letters have no right in it, since they do not occur in nature. a correct judgment of the picture-puzzle is possible only if i make no such objections to the whole and its parts, and if, on the contrary, i take the trouble to replace each image by a syllable or word which it may represent by virtue of some allusion or relation. the words thus put together are no longer meaningless, but might constitute the most beautiful and pregnant aphorism. now a dream is such a picture-puzzle, and our predecessors in the art of dream- interpretation have made the mistake of judging the rebus as an artistic composition. as such, of course, it appears nonsensical and worthless. a. condensation the first thing that becomes clear to the investigator when he compares the dream-content with the dream-thoughts is that a tremendous work of condensation has been accomplished. the dream is meagre, paltry and laconic in comparison with the range and copiousness of the dream-thoughts. the dream, when written down fills half a page; the analysis, which contains the dream- thoughts, requires six, eight, twelve times as much space. the ratio varies with different dreams; but in my experience it is always of the same order. as a rule, the extent of the compression which has been accomplished is under-estimated, owing to the fact that the dream-thoughts which have been brought to light are believed to be the whole of the material, whereas a continuation of the work of interpretation would reveal still further thoughts hidden in the dream. we have already found it necessary to remark that one can never be really sure that one has interpreted a dream completely; even if the solution seems satisfying and flawless, it is always possible that yet another meaning has been manifested by the same dream. thus the degree of condensation is- strictly speaking- indeterminable. exception may be taken- and at first sight the objection seems perfectly plausible- to the assertion that the disproportion between dream- content and dream-thoughts justifies the conclusion that a considerable condensation of psychic material occurs in the formation of dreams. for we often have the feeling that we have been dreaming a great deal all night, and have then forgotten most of what we have dreamed. the dream which we remember on waking would thus appear to be merely a remnant of the dream- work, which would surely equal the dream-thoughts in range if only we could remember it completely. to a certain extent this is undoubtedly true; there is no getting away from the fact that a dream is most accurately reproduced if we try to remember it immediately after waking, and that the recollection of it becomes more and more defective as the day goes on. on the other hand, it has to be recognized that the impression that we have dreamed a good deal more than we are able to reproduce is very often based on an illusion, the origin of which we shall explain later on. moreover, the assumption of a condensation in the dream-work is not affected by the possibility of forgetting a part of dreams, for it may be demonstrated by the multitude of ideas pertaining to those individual parts of the dream which do remain in the memory. if a large part of the dream has really escaped the memory, we are probably deprived of access to a new series of dream-thoughts. we have no justification for expecting that those portions of the dream which have been lost should likewise have referred only to those thoughts which we know from the analysis of the portions which have been preserved. * * references to the condensation in dreams are to be found in the works of many writers on the subject. du prel states in his philosophie der mystik that he is absolutely certain that a condensation-process of the succession of ideas had occurred. - in view of the very great number of ideas which analysis elicits for each individual element of the dream-content, the principal doubt in the minds of many readers will be whether it is permissible to count everything that subsequently occurs to the mind during analysis as forming part of the dream-thoughts- in other words, to assume that all these thoughts have been active in the sleeping state, and have taken part in the formation of the dream. is it not more probable that new combinations of thoughts are developed in the course of analysis, which did not participate in the formation of the dream. question mark. to this objection i can give only a conditional reply. it is true, of course, that separate combinations of thoughts make their first appearance during the analysis; but one can convince oneself every time this happens that such new combinations have been established only between thoughts which have already been connected in other ways in the dream-thoughts; the new combinations are, so to speak, corollaries, short-circuits, which are made possible by the existence of other, more fundamental modes of connection. in respect of the great majority of the groups of thoughts revealed by analysis, we are obliged to admit that they have already been active in the formation of the dream, for if we work through a succession of such thoughts, which at first sight seem to have played no part in the formation of the dream, we suddenly come upon a thought which occurs in the dream-content, and is indispensable to its interpretation, but which is nevertheless inaccessible except through this chain of thoughts. the reader may here turn to the dream of the botanical monograph, which is obviously the result of an astonishing degree of condensation, even though i have not given the complete analysis. but how, then, are we to imagine the psychic condition of the sleeper which precedes dreaming. question mark. do all the dream-thoughts exist side by side, or do they pursue one another, or are there several simultaneous trains of thought, proceeding from different centres, which subsequently meet. question mark. i do not think it is necessary at this point to form a plastic conception of the psychic condition at the time of dream-formation. but let us not forget that we are concerned with unconscious thinking, and that the process may easily be different from that which we observe in ourselves in deliberate contemplation accompanied by consciousness. the fact, however, is irrefutable that dream-formation is based on a process of condensation. how, then, is this condensation effected. question mark. now, if we consider that of the dream-thoughts ascertained only the most restricted number are represented in the dream by means of one of their conceptual elements, we might conclude that the condensation is accomplished by means of omission, inasmuch as the dream is not a faithful translation or projection, point by point, of the dream-thoughts, but a very incomplete and defective reproduction of them. this view, as we shall soon perceive, is a very inadequate one. but for the present let us take it as a point of departure, and ask ourselves: if only a few of the elements of the dream-thoughts make their way into the dream- content, what are the conditions that determine their selection. question mark. in order to solve this problem, let us turn our attention to those elements of the dream-content which must have fulfilled the conditions for which we are looking. the most suitable material for this investigation will be a dream to whose formation a particularly intense condensation has contributed. i select the dream, cited in chapter v., of the botanical monograph. i. dream-content: i have written a monograph upon a certain (indeterminate) species of plant. the book lies before me. i am just turning over a folded coloured plate. a dried specimen of the plant is bound up in this copy, as in a herbarium. the most prominent element of this dream is the botanical monograph. this is derived from the impressions of the dream-day; i had actually seen a monograph on the genus cyclamen in a bookseller's window. the mention of this genus is lacking in the dream-content; only the monograph and its relation to botany have remained. the botanical monograph immediately reveals its relation to the work on cocaine which i once wrote; from cocaine the train of thought proceeds on the one hand to a festschrift, and on the other to my friend, the oculist, dr. koenigstein, who was partly responsible for the introduction of cocaine as a local anaesthetic. moreover, dr. koenigstein is connected with the recollection of an interrupted conversation i had had with him on the previous evening, and with all sorts of ideas relating to the remuneration of medical and surgical services among colleagues. this conversation, then, is the actual dream-stimulus; the monograph on cyclamen is also a real incident, but one of an indifferent nature; as i now see, the botanical monograph of the dream proves to be a common mean between the two experiences of the day, taken over unchanged from an indifferent impression, and bound with the psychically significant experience by means of the most copious associations. not only the combined idea of the botanical monograph, however, but also each of its separate elements, botanical and monograph, penetrates farther and farther, by manifold associations, into the confused tangle of the dream-thoughts. to botanical belong the recollections of the person of professor gartner (german: gartner = gardener), of his blooming wife, of my patient, whose name is flora, and of a lady concerning whom i told the story of the forgotten flowers. gartner, again, leads me to the laboratory and the conversation with koenigstein; and the allusion to the two female patients belongs to the same conversation. from the lady with the flowers a train of thoughts branches off to the favourite flowers of my wife, whose other branch leads to the title of the hastily seen monograph. further, botanical recalls an episode at the gymnasium, and a university examination; and a fresh subject- that of my hobbies- which was broached in the above-mentioned conversation, is linked up, by means of what is humorously called my favourite flower, the artichoke, with the train of thoughts proceeding from the forgotten flowers; behind artichoke there lies, on the one hand, a recollection of italy, and on the other a reminiscence of a scene of my childhood, in which i first formed an acquaintance- which has since then grown so intimate- with books. botanical, then, is a veritable nucleus, and, for the dream, the meeting-point of many trains of thought; which, i can testify, had all really been brought into connection by the conversation referred to. here we find ourselves in a thought-factory, in which, as in the weaver's masterpiece: the little shuttles to and fro fly, and the threads unnoted flow; one throw links up a thousand threads. monograph in the dream, again, touches two themes: the one-sided nature of my studies, and the costliness of my hobbies. the impression derived from this first investigation is that the elements botanical and monograph were taken up into the dream- content because they were able to offer the most numerous points of contact with the greatest number of dream-thoughts, and thus represented nodal points at which a great number of the dream- thoughts met together, and because they were of manifold significance in respect of the meaning of the dream. the fact upon which this explanation is based may be expressed in another form: every element of the dream-content proves to be over- determined- that is, it appears several times over in the dream- thoughts. we shall learn more if we examine the other components of the dream in respect of their occurrence in the dream-thoughts. the coloured plate refers (cf. the analysis in chapter v.) to a new subject, the criticism passed upon my work by colleagues, and also to a subject already represented in the dream- my hobbies- and, further, to a memory of my childhood, in which i pull to pieces a book with coloured plates; the dried specimen of the plant relates to my experience with the herbarium at the gymnasium, and gives this memory particular emphasis. thus i perceive the nature of the relation between the dream-content and dream-thoughts: not only are the elements of the dream determined several times over by the dream-thoughts, but the individual dream-thoughts are represented in the dream by several elements. starting from an element of the dream, the path of the association leads to a number of dream-thoughts; and from a single dream-thought to several elements of the dream. in the process of dream-formation, therefore, it is not the case that a single dream-thought, or a group of dream-thoughts, supplies the dream-content with an abbreviation of itself as its representative, and that the next dream-thought supplies another abbreviation as its representative (much as representatives are elected from among the population); but rather that the whole mass of the dream-thoughts is subjected to a certain elaboration, in the course of which those elements that receive the strongest and completest support stand out in relief; so that the process might perhaps be likened to election by the scrutin du liste. whatever dream i may subject to such a dissection, i always find the same fundamental principle confirmed- that the dream-elements have been formed out of the whole mass of the dream-thoughts, and that every one of them appears, in relation to the dream- thoughts, to have a multiple determination. it is certainly not superfluous to demonstrate this relation of the dream-content to the dream-thoughts by means of a further example, which is distinguished by a particularly artful intertwining of reciprocal relations. the dream is that of a patient whom i am treating for claustrophobia (fear of enclosed spaces). it will soon become evident why i feel myself called upon to entitle this exceptionally clever piece of dream- activity: ii. "a beautiful dream" the dreamer is driving with a great number of companions in x- street, where there is a modest hostelry (which is not the case). a theatrical performance is being given in one of the rooms of the inn. he is first spectator, then actor. finally the company is told to change their clothes, in order to return to the city. some of the company are shown into rooms on the ground floor, others to rooms on the first floor. then a dispute arises. the people upstairs are annoyed because those downstairs have not yet finished changing, so that they cannot come down. his brother is upstairs; he is downstairs; and he is angry with his brother because they are so hurried. (this part obscure.) besides, it was already decided, upon their arrival, who was to go upstairs and who down. then he goes alone up the hill towards the city, and he walks so heavily, and with such difficulty, that he cannot move from the spot. an elderly gentleman joins him and talks angrily of the king of italy. finally, towards the top of the hill, he is able to walk much more easily. the difficulty experienced in climbing the hill was so distinct that for some time after waking he was in doubt whether the experience was a dream or the reality. judged by the manifest content, this dream can hardly be eulogized. contrary to the rules, i shall begin the interpretation with that portion to which the dreamer referred as being the most distinct. the difficulty dreamed of, and probably experienced during the dream- difficulty in climbing, accompanied by dyspnoea- was one of the symptoms which the patient had actually exhibited some years before, and which, in conjunction with other symptoms, was at the time attributed to tuberculosis (probably hysterically simulated). from our study of exhibition-dreams we are already acquainted with this sensation of being inhibited in motion, peculiar to dreams, and here again we find it utilized as material always available for the purposes of any other kind of representation. the part of the dream-content which represents climbing as difficult at first, and easier at the top of the hill, made me think, while it was being related, of the well- known masterly introduction to daudet's sappho. here a young man carries the woman he loves upstairs; she is at first as light as a feather, but the higher he climbs the more she weighs; and this scene is symbolic of the process of their relation, in describing which daudet seeks to admonish young men not to lavish an earnest affection upon girls of humble origin and dubious antecedents. * although i knew that my patient had recently had a love-affair with an actress, and had broken it off, i hardly expected to find that the interpretation which had occurred to me was correct. the situation in sappho is actually the reverse of that in the dream; for in the dream climbing was difficult at the first and easy later on; in the novel the symbolism is pertinent only if what was at first easily carried finally proves to be a heavy burden. to my astonishment, the patient remarked that the interpretation fitted in very well with the plot of a play which he had seen the previous evening. the play was called rund um wien (round about vienna), and treated of the career of a girl who was at first respectable, but who subsequently lapsed into the demimonde, and formed relations with highly-placed lovers, thereby climbing, but finally she went downhill faster and faster. this play reminded him of another, entitled von stufe zu stufe (from step to step), the poster advertising which had depicted a flight of stairs. - * in estimating the significance of this passage we may recall the meaning of dreams of climbing stairs, as explained in the chapter on symbolism. to continue the interpretation: the actress with whom he had had his most recent and complicated affair had lived in x-street. there is no inn in this street. however, while he was spending part of the summer in vienna for the sake of this lady, he had lodged (german: abgestiegen = stopped, literally stepped off) at a small hotel in the neighbourhood. when he was leaving the hotel, he said to the cab-driver: "i am glad at all events that i didn't get any vermin here. exclamation point." (incidentally, the dread of vermin is one of his phobias.) whereupon the cab-driver answered: "how could anybody stop there. exclamation point. that isn't a hotel at all, it's really nothing but a pub. exclamation point." the pub immediately reminded him of a quotation: of a wonderful host i was lately a guest. but the host in the poem by uhland is an apple-tree. now a second quotation continues the train of thought: faust (dancing with the young witch). a lovely dream once came to me; i then beheld an apple-tree, and there two fairest apples shone: they lured me so, i climbed thereon. the fair one apples have been desired by you, since first in paradise they grew; and i am moved with joy to know that such within my garden grow. * * faust i. there is not the slightest doubt what is meant by the apple-tree and the apples. a beautiful bosom stood high among the charms by which the actress had bewitched our dreamer. judging from the context of the analysis, we had every reason to assume that the dream referred to an impression of the dreamer's childhood. if this is correct, it must have referred to the wet- nurse of the dreamer, who is now a man of nearly thirty years of age. the bosom of the nurse is in reality an inn for the child. the nurse, as well as daudet's sappho, appears as an allusion to his recently abandoned mistress. the (elder) brother of the patient also appears in the dream- content; he is upstairs, while the dreamer himself is downstairs. this again is an inversion, for the brother, as i happen to know, has lost his social position, while my patient has retained his. in relating the dream-content, the dreamer avoided saying that his brother was upstairs and that he himself was downstairs. this would have been to obvious an expression, for in austria we say that a man is on the ground floor when he has lost his fortune and social position, just as we say that he has come down. now the fact that at this point in the dream something is represented as inverted must have a meaning; and the inversion must apply to some other relation between the dream-thoughts and the dream- content. there is an indication which suggests how this inversion is to be understood. it obviously applies to the end of the dream, where the circumstances of climbing are the reverse of those described in sappho. now it is evident what inversion is meant: in sappho the man carries the woman who stands in a sexual relation to him; in the dream-thoughts, conversely, there is a reference to a woman carrying a man: and, as this could occur only in childhood, the reference is once more to the nurse who carries the heavy child. thus the final portion of the dream succeeds in representing sappho and the nurse in the same allusion. just as the name sappho has not been selected by the poet without reference to a lesbian practise, so the portions of the dream in which people are busy upstairs and downstairs, above and beneath, point to fancies of a sexual content with which the dreamer is occupied, and which, as suppressed cravings, are not unconnected with his neurosis. dream-interpretation itself does not show that these are fancies and not memories of actual happenings; it only furnishes us with a set of thoughts and leaves it to us to determine their actual value. in this case real and imagined happenings appear at first as of equal value- and not only here, but also in the creation of more important psychic structures than dreams. a large company, as we already know, signifies a secret. the brother is none other than a representative, drawn into the scenes of childhood by fancying backwards, of all of the subsequent for women's favours. through the medium of an experience indifferent in itself, the episode of the gentleman who talks angrily of the king of italy refers to the intrusion of people of low rank into aristocratic society. it is as though the warning which daudet gives to young men were to be supplemented by a similar warning applicable to a suckling child. * * the fantastic nature of the situation relating to the dreamer's wet-nurse is shown by the circumstance, objectively ascertained, that the nurse in this case was his mother. further, i may call attention to the regret of the young man in the anecdote related to p. 222 above (that he had not taken better advantage of his opportunities with his wet-nurse) as the probable source of his dream. in the two dreams here cited i have shown by italics where one of the elements of the dream recurs in the dream-thoughts, in order to make the multiple relations of the former more obvious. since, however, the analysis of these dreams has not been carried to completion, it will probably be worth while to consider a dream with a full analysis, in order to demonstrate the manifold determination of the dream-content. for this purpose i shall select the dream of irma's injection (see chapter ii). from this example we shall readily see that the condensation-work in the dream-formation has made use of more means than one. the chief person in the dream-content is my patient irma, who is seen with the features which belong to her waking life, and who therefore, in the first instance, represents herself. but her attitude, as i examine her at the window, is taken from a recollection of another person, of the lady for whom i should like to exchange my patient, as is shown by the dream-thoughts. inasmuch as irma has a diphtheritic membrane, which recalls my anxiety about my eldest daughter, she comes to represent this child of mine, behind whom, connected with her by the identity of their names, is concealed the person of the patient who died from the effects of poison. in the further course of the dream the significance of irma's personality changes (without the alteration of her image as it is seen in the dream): she becomes one of the children whom we examine in the public dispensaries for children's diseases, where my friends display the differences in their mental capacities. the transition was obviously effected by the idea of my little daughter. owing to her unwillingness to open her mouth, the same irma constitutes an allusion to another lady who was examined by me, and, also in the same connection, to my wife. further, in the morbid changes which i discover in her throat i have summarized allusions to quite a number of other persons. all these people whom i encounter as i follow up the associations suggested by irma do not appear personally in the dream; they are concealed behind the dream-person irma, who is thus developed into a collective image, which, as might be expected, has contradictory features. irma comes to represent these other persons, who are discarded in the work of condensation, inasmuch as i allow anything to happen to her which reminds me of these persons, trait by trait. for the purposes of dream-condensation i may construct a composite person in yet another fashion, by combining the actual features of two or more persons in a single dream-image. it is in this fashion that the dr. m of my dream was constructed; he bears the name of dr. m, and he speaks and acts as dr. m does, but his bodily characteristics and his malady belong to another person, my eldest brother; a single feature, paleness, is doubly determined, owing to the fact that it is common to both persons. dr. r, in my dream about my uncle, is a similar composite person. but here the dream-image is constructed in yet another fashion. i have not united features peculiar to the one person with the features of the other, thereby abridging by certain features the memory-picture of each; but i have adopted the method employed by galton in producing family portraits; namely, i have superimposed the two images, so that the common features stand out in stronger relief, while those which do not coincide neutralize one another and become indistinct. in the dream of my uncle the fair beard stands out in relief, as an emphasized feature, from a physiognomy which belongs to two persons, and which is consequently blurred; further, in its reference to growing grey the beard contains an allusion to my father and to myself. the construction of collective and composite persons is one of the principal methods of dream-condensation. we shall presently have occasion to deal with this in another connection. the notion of dysentry in the dream of irma's injection has likewise a multiple determination; on the one hand, because of its paraphasic assonance with diphtheria. and on the other because of its reference to the patient whom i sent to the east, and whose hysteria had been wrongly diagnosed. the mention of propyls in the dream proves again to be an interesting case of condensation. not propyls but amyls were included in the dream-thoughts. one might think that here a simple displacement had occured in the course of dream-formation. this is in fact the case, but the displacement serves the purposes of the condensation, as is shown from the following supplementary analysis: if i dwell for a moment upon the word propylen (german) its assonance with the word propylaeum suggests itself to me. but a propylaeum is to be found not only in athens, but also in munich. in the latter city, a year before my dream, i had visited a friend who was seriously ill, and the reference to him in trimethylamin, which follows closely upon propyls, is unmistakable. i pass over the striking circumstance that here, as elsewhere in the analysis of dreams, associations of the most widely differing values are employed for making thought-connections as though they were equivalent, and i yield to the temptation to regard the procedure by which amyls in the dream-thoughts are replaced in the dream-content by propyls as a sort of plastic process. on the one hand, here is the group of ideas relating to my friend otto, who does not understand me, thinks i am in the wrong, and gives me the liqueur that smells of amyls; on the other hand, there is the group of ideas- connected with the first by contrast- relating to my berlin friend who does understand me, who would always think that i was right, and to whom i am indebted for so much valuable information concerning the chemistry of sexual processes. what elements in the otto group are to attract my particular attention are determined by the recent circumstances which are responsible for the dream; amyls belong to the element so distinguished, which are predestined to find their way into the dream-content. the large group of ideas centering upon william is actually stimulated by the contrast between william and otto, and those elements in it are emphasized which are in tune with those already stirred up in the otto group. in the whole of this dream i am continually recoiling from somebody who excites my displeasure towards another person with whom i can at will confront the first; trait by trait i appeal to the friend as against the enemy. thus amyls in the otto group awakes recollections in the other group, also belonging to the region of chemistry; trimethylamin, which receives support from several quarters, finds its way into the dream-content. amyls, too, might have got into the dream-content unchanged, but it yields to the influence of the william group, inasmuch as out of the whole range of recollections covered by this name an element is sought out which is able to furnish a double determination for amyls. propyls is closely associated with amyls; from the william group comes munich with its propylaeum. both groups are united in propyls- propylaeum. as though by a compromise, this intermediate element then makes its way into the dream-content. here a common mean which permits of a multiple determination has been created. it thus becomes palpable that a multiple determination must facilitate penetration into the dream-content. for the purpose of this mean-formation a displacement of the attention has been unhesitatingly effected from what is really intended to something adjacent to it in the associations. the study of the dream of irma's injection has now enabled us to obtain some insight into the process of condensation which occurs in the formation of dreams. we perceive, as peculiarities of the condensing process, a selection of those elements which occur several times over in the dream-content, the formation of new unities (composite persons, mixed images), and the production of common means. the purpose which is served by condensation, and the means by which it is brought about, will be investigated when we come to study in all their bearings the psychic processes at work in the formation of dreams. let us for the present be content with establishing the fact of dream-condensation as a relation between the dream-thoughts and the dream-content which deserves attention. the condensation-work of dreams becomes most palpable when it takes words and means as its objects. generally speaking, words are often treated in dreams as things, and therefore undergo the same combinations as the ideas of things. the results of such dreams are comical and bizarre word-formations. 1. a colleague sent an essay of his, in which he had, in my opinion, overestimated the value of a recent physiological discovery, and had expressed himself, moreover, in extravagant terms. on the following night i dreamed a sentence which obviously referred to this essay: "that is a truly norekdal style." the solution of this word-formation at first gave me some difficulty; it was unquestionably formed as a parody of the superlatives colossal, pyramidal; but it was not easy to say where it came from. at last the monster fell apart into the two names nora and ekdal, from two well-known plays by ibsen. i had previously read a newspaper article on ibsen by the writer whose latest work i was now criticizing in my dream. 2. one of my female patients dreams that a man with a fair beard and a peculiar glittering eye is pointing to a sign-board attached to a tree which reads: uclamparia- wet. * * given by translator, as the author's example could not be translated. analysis.- the man was rather authoritative-looking, and his peculiar glittering eye at once recalled the church of san paolo, near rome, where she had seen the mosaic portraits of the popes. one of the early popes had a golden eye (this is really an optical illusion, to which the guides usually call attention). further associations showed that the general physiognomy of the man corresponded with her own clergyman (pope), and the shape of the fair beard recalled her doctor (myself), while the stature of the man in the dream recalled her father. all these persons stand in the same relation to her; they are all guiding and directing the course of her life. on further questioning, the golden eye recalled gold- money- the rather expensive psycho-analytic treatment, which gives her a great deal of concern. gold, moreover, recalls the gold cure for alcoholism- herr d, whom she would have married, if it had not been for his clinging to the disgusting alcohol habit- she does not object to anyone's taking an occasional drink; she herself sometimes drinks beer and liqueurs. this again brings her back to her visit to san paolo (fuori la mura) and its surroundings. she remembers that in the neighbouring monastery of the tre fontane she drank a liqueur made of eucalyptus by the trappist monks of the monastery. she then relates how the monks transformed this malarial and swampy region into a dry and wholesome neighbourhood by planting numbers of eucalyptus trees. the word uclamparia then resolves itself into eucalyptus and malaria, and the word wet refers to the former swampy nature of the locality. wet also suggests dry. dry is actually the name of the man whom she would have married but for his over-indulgence in alcohol. the peculiar name of dry is of germanic origin (drei = three) and hence, alludes to the monastery of the three (drei) fountains. in talking of mr. dry's habit she used the strong expression: "he could drink a fountain." mr. dry jocosely refers to his habit by saying: "you know i must drink because i am always dry" (referring to his name). the eucalyptus refers also to her neurosis, which was at first diagnosed as malaria. she went to italy because her attacks of anxiety, which were accompanied by marked rigors and shivering, were thought to be of malarial origin. she bought some eucalyptus oil from the monks, and she maintains that it has done her much good. the condensation uclamparia- wet is, therefore, the point of junction for the dream as well as for the neurosis. 3. in a rather long and confused dream of my own, the apparent nucleus of which is a sea-voyage, it occurs to me that the next port is hearsing, and next after that fliess. the latter is the name of my friend in b, to which city i have often journeyed. but hearsing is put together from the names of the places in the neighbourhood of vienna, which so frequently end in "ing": hietzing, liesing, moedling (the old medelitz, meae deliciae, my joy; that is, my own name, the german for joy being freude), and the english hearsay, which points to calumny, and establishes the relation to the indifferent dream-stimulus of the day- a poem in fliegende blatter about a slanderous dwarf, sagter hatergesagt (saidhe hashesaid). by the combination of the final syllable ing with the name fliess, vlissingen is obtained, which is a real port through which my brother passes when he comes to visit us from england. but the english for vlissingen is flushing, which signifies blushing, and recalls patients suffering from erythrophobia (fear of blushing), whom i sometimes treat, and also a recent publication of bechterew's, relating to this neurosis, the reading of which angered me. * * the same analysis and synthesis of syllables- a veritable chemistry of syllables- serves us for many a jest in waking life. "what is the cheapest method of obtaining silver. question mark. you go to a field where silverberries are growing and pick them; then the berries are eliminated and the silver remains in a free state." [translator's example]. the first person who read and criticized this book made the objection- with which other readers will probably agree- that "the dreamer often appears too witty." that is true, so long as it applies to the dreamer; it involves a condemnation only when its application is extended to the interpreter of the dream. in waking reality i can make very little claim to the predicate witty; if my dreams appear witty, this is not the fault of my individuality, but of the peculiar psychological conditions under which the dream is fabricated, and is intimately connected with the theory of wit and the comical. the dream becomes witty because the shortest and most direct way to the expression of its thoughts is barred for it: the dream is under constraint. my readers may convince themselves that the dreams of my patients give the impression of being quite as witty (at least, in intention), as my own, and even more so. nevertheless, this reproach impelled me to compare the technique of wit with the dream-work. 4. upon another occasion i had a dream which consisted of two separate parts. the first was the vividly remembered word autodidasker: the second was a faithful reproduction in the dream- content of a short and harmless fancy which had been developed a few days earlier, and which was to the effect that i must tell professor n, when i next saw him: "the patient about whose condition i last consulted you is really suffering from a neurosis, just as you suspected." so not only must the newly- coined autodidasker satisfy the requirement that it should contain or represent a compressed meaning, but this meaning must have a valid connection with my resolve- repeated from waking life- to give professor n due credit for his diagnosis. now autodidasker is easily separated into author (german, autor), autodidact, and lasker, with whom is associated the name lasalle. the first of these words leads to the occasion of the dream- which this time is significant. i had brought home to my wife several volumes by a well-known author who is a friend of my brother's, and who, as i have learned, comes from the same neighbourhood as myself (j. j. david). one evening she told me how profoundly impressed she had been by the pathetic sadness of a story in one of david's novels (a story of wasted talents), and our conversation turned upon the signs of talent which we perceive in our own children. under the influence of what she had just read, my wife expressed some concern about our children, and i comforted her with the remark that precisely such dangers as she feared can be averted by training. during the night my thoughts proceeded farther, took up my wife's concern for the children, and interwove with it all sorts of other things. something which the novelist had said to my brother on the subject of marriage showed my thoughts a by-path which might lead to representation in the dream. this path led to breslau; a lady who was a very good friend of ours had married and gone to live there. i found in breslau lasker and lasalle, two examples to justify the fear lest our boys should be ruined by women, examples which enabled me to represent simultaneously two ways of influencing a man to his undoing. * the cherchez la femme, by which these thoughts may be summarized, leads me, if taken in another sense, to my brother, who is still married and whose name is alexander. now i see that alex, as we abbreviate the name, sounds almost like an inversion of lasker, and that this fact must have contributed to send my thoughts on a detour by way of breslau. * lasker died of progressive paralysis; that is, of the consequences of an infection caught from a woman (syphilis); lasalle, also a syphilitic, was killed in a duel which he fought on account of the lady whom he had been courting. but the playing with names and syllables in which i am here engaged has yet another meaning. it represents the wish that my brother may enjoy a happy family life, and this in the following manner: in the novel of artistic life, l'oeuvre, which, by virtue of its content, must have been in association with my dream- thoughts, the author, as is well-known, has incidentally given a description of his own person and his own domestic happiness, and appears under the name of sandoz. in the metamorphosis of his name he probably went to work as follows: zola, when inverted (as children are fond of inverting names) gives aloz. but this was still too undisguised; he therefore replaced the syllable al, which stands at the beginning of the name alexander, by the third syllable of the same name, sand, and thus arrived at sandoz. my autodidasker originated in a similar fashion. my phantasy- that i am telling professor n that the patient whom we have both seen is suffering from a neurosis- found its way into the dream in the following manner: shortly before the close of my working year, i had a patient in whose case my powers of diagnosis failed me. a serious organic trouble- possibly some alterative degeneration of the spinal cord- was to be assumed, but could not be conclusively demonstrated. it would have been tempting to diagnose the trouble as a neurosis, and this would have put an end to all my difficulties, but for the fact that the sexual anamnesis, failing which i am unwilling to admit a neurosis, was so energetically denied by the patient. in my embarrassment i called to my assistance the physician whom i respect most of all men (as others do also), and to whose authority i surrender most completely. he listened to my doubts, told me he thought them justified, and then said: "keep on observing the man, it is probably a neurosis." since i know that he does not share my opinions concerning the aetiology of the neuroses, i refrained from contradicting him, but i did not conceal my scepticism. a few days later i informed the patient that i did not know what to do with him, and advised him to go to someone else. thereupon, to my great astonishment, he began to beg my pardon for having lied to me: he had felt so ashamed; and now he revealed to me just that piece of sexual aetiology which i had expected, and which i found necessary for assuming the existence of a neurosis. this was a relief to me, but at the same time a humiliation; for i had to admit that my consultant, who was not disconcerted by the absence of anamnesis, had judged the case more correctly. i made up my mind to tell him, when next i saw him, that he had been right and i had been wrong. this is just what i do in the dream. but what sort of a wish is fulfilled if i acknowledge that i am mistaken. question mark. this is precisely my wish; i wish to be mistaken as regards my fears- that is to say, i wish that my wife, whose fears i have appropriated in my dream-thoughts, may prove to be mistaken. the subject to which the fact of being right or wrong is related in the dream is not far removed from that which is really of interest to the dream- thoughts. we have the same pair of alternatives, of either organic or functional impairment caused by a woman, or actually by the sexual life- either tabetic paralysis or a neurosis- with which latter the nature of lasalle's undoing is indirectly connected. in this well-constructed (and on careful analysis quite transparent) dream, professor n appears not merely on account of this analogy, and my wish to be proved mistaken, or the associated references to breslau and to the family of our married friend who lives there, but also on account of the following little dialogue which followed our consultation: after he had acquitted himself of his professional duties by making the above- mentioned suggestion, dr. n proceeded to discuss personal matters. "how many children have you now. question mark."- "six."- a thoughtful and respectful gesture.- "girls, boys. question mark."- "three of each. they are my pride and my riches."- "well, you must be careful; there is no difficulty about the girls, but the boys are a difficulty later on as regards their upbringing." i replied that until now they had been very tractable; obviously this prognosis of my boys' future pleased me as little as his diagnosis of my patient, whom he believed to be suffering only from a neurosis. these two impressions, then, are connected by their continuity, by their being successively received; and when i incorporate the story of the neurosis into the dream, i substitute it for the conversation on the subject of upbringing, which is even more closely connected with the dream-thoughts, since it touches so closely upon the anxiety subsequently expressed by my wife. thus, even my fear that n may prove to be right in his remarks on the difficulties to be met with in bringing up boys is admitted into the dream-content, inasmuch as it is concealed behind the representation of my wish that i may be wrong to harbour such apprehensions. the same phantasy serves without alteration to represent both the conflicting alternatives. examination-dreams present the same difficulties to interpretation that i have already described as characteristic of most typical dreams. the associative material which the dreamer supplies only rarely suffices for interpretation. a deeper understanding of such dreams has to be accumulated from a considerable number of examples. not long ago i arrived at a conviction that reassurances like "but you already are a doctor," and so on, not only convey a consolation but imply a reproach as well. this would have run: "you are already so old, so far advanced in life, and yet you still commit such follies, are guilty of such childish behaviour." this mixture of self- criticism and consolation would correspond with the examination- dreams. after this it is no longer surprising that the reproaches in the last analysed examples concerning follies and childish behaviour should relate to repetitions of reprehensible sexual acts. the verbal transformations in dreams are very similar to those which are known to occur in paranoia, and which are observed also in hysteria and obsessions. the linguistic tricks of children, who at a certain age actually treat words as objects, and even invent new languages and artificial syntaxes, are a common source of such occurrences both in dreams and in the psychoneuroses. the analysis of nonsensical word-formations in dreams is particularly well suited to demonstrate the degree of condensation effected in the dream-work. from the small number of the selected examples here considered it must not be concluded that such material is seldom observed or is at all exceptional. it is, on the contrary, very frequent, but, owing to the dependence of dream interpretation on psychoanalytic treatment, very few examples are noted down and reported, and most of the analyses which are reported are comprehensible only to the specialist in neuropathology. when a spoken utterance, expressly distinguished as such from a thought, occurs in a dream, it is an invariable rule that the dream-speech has originated from a remembered speech in the dream- material. the wording of the speech has either been preserved in its entirety or has been slightly altered in expression. frequently the dream-speech is pieced together from different recollections of spoken remarks; the wording has remained the same, but the sense has perhaps become ambiguous, or differs from the wording. not infrequently the dream-speech serves merely as an allusion to an incident in connection with which the remembered speech was made. * * in the case of a young man who was suffering from obsessions, but whose intellectual functions were intact and highly developed, i recently found the only exception to this rule. the speeches which occurred in his dreams did not originate in speeches which he had heard had made himself, but corresponded to the undistorted verbal expression of his obsessive thoughts, which came to his waking consciousness only in an altered form. b. the work of displacement another and probably no less significant relation must have already forced itself upon our attention while we were collecting examples of dream-condensation. we may have noticed that these elements which obtrude themselves in the dream-content as its essential components do not by any means play this same part in the dream-thoughts. as a corollary to this, the converse of this statement is also true. that which is obviously the essential content of the dream-thoughts need not be represented at all in the dream. the dream is, as it were, centred elsewhere; its content is arranged about elements which do not constitute the central point of the dream-thoughts. thus, for example, in the dream of the botanical monograph the central point of the dream- content is evidently the element botanical; in the dream- thoughts, we are concerned with the complications and conflicts resulting from services rendered between colleagues which place them under mutual obligations; later on with the reproach that i am in the habit of sacrificing too much time to my hobbies; and the element botanical finds no place in this nucleus of the dream- thoughts, unless it is loosely connected with it by antithesis, for botany was never among my favourite subjects. in the sappho- dream of my patient, ascending and descending, being upstairs and down, is made the central point; the dream, however, is concerned with the danger of sexual relations with persons of low degree; so that only one of the elements of the dream-thoughts seems to have found its way into the dream-content, and this is unduly expanded. again, in the dream of my uncle, the fair beard, which seems to be its central point, appears to have no rational connection with the desire for greatness which we have recognized as the nucleus of the dream-thoughts. such dreams very naturally give us an impression of a displacement. in complete contrast to these examples, the dream of irma's injection shows that individual elements may claim the same place in dream-formation as that which they occupy in the dream-thoughts. the recognition of this new and utterly inconstant relation between the dream- thoughts and the dream-content will probably astonish us at first. if we find, in a psychic process of normal life, that one idea has been selected from among a number of others, and has acquired a particular emphasis in our consciousness, we are wont to regard this as proof that a peculiar psychic value (a certain degree of interest) attaches to the victorious idea. we now discover that this value of the individual element in the dream- thoughts is not retained in dream-formation, or is not taken into account. for there is no doubt which of the elements of the dream- thoughts are of the highest value; our judgment informs us immediately. in dream-formation the essential elements, those that are emphasized by intensive interest, may be treated as though they were subordinate, while they are replaced in the dream by other elements, which were certainly subordinate in the dream-thoughts. it seems at first as though the psychic intensity * of individual ideas were of no account in their selection for dream-formation, but only their greater or lesser multiplicity of determination. one might be inclined to think that what gets into the dream is not what is important in the dream-thoughts, but what is contained in them several times over; but our understanding of dream-formation is not much advanced by this assumption; to begin with, we cannot believe that the two motives of multiple determination and intrinsic value can influence the selection of the dream otherwise than in the same direction. those ideas in the dream-thoughts which are most important are probably also those which recur most frequently, since the individual dream-thoughts radiate from them as centres. and yet the dream may reject these intensely emphasized and extensively reinforced elements, and may take up into its content other elements which are only extensively reinforced. * the psychic intensity or value of an idea- the emphasis due to interest- is of course to be distinguished from perceptual or conceptual intensity. this difficulty may be solved if we follow up yet another impression received during the investigation of the over- determination of the dream-content. many readers of this investigation may already have decided, in their own minds, that the discovery of the multiple determination of the dream-elements is of no great importance, because it is inevitable. since in analysis we proceed from the dream-elements, and register all the ideas which associate themselves with these elements, is it any wonder that these elements should recur with peculiar frequency in the thought-material obtained in this manner. question mark. while i cannot admit the validity of this objection, i am now going to say something that sounds rather like it: among the thoughts which analysis brings to light are many which are far removed from the nucleus of the dream, and which stand out like artificial interpolations made for a definite purpose. their purpose may readily be detected; they establish a connection, often a forced and far-fetched connection, between the dream-content and the dream-thoughts, and in many cases, if these elements were weeded out of the analysis, the components of the dream-content would not only not be over-determined, but they would not be sufficiently determined. we are thus led to the conclusion that multiple determination, decisive as regards the selection made by the dream, is perhaps not always a primary factor in dream- formation, but is often a secondary product of a psychic force which is as yet unknown to us. nevertheless, it must be of importance for the entrance of the individual elements into the dream, for we may observe that, in cases where multiple determination does not proceed easily from the dream-material, it is brought about with a certain effort. it now becomes very probable that a psychic force expresses itself in the dream-work which, on the one hand, strips the elements of the high psychic value of their intensity and, on the other hand, by means of over-determination, creates new significant values from elements of slight value, which new values then make their way into the dream-content. now if this is the method of procedure, there has occurred in the process of dream-formation a transference and displacement of the psychic intensities of the individual elements, from which results the textual difference between the dream-content and the thought- content. the process which we here assume to be operative is actually the most essential part of the dream-work; it may fitly be called dream-displacement. dream-displacement and dream- condensation are the two craftsmen to whom we may chiefly ascribe the structure of the dream. i think it will be easy to recognize the psychic force which expresses itself in dream-displacement. the result of this displacement is that the dream-content no longer has any likeness to the nucleus of the dream-thoughts, and the dream reproduces only a distorted form of the dream-wish in the unconscious. but we are already acquainted with dream-distortion; we have traced it back to the censorship which one psychic instance in the psychic life exercises over another. dream-displacement is one of the chief means of achieving this distortion. is fecit, cui profuit. * we must assume that dream-displacement is brought about by the influence of this censorship, the endopsychic defence. *(2) * "the doer gained." *(2) since i regard the attribution of dream-distortion to the censorship as the central point of my conception of the dream, i will here quote the closing passage of a story, traumen wie wachen, from phantasien eines realisten, by lynkeus (vienna, second edition [1900]), in which i find this chief feature of my doctrine reproduced: "concerning a man who possesses the remarkable faculty of never dreaming nonsense...." "your marvellous faculty of dreaming as if you were awake is based upon your virtues, upon your goodness, your justice, and your love of truth; it is the moral clarity of your nature which makes everything about you intelligible to me." "but if i really give thought to the matter," was the reply, "i almost believe that all men are made as i am, and that no one ever dreams nonsense. exclamation point. a dream which one remembers so distinctly that one can relate it afterwards, and which, therefore, is no dream of delirium, always has a meaning; why, it cannot be otherwise. exclamation point. for that which is in contradiction to itself can never be combined into a whole. the fact that time and space are often thoroughly shaken up, detracts not at all from the real content of the dream, because both are without any significance whatever for its essential content. we often do the same thing in waking life; think of fairy-tales, of so many bold and pregnant creations of fantasy, of which only a foolish person would say: 'that is nonsense. exclamation point. for it isn't possible.'" "if only it were always possible to interpret dreams correctly, as you have just done with mine. exclamation point." said the friend. "that is certainly not an easy task, but with a little attention it must always be possible to the dreamer. you ask why it is generally impossible. question mark. in your case there seems to be something veiled in your dreams, something unchaste in a special and exalted fashion, a certain secrecy in your nature, which it is difficult to fathom; and that is why your dreams so often seem to be without meaning, or even nonsensical. but in the profoundest sense, this is by no means the case; indeed it cannot be, for a man is always the same person, whether he wakes or dreams." the manner in which the factors of displacement, condensation and over-determination interact with one another in dream-formation- which is the ruling factor and which the subordinate one- all this will be reserved as a subject for later investigation. in the meantime, we may state, is a second condition which the elements that find their way into the dream must satisfy, that they must be withdrawn from the resistance of the censorship. but henceforth, in the interpretation of dreams, we shall reckon with dream-displacement as an unquestionable fact.

PRAGUE INSTITUTE 2006



GRAPHIC DESIGN SUMMER STUDIO



COURSE DESCRIPTION


session one
Project 1 & 2
Martha Scotford, Instructor (3 weeks)

session two
Projects 3 & 4
Will Temple, Instructor (3 weeks)

PROJECT PREPARATION
You’ve been living in Prague during the summer now for a whole month. Think of ten things that best represent the impact of tourism on Prague. Write them down on ten pieces of paper.

THE TOURIST SHOW
The Tourist Show is a small temporary exhibition designed (and curated) by you. The exhibition will frame and document some of your reflections on tourism in Prague. We will discuss the program of the show next week. For now assume it will include a main structuring device or stand, secondary framing devices for artifacts and various interpretive devices.

CHOOSE A SITE
Choose a public outdoor space in Prague in which The Tourist Show will occur. Choose a space because you like it, want to study it, document it and work with it, not necessarily because it’s the best spot for tourists.

The space can be any outdoor space but it must be accessible by the public. You will need to become very familiar with your site. The site cannot already be used as an exhibition space. Assume changing weather conditions are not a concern. Daylight hours only are necessary.

Once you have chosen your site, map its location and pin the map up for others to visit.

VARIABLES TO CONSIDER for project four
Your exhibition…
- will employ existing contextual elements in central ways, context includes all existing built and planted features and noticeable usage patterns
- will occur at ground, body height and overhead levels.
- will utilize near (~0-36”), middle (3-10’) and far (10—‘) distances to communicate meaning
- could utilize objects visible beyond its installation to communicate meaning
- could use the experience of space over time to communicate meaning
- could use all senses (in addition to vision)
- could “challenge” the viewer in various ways
- could consider changes in lighting throughout the day
- should be convenient enough to the studio and/or pension for visiting, perhaps frequently




PRAGUE INSTITUTE 2006



PROJECT THREE



ANNOUNCE & DIRECT


« Design object(s) which announce(s) and direct(s) people to an exhibition
« Incorporate both “window” and “mirror” features into object(s)
« Work with word/image/semiotic object effectively at large scales
« Create informational forms that are responsive to specific environmental contexts


DESCRIPTION
In Project Three, you will design an object or objects that will announce and direct people to The Tourist Show. These artifacts can take any form you choose but they must be responsive to their specific environmental contexts. Their primary purpose is to catch attention and lead people to your show. Your work can take have any number of parts and be reproducible.

SEPARATE FUNCTIONS
Project Three must serve two different yet related functions, to announce and to direct. Although your objects could serve these functions at the same time, they MUST also (and at least) be served separately.

WORD AND IMAGE
Project must incorporate the use of word and image. Images could be 3d objects instead but must operate as legible icons, indexes or symbols.

FEATURES
"WINDOW"
The window feature refers to content that occurred before or will occur after viewing your design work. In this project, the window feature will already be fulfilled by the inclusion of the text below. Please include one additional window in addition to this.

"MIRROR"
The mirror feature refers to content occurring within and during the viewing experience of your design work. For the purposes of this project, the persons experiencing the object are one, tourists and two, residents of a city that relies heavily on the tourism trade. You cannot use reflective surfaces.

SCALE
Your object(s) or some portion thereof must be viewable by at least 500 people at any one time.

TEXT FOR PRAGUE
The Tourist Show (and translated into Czech)
Location (your chosen site)
July 2006

FOR VIENNA:
add "Prague"

VIENNA
Choose a site in Vienna for your object to occur (in addition to Prague). Photodocument and/or sketch the site. Have some portion of this instance of your object be responsive to this context.

READINGS
Hofman and Musil, Culture Meets Commerce: Tourism in Post-Communist Prague

Urry, John, The Tourist Gaze: Leisure and Travel in Contemporary Societies (Introduction)


IMAGES - to come

PRAGUE INSTITUTE 2006



PROJECT FOUR



FRAME & DISPLAY


« Design an exhibition which connects/unites/links the result of Project Three with five artifacts collected under the theme of tourism in Prague.
« Design a temporary outdoor exhibition that is responsive to context
« Work with word and image at three distinct scales
« Create a frame and displays which work together to create a unified whole


DESCRIPTION
In Project Four you will design objects which frame and display The Tourist Show. Beyond these objects, The Show will consist of a series of five artifacts chosen for their relevance to the theme of tourism in Prague. In Project Four you should imagine two basic categories of audience, the non-visitor and the visitor. Consider the visitor as your primary audience and the non-visitor as secondary.

FRAME
Design an armature which unites the different artifacts of the show into one, single-themed exhibition.* For the purposes of this project, the frame is two things at once. One, it mediates the relationship between the site and exhibition (the space of non-visitors). Two, it mediates the relationship between exhibition and artifact (space of visitors).

REQUIREMENTS FOR FRAME
- Its form must, to some extent, express its purpose as a temporary exhibition venue
- must be responsive to its context
- must, in part at least, control the movement of visitors according to one, general, preferred path
- must unite all displays and artifacts into one cohesive whole
- must, in some portion occur over the head of the visitor
- must include area for a 500 word bi-lingual introduction to the exhibition (can be used as word part of Level 2 below)
- must be viewable by a minimum 200 non-visitors at any one time
- must comfortably accommodate a minimum of 30 visitors at any one time

DISPLAYS
Design displays for each of the five artifacts. For the purposes of this project, a display is two things at once: The material means by which an artifact is brought to the attention of a viewer and the interpretive means by which an artifact’s meaning is contextualized and elucidated.

REQUIREMENTS FOR DISPLAYS
- two displays must appear to be integrated into the frame portion (1 detail)
- two displays must appear related to the frame portion (1 detail)
- fifth can be either (show one detail)
- appear to be designed in response to their particular artifact
- in combination with frame, provide spatial cues to guide visitor along one general, preferred path
- at least one display must use both word (250 word min) and image (min 3) to contextualize and elucidate the artifact's meaning (show “detail” view of one of these for presentation) (Same as "Level 3" below)
- at least one display must work with at least one of the following exhibition problems: suspension, 360 degree view ability, vitrine, sound and/or time based media, (or a challenge of your own).
- must work together as a set of parts to a whole and appear related to the frame

WORD AND IMAGE ADDRESS LEVELS
Your presentation must show how word and image are used to address people at the following three levels. Levels must function separately but also work together as one system. Must, in some measure, appear to visitor as related to Project Three (Announce and Direct). The phrase "The Tourist Show" (and trans.) must appear somewhere in Level 1, 2 or 3 (if 3 then on all five displays).

Level 1: Exhibition non-visitors (the aforementioned 200)
Level 2: Exhibition visitors (all 30)
Level 3: Viewers of one artifact (1-6 people)
(Same as Display requirement above)

* You could also consider having two sub themes if you wish.

READINGS
1. Macdonald, Sharon, Exhibitions of Power and Powers of Display: An Introduction to the Politics of Display
2. Janakova, Iva, Exhibiton Design (from Ladislav Sutnar monograph)

DISCUSSION POINTS
It is impossible to bring an artifact to the attention of a viewer without some measure of display. The forms of display always play some measurable role in shaping the meaning and interpretation of any exhibited artifact. The display of an artifact is not a "neutral" act. The intentions of those directly and indirectly responsible for putting artifacts on display have a direct impact on a viewer’s understanding of and relationship to any displayed artifact.



IMAGES - to come