The Rudolf Steiner Archive

4. On the Nature and Significance of Goethe’s Writings on Organic Formation

[ 1 ] The great significance of Goethe’s morphological works lies in the fact that they establish the theoretical foundation and methodology for the study of organic nature, which is a scientific achievement of the highest order.

[ 2 ] If one is to appreciate this properly, one must, above all, bear in mind the great difference that exists between phenomena of inorganic and those of organic nature. An example of a phenomenon of the former kind is the collision of two elastic balls. If one ball is at rest and the other strikes it in a certain direction and at a certain velocity, the first ball likewise acquires a certain direction of motion and a certain velocity. If the aim is to grasp such a phenomenon, this can only be achieved by transforming what is immediately present to the senses into concepts. We must succeed in this to such an extent that nothing sensually real remains that we have not conceptually penetrated. We see one sphere approaching, colliding with the other, and the latter continuing its motion. We have comprehended this phenomenon if, based on the mass, direction, and velocity of the first and the mass of the other, we can specify the velocity and direction of the latter; if we recognize that, under the given conditions, that phenomenon must necessarily occur. The latter, however, means nothing other than this: What presents itself to our senses must appear as a necessary consequence of what we must presuppose conceptually. If the latter is the case, then we can say that concept and phenomenon coincide. There is nothing in the concept that is not also in the phenomenon, and nothing in the phenomenon that is not also in the concept. Now we must examine more closely those conditions under which a phenomenon of inorganic nature occurs as their necessary consequence. Here an important circumstance comes into play: the sensually perceptible processes of inorganic nature are conditioned by relations that likewise belong to the sensory world. In our case, mass, velocity, and direction—that is, relations of the sensory world —come into consideration. Nothing else appears as a condition of the phenomenon. Only the circumstances that are immediately perceptible to the senses condition one another . A conceptual grasp of such processes is therefore nothing other than a derivation of the sensually perceptible and real from the sensually perceptible and real. Spatio-temporal relationships, mass, weight, or sensually perceptible forces such as light or heat are what give rise to phenomena that, in turn, belong to the same category. A body is heated and thereby increases in volume; both the former and the latter belong to the sensory world—both the cause and the effect. We therefore do not need to step outside the sensory world at all to understand such processes. We merely within the same realm derive one phenomenon from another. Thus, when we wish to explain such a phenomenon—that is, to grasp it conceptually—we need include in the concept no elements other than those that are also intuitively perceivable by our senses. We can observe everything we wish to understand. And therein lies the correspondence between perception (phenomenon) and concept. Nothing in these processes remains obscure to us, because we know the relationships from which they follow. With this, we have elucidated the essence of inorganic nature and, at the same time, shown to what extent we can explain it from within itself without going beyond it. No one has ever doubted this explicability since people first began to think about the nature of these things. Although people have not always followed the line of reasoning outlined above, from which the possibility of a correspondence between concept and perception follows, they have never hesitated to explain phenomena in the manner indicated, based on the nature of their own essence. ^{64Some philosophers claim that while we can indeed trace the phenomena of the sensory world back to their original elements (forces), we cannot explain these any more than we can explain the essence of life. In contrast, it should be noted that those elements are simple , i.e., they cannot be further composed of simpler elements. However, it is impossible to derive or explain them in their simplicity—not because our cognitive faculties are limited, but because they are self-subsistent; they are present to us in their immediacy; they are self-contained and cannot be derived from anything else.}

[ 3 ] However, the situation was different up until Goethe with regard to the phenomena of the organic world. In an organism, the characteristics perceptible to the senses—such as the shape, size, color, and temperature of an organ—are not determined by characteristics of the same kind. For example, one cannot say of a plant that the size, shape, and position of the root determine the characteristics perceptible to the senses in the leaf or flower. A body in which this were the case would not be an organism, but a machine. Rather, one must acknowledge that all sensory characteristics of a living being do not appear as a consequence of other sensory characteristics, ^{65This is precisely the contrast between the organism and the machine. In the latter, everything is a matter of interaction between the parts. Nothing real exists within the machine itself apart from this interaction. The unified principle that governs the interaction of those parts is absent from the object itself and lies outside it, in the mind of the designer as a plan. Only the most extreme short-sightedness can deny that this is precisely where the difference between an organism and a mechanism lies: that the principle which brings about the interrelation of the parts exists in the latter only externally (abstractly), whereas in the former it acquires real existence within the thing itself. Thus, the sensually perceptible relationships of the organism do not appear as a mere sequence of separate elements, but as governed by that inner principle, as a consequence of a principle that is no longer sensually perceptible. In this respect, it is just as little sensually perceptible as that plan in the mind of the designer, which, after all, exists only for the mind; indeed, it is essentially that plan, only that it has now been drawn into the inner core of the being and no longer exerts its effects through the mediation of a third party—that designer—but does so directly itself.} as is the case with inorganic nature. Rather, all sensory qualities appear here as a consequence of such a principle, which is no longer perceptible to the senses. They appear as a consequence of a higher unity hovering above the sensory processes. It is not the form of the root that determines that of the trunk, and in turn the form of the trunk that determines that of the leaf, and so on; rather, all these forms are determined by something standing above them, which itself is not in turn a form perceptible to the senses; they do indeed exist for one another, but not through one another. They do not condition one another, but are all conditioned by something else. Here, we cannot derive what we perceive sensually from sensually perceptible relationships; we must incorporate into the concept of these processes elements that do not belong to the world of the senses, we must go beyond the sensory world. Intuition is no longer sufficient ; we must grasp the unity conceptually if we are to explain the phenomena. As a result, however, a distance arises between intuition and concept; they no longer seem to coincide; the concept hovers above intuition. It becomes difficult to grasp the connection between the two. Whereas in inorganic nature concept and reality were one, here they seem to diverge and actually belong to two different worlds. Intuition, which presents itself directly to the senses, does not seem to carry its own justification or essence within itself. The object does not seem explainable in and of itself, because its concept is derived not from the object itself but from something else. Because the object does not appear to be governed by the laws of the sensory world, yet is present to the senses and appears to them, it is as if one were faced here with an insoluble contradiction in nature, as if there were a gulf between inorganic phenomena—which can be understood from within themselves—and organic beings, in which there is an intervention in the laws of nature, in which universally valid laws are suddenly violated. This gulf was, in fact, generally assumed in science up until Goethe ; it was only he who succeeded in uttering the words that solved the riddle. It was thought before him that only inorganic nature could be explained from within itself; in the case of organic nature, human cognitive faculties came to an end. The magnitude of Goethe’s achievement can best be appreciated when one considers that the great reformer of modern philosophy Kant not only fully shared that old error but even sought to find a scientific justification for it —namely, that the human mind would never succeed in explaining organic formations. He did indeed recognize the possibility of a mind—an *intellectus archetypus*, an intuitive mind—that would be capable of discerning the connection between concept and reality in organic beings just as in inorganic ones; yet he denied that human beings themselves possessed such a mind. For, according to Kant, the human mind has the characteristic that it can conceive of the unity, the concept of a thing, only as arising from the interaction of the parts—as an analytical universal derived through abstraction—but not in such a way that each individual part appears as the emanation of a specific concrete (synthetic) unity, a concept in intuitive form. Therefore, it is also impossible for this understanding to explain organic nature, for this would have to be conceived as acting from the whole into the parts. Kant says on this subject: “Our understanding, then, has this characteristic with regard to the faculty of judgment that knowledge is not determined by the latter—by the general—through the particular, and thus the particular cannot be derived from the general.” ^{66Kant, Critique of Judgment; Kehrbach edition, p. 294.} According to this, we would therefore have to forgo, in the case of organic formations, recognizing the necessary connection between the idea of the whole—which can only be conceived—and what appears to our senses in space and time. According to Kant, we would have to limit ourselves to recognizing that such a connection exists; but the logical requirement to recognize how the general thought, the idea, emerges from itself and reveals itself as sensually perceptible reality cannot be fulfilled in the case of organisms. Rather, we would have to assume that concept and reality stand in direct opposition to one another here and have been brought about by an influence lying outside of both, in much the same way that a human being constructs some composite object—such as a machine—based on an idea he has conceived. This denied the possibility of an explanation of the world of organisms; indeed, its impossibility seemed to have been proven.

[ 4 ] This was the state of affairs when Goethe set out to study the organic sciences. But he undertook this study only after he had been thoroughly prepared for it through repeated readings of the philosopher Spinoza.

[ 5 ] Goethe first turned to Spinoza in the spring of 1774. In *Poetry and Truth*, Goethe writes of this first encounter with the philosopher: ^{67Part III, Book 14.} “For after I had searched in vain throughout the world for a means of educating my eccentric nature, I finally came across the ˂Ethics˃ of this man.” In the summer of that same year, Goethe met Friedrich Jacobi. The latter, who had engaged more deeply with Spinoza—as evidenced by his *Letters on the Teachings of Spinoza* (1785)—was well-suited to introduce Goethe more deeply to the philosopher’s thought. Spinoza was also much discussed at the time, for in Goethe’s mind “everything was still in a state of initial action and reaction, fermenting and seething.” ^{68Poetry and Truth, Part III, Book 14.} Some time later, he found a book in his father’s library whose author fiercely attacked Spinoza, even distorting him into a complete caricature. This prompted Goethe to once again seriously engage with the profound thinker. In Spinoza’s writings, he found insights into the deepest scientific questions he was capable of raising at that time. In 1784, the poet read Spinoza with Mrs. von Stein. On November 19, 1784, he wrote to his friend: “I am bringing Spinoza in Latin, where everything is much clearer …” [WA 6, 392] The influence of this philosopher on Goethe was immense. Goethe himself was always aware of this. In 1816, he wrote to Zelter: “Apart from Shakespeare and Spinoza , I do not know of any other person who has had such an effect on me (as Linn詮” [WA 27, 219] He thus regards Shakespeare and Spinoza as the two minds that exerted the greatest influence on him. How this influence manifested itself in relation to his studies of organic formation becomes clearest to us when we recall a passage about Lavater from the “Italian Journey”: Lavater, too, held the view—which was generally accepted at the time—that a living being could arise only through an influence not inherent in the nature of beings themselves, through a disruption of the general laws of nature. Goethe wrote the following in response: “Recently, in a tiresome, apostolic-Capuchin-like declamation by the Zurich prophet, I found these nonsensical words: Everything that has life lives through something outside itself. Or something to that effect. A heathen proselytizer might write something like that, and when revising it, the Genius won’t tug at his sleeve.” ^{69Italian Journey, Oct. 5, 1787.} This is spoken entirely in the spirit of Spinoza. Spinoza distinguishes three kinds of knowledge. The first kind is that in which, upon hearing or reading certain words, we recall things and form certain ideas of them, similar to those through which we imagine things figuratively. The second kind of knowledge is that in which we form general concepts from sufficient ideas of the properties of things. The third kind of knowledge, however, is that in which we proceed from a sufficient conception of the real essence of some of God’s attributes to a sufficient knowledge of the essence of things. Spinoza calls this kind of knowledge *scientia intuitiva*, *i*—intuitive */i* knowledge. It was this latter, the highest kind of knowledge, that Goethe aspired to. Above all, one must be clear about what Spinoza means by this: Things are to be known in such a way that we recognize certain attributes of God in their essence. Spinoza’s God is the content of ideas in the world, the driving, all-sustaining, and all-supporting principle. One can now conceive of this either by positing it as an independent being, existing apart from finite beings, which has these finite things alongside it, governs them, and brings them into interaction. Or, one can conceive of this being as having been absorbed into the finite things, so that it no longer exists above and alongside them, but only in them. This view by no means denies that primordial principle; it fully acknowledges it, but regards it as poured out into the world. The first view regards the finite world as a revelation of the Infinite, but this Infinite remains intact in its essence; it does not lose anything of itself. It does not step outside itself; it remains what it was before its revelation. The second view likewise regards the finite world as a revelation of the Infinite, but it assumes that this Infinite, in becoming revealed, has stepped entirely outside itself, having placed itself—its own essence and life—into its creation, so that it now exists only in this . Since cognition is evidently a becoming aware of the essence of things, yet this essence can exist only to the extent that a finite being possesses a share of the primordial principle of all things, cognition is thus a becoming aware of that Infinite in things. ^{70Of certain attributes of God in them.} As we have explained above, prior to Goethe, it was generally assumed regarding inorganic nature that it could be explained from within itself, that it contained its own foundation and essence; this was not the case, however, with organic nature. Here, the essence that reveals itself in the object could not be recognized within the object itself. It was therefore posited as existing outside of it. In short: Organic nature was explained according to the first view, inorganic nature according to the second. As we have seen, Spinoza had demonstrated the necessity of a unified understanding. He was too much of a philosopher to have been able to extend this theoretical requirement to the specific branches of organic science.* This task was now reserved for Goethe. Not only the above statement, but also numerous others, prove to us that he firmly adhered to the Spinozist view. In *Poetry and Truth*: ^{71Part IV, Book 16.} “Nature acts according to eternal, necessary, and thus divine laws, such that even the Deity Himself could not alter them.” And regarding Jacobi’s book *On Divine Things and Their Revelation*, published in 1811, Goethe remarks: ^{72Daily and Annual Notebooks, 1811.} “How could I welcome a book by such a dearly beloved friend, in which I was to see the thesis carried out: that nature conceals God? Given my pure, profound, innate, and cultivated way of perceiving things, which had unwaveringly taught me to see God in nature and nature in God, so that this way of thinking formed the foundation of my entire existence—surely such a strange, one-sided, and narrow statement would not forever estrange me, in spirit, from the noblest of men, whose heart I loved with reverence?” Goethe was fully aware of the great stride he had taken in science; he recognized that by breaking down the barriers between inorganic and organic nature and consistently applying Spinoza’s mode of thought, he was bringing about a significant turning point in science. We find this insight expressed in the essay “Intuitive Judgment” . Having found in the Critique of Judgment Kant’s argument—which we cited above—regarding the inability of the human understanding to explain an organism, he expresses his opposition to it as follows: “Although the author (Kant) seems here to be alluding to a divine intellect, yet if, in the moral realm, through faith in God, virtue, and immortality, we are to elevate ourselves to a higher realm and draw nearer to the First Being, then it may well be the same in the intellectual realm: that by contemplating an ever-creating nature, we make ourselves worthy of spiritual participation in its productions. Since I had already, unconsciously and driven by an inner impulse, relentlessly pursued that archetypal and typical, and had even succeeded in constructing a naturalistic representation, nothing could now prevent me from courageously undertaking the adventure of reason, as the old man from Königsberg himself calls it.” [Natw. Schr., Vol. 1, p. 116.]

[ 6 ] The essence of a process in inorganic nature—or, to put it another way, of a process belonging solely to the sensory world—lies in the fact that it is brought about and determined by another process that also belongs solely to the sensory world. Let us now assume that the causative process consists of the elements m, c, and r, ^{73mass, direction, and velocity of a moving elastic sphere.} and the effected process consists of m', c', and r'; then, for any given m, c, and r, m', c', and r' are determined precisely by those. If I now wish to comprehend the process, I must represent the entire process—composed of cause and effect—in a single concept. This concept, however, is not such that it lies within the process itself or that it could determine the process. Rather, it synthesizes both processes into a single expression. It neither causes nor determines. Only the objects of the sensory world determine themselves. The elements m, c, and r are also elements perceptible to the external senses. The concept appears only to serve the mind as a means of synthesis; it expresses something that is not ideal, not conceptual, but sensually real. And that which it expresses is a sensually perceptible object. The knowledge of inorganic nature rests on the possibility of apprehending the external world through the senses and expressing its interactions through concepts. Kant regarded the possibility of recognizing things in this way as the only one available to human beings. He called this mode of thinking “discursive”; what we seek to know is external intuition; the concept, the unifying principle, is merely a means. But if we were to know organic nature, we would not have to conceive of the ideal moment—the conceptual—as something that expresses or signifies something else, borrowing its content from that other, but rather we would have to know the ideal as such ; it would have to possess its own content, arising from itself and not from the spatio-temporal sensory world. That unity, which our mind merely abstracts from the sensory world, would have to be based on itself; it would have to form itself from within; it would have to be constituted in accordance with its own essence, not according to the influences of other objects. The apprehension of such an entity—one that takes shape out of itself and reveals itself through its own power—should be denied to human beings. What, then, is necessary for such an apprehension? A faculty of judgment that can endow a thought with content other than merely that which is received through the external senses—a faculty that can apprehend not only what is perceptible to the senses but also the purely ideal in and of itself, separate from the sensory world. One can now call a concept that is not derived by abstraction from the sensory world, but which has a content flowing from it and only from it, an intuitive concept, and the knowledge of it, intuitive. What follows from this is clear: An organism can only be grasped in the intuitive concept . Goethe demonstrates through his actions that human beings are capable of such cognition.*

[ 7 ] In the inorganic world, the parts of a series of phenomena interact with one another, and the elements of that series are mutually dependent in a chaotic manner. In the organic world, this is not the case. Here, it is not one part of a being that determines another, but rather the whole (the idea) determines each individual part from within itself, in accordance with its own essence. This self-determining principle can be called, following Goethe, an entelechy . Entelechy is thus the power that calls itself into existence from within itself. What appears in the phenomenal world also has a sensually perceptible existence, but this is determined by that entelechic principle. This is also the source of the apparent contradiction. The organism determines itself from within, forms its properties in accordance with a presupposed principle, and yet it is sensually real. It has thus attained its sensory reality in a completely different way than the other objects of the sensory world; it therefore seems to have come into being by non-natural means. Yet it is also entirely understandable that, in its external form, the organism is just as exposed to the influences of the sensory world as any other body. A stone falling from a roof can strike a living being just as easily as an inorganic body. Through the intake of food, etc., the organism is connected to the external world; all physical conditions of the external world act upon it. Of course, this can only take place insofar as the organism is an object of the sensory world—a spatio-temporal object. This object of the external world—the entelechic principle that has come into existence—is the external appearance of the organism. But since it is subject here not only to its own laws of formation but also to the conditions of the external world—since it is not merely as it ought to be according to the nature of the self-determining entelechic principle, but is dependent on and influenced by other factors—it never appears, as it were, entirely true to itself, never merely obeying its own essence. This is where human reason steps in and forms in the idea an organism that is not in accordance with the influences of the external world, but corresponds solely to that principle. Every contingent influence that has nothing to do with the organic as such is thereby entirely eliminated. This idea, which corresponds purely to the organic in the organism, is the idea of the primordial organism, Goethe’s “Typus” . From this, one can also see the profound validity of this idea of the “Typus.” It is not merely an intellectual concept; it is that which is truly organic in every organism, without which the organism would not be an organism. It is even more real than any single actual organism, because it reveals itself in every organism. It also expresses the essence of an organism more fully and purely than any single, particular organism. It is derived in a fundamentally different way than the concept of an inorganic process. The latter is detached, abstracted from reality; it is not active within reality; the idea of the organism, however, is active and effective within the organism as an entelechy; in the form grasped by our reason, it is merely the essence of the entelechy itself. It does not summarize experience; it brings about that which is to be experienced. Goethe expresses this with the words: “A concept is the sum, an idea the result of experience; to derive the former requires understanding, to grasp the latter requires reason.” (Sayings in Prose [Natural Writings, Vol. 4, Part 2, p. 379]) This explains the kind of reality that pertains to Goethe’s primordial organism (primordial plant or primordial animal). This Goethean method is evidently the only one capable of penetrating the essence of the world of organisms.

[ 8 ] In the inorganic realm, it is essential to recognize that the phenomenon, in all its diversity, is not identical to the law that explains it, but merely points to the latter as its external manifestation. Intuition—the material element of cognition—which is given to us through the external senses, and the concept—the formal element—through which we recognize intuition as necessary, stand in opposition to one another as two elements that are objectively interdependent; however, the concept does not lie within the individual members of a series of phenomena themselves, but rather in the relationship of these members to one another. This relation, which synthesizes diversity into a unified whole, is grounded in the individual parts of what is given, but as a whole (as unity) it does not come into real, concrete appearance. Only the elements of this relationship come into external existence—in the object. The unity, the concept, appears as such only in our mind. Its task is to synthesize the multiplicity of appearance; it relates to the latter as a sum. We are dealing here with a duality: the manifold thing that we contemplate, and the unity that we think. In organic nature, the parts of a being’s manifold do not stand in such an external relationship to one another. Unity comes into reality at the same time as diversity, as identical with it in what is perceived. The relationship between the individual members of a whole of phenomena (organism) has become a real one. It no longer appears concretely merely in our understanding, but in the object itself, in which the latter brings forth diversity from within itself. The concept does not merely play the role of a sum, of a synthesizing element that has its object outside itself; it has become completely one with it. What we contemplate is no longer distinct from that through which we think the object of our contemplation; we contemplate the concept as the Idea itself. Hence Goethe calls the faculty through which we comprehend organic nature “contemplative power of judgment.” The explanatory—the formal aspect of cognition, the concept—and the explained—the material aspect, intuition—are identical. The idea through which we grasp the organic is thus essentially different from the concept through which we explain the inorganic; it does not merely summarize a given multiplicity—as a sum—but derives its own content from within itself. It is the result of the given (of experience), a concrete phenomenon. Herein lies the reason why, in inorganic natural science, we speak of laws (laws of nature) and explain the facts through them, whereas in organic natural science, In organic nature, however, we do this through types . The law is not one and the same as the multiplicity of perception it governs; it stands above it; in the type, however, the ideal and the real have become one, and the multiplicity can only be explained as emanating from a point within the whole with which it is identical.

[ 9 ] The significance of Goethe’s research lies in his recognition of this relationship between the science of the inorganic and that of the organic. It is therefore a mistake to regard the latter, as is often done today, as a precursor to that form of monism which seeks to establish a unified view of nature encompassing both the organic and the inorganic by striving to reduce the former to the same laws—the mechanical-physical categories and laws of nature—by which the latter is governed. We have seen how Goethe conceives of a monistic view. The way he explains the organic is fundamentally different from the way he approaches the inorganic. He wants the mechanical mode of explanation to be strictly rejected when it comes to that which is of a higher order (see “Sprüche in Prosa” [Natw. Schr., Vol. 4, Part 2, p. 413]). He criticizes Kieser and Link for attempting to reduce organic phenomena to inorganic modes of action. (Ibid., Vol. 1, pp. 198 and 206.)

[ 10 ] The reason for the erroneous view of Goethe mentioned above lies in the position he took vis-à-vis Kant regarding the possibility of understanding organic nature. But when Kant asserts that our reason is incapable of explaining organic nature, he certainly does not mean that it is based on mechanical laws, nor that he cannot grasp it solely as a consequence of mechanical-physical categories. According to Kant, the reason for this inability lies rather precisely in the fact that our reason can explain only mechanical-physical phenomena, and the essence of the organism is not of this nature. If it were, the mind could very well comprehend it by virtue of the categories at its disposal. Goethe does not, however, intend to explain the organic world despite Kant as a mechanism; rather, he asserts that we by no means lack the capacity to recognize the higher form of natural agency that constitutes the essence of the organic.

[ 11 ] When we consider what was said earlier, a fundamental difference between inorganic and organic nature immediately becomes apparent. Because in the former, any given process can trigger another, which in turn triggers yet another, and so on, the sequence of events never appears to be a closed one. Everything is in constant interaction, without any particular group of objects being able to isolate itself from the influence of others. Inorganic chains of effects have neither beginning nor end; what follows is connected to what precedes it only by chance. If a stone falls to the ground, the effect it produces depends on the chance shape of the object onto which it falls. The situation is different, however, in an organism. Here, unity comes first. The entelechy, built upon itself, contains a number of sensible forms of configuration, one of which must be the first and another the last; forms in which one can follow the other only in a very specific manner. The ideal unity produces from within itself a series of sensible organs in temporal succession and spatial juxtaposition and isolates itself from the rest of nature in a very specific way. It brings its states into being from within itself. Therefore, they can only be understood by tracing the formation of successive states emerging from an ideal unity, that is, an organic being can only be understood in its becoming, in its development. The inorganic body is closed off, rigid, capable of being stimulated only from the outside, and immobile within. The organism is restlessness within itself, constantly reshaping, transforming, and undergoing metamorphoses from within. The following statements by Goethe refer to this: “Reason depends on what is becoming, the intellect on what has become; the former does not ask: ‘Why?’; the latter does not ask: ‘Where from?’—Reason delights in development; the intellect wishes to hold on to everything so that it may make use of it” (“Sayings in Prose”; Natural Writings, Vol. 4, Part 2, p. 373) and “Reason has dominion only over the living; the world that has come into being, with which geognosy concerns itself, is dead.” [Ibid., p. 373]

[ 12 ] In nature, the organism appears to us in two main forms: as a plant and as an animal; in each in a different way. The plant differs from the animal in its lack of a real inner life. In the animal, the latter manifests itself as sensation, voluntary movement, etc. The plant does not possess such a spiritual principle. It is still entirely absorbed in its outward appearance, in its form. Since that entelechial principle determines life, as it were, from a single point, it manifests itself in the plant in such a way that all individual organs are formed according to the same organizing principle. Entelechy appears here as the formative power of the individual organs. The latter are all constructed according to one and the same formative type; they appear as modifications of a basic organ, as repetitions of the same at various stages of development. That which makes the plant a plant—a certain form-forming power—is active in every organ in the same way. Each organ thus appears as identical to all the others and also to the entire plant. Goethe expresses this as follows: “It has dawned on me, in fact, that in that organ of the plant which we usually refer to as a leaf, the true Proteus lies hidden, capable of concealing and revealing itself in all forms. From beginning to end, the plant is always and only a leaf, so inseparably united with the future bud that one cannot conceive of one without the other.” ^{74Italian Journey, May 17, 1787.} The plant thus appears, as it were, to be composed of nothing but individual plants—a more complex individual consisting, in turn, of simpler ones. The plant’s development thus proceeds step by step, forming organs; each organ is identical to every other, that is, the same in terms of the principle of formation but different in appearance. The plant’s inner unity, as it were, expands outward; it expresses itself through diversity and loses itself in it, so that—unlike what we will later observe in animals—it does not acquire a concrete existence endowed with a certain degree of autonomy, which stands as the center of life in relation to the diversity of organs and serves as a mediator with the external world.

[ 13 ] This raises the question: What causes this diversity in the appearance of plant organs that are identical in their inner principles? How is it possible for the laws of formation—which all operate according to a single principle of form—to produce a leaf in one instance and a sepal in another? In the life of the plant, which lies entirely in the external, this difference can only be based on external, that is, spatial factors. Goethe regards alternating expansion and contraction as such factors. As the entelechial principle of plant life—acting from a single point—comes into being, it manifests itself as spatial; the formative forces act within space. They produce organs of a specific spatial form. Now, these forces either concentrate—they converge, as it were, toward a single point; and this is the stage of contraction—or they expand, unfold, and seek, so to speak, to move away from one another: this is the stage of expansion. Throughout the plant’s entire life, three expansions alternate with three contractions. Everything that enters into the plant’s formative forces—which are identical in essence—stems from this alternating expansion and contraction. At first, the entire plant, in terms of potential, rests at a single point contracted within the seed (a). From there, it now emerges and unfolds, expanding during leaf formation (c). The formative forces repel one another more and more, which is why the lower leaves still appear rough and compact (cc’); the higher up they are, the more ribbed and serrated they become. What was previously crowded together now moves apart (leaves d and e). What was formerly arranged in successive intervals (zz') reappears at a single point on the stem (w) during the formation of the calyx (f). The latter constitutes the second contraction. In the corolla, a new unfolding, spreading , takes place. The petals (g) are finer and more delicate than the sepals; this can only result from a lower intensity at a single point—that is, from a greater extension of the formative forces. In the reproductive organs [stamens (h) and pistil (i)], the next contraction occurs, followed by a new expansion during fruit formation (k). In the seed (a) emerging from the fruit, the entire essence of the plant appears once again condensed into a single point. ^{75The fruit develops through the outgrowth of the lower part of the pistil (ovary 1); it represents a later stage of the same structure and can therefore only be depicted separately. The final expansion occurs during fruit formation. Plant life differentiates itself into 2n a final organ—the actual fruit—and into the seed; in the former, all aspects of the phenomenon are, as it were, united; it is mere appearance; it becomes alienated from life and turns into a dead product. All the inner, essential aspects of plant life are concentrated in the seed. A new plant arises from it. It has become almost entirely ideal; its appearance is reduced to a minimum.}

[ 15 ] The entire plant represents merely an unfolding, a realization of the potential that lies dormant in the bud or seed. Buds and seeds need only the appropriate external influences to develop into fully formed plants. The difference between a bud and a seed is simply that the latter has the earth as the direct foundation for its unfolding, whereas the former generally represents a plant formation on the plant itself. The seed represents a plant individual of a higher order, or, if you will, an entire group of plant forms. With every bud formation, the plant begins, as it were, a new stage of its life; it regenerates itself and concentrates its forces in order to unfold them anew. Bud formation is thus at the same time an interruption of vegetation. Plant life can contract into a bud when the conditions for actual, real life are lacking, only to unfold anew when those conditions return. The interruption of vegetation in winter is based on this. Goethe says the following about it: ^{76Italian Journey, Dec. 2, 1786.} “It is quite interesting to observe how vegetation that continues vigorously and is not interrupted by severe cold behaves; here there are no buds, and one only then begins to understand what a bud is.” What thus lies hidden in the bud here is openly visible there; it is therefore true plant life that lies in the latter; only the conditions for its unfolding are lacking.

[ 16 ] There has been particularly strong opposition to Goethe’s concept of alternating expansion and contraction, but all attacks on it stem from a misunderstanding. It is believed that these concepts could only be valid if a physical cause for them could be found, if one could demonstrate a mode of action of the laws operating within the plant from which such expansion and contraction would result. This merely shows that the issue is being viewed from the top down rather than from the ground up. Nothing is to be presupposed that causes expansion or contraction; on the contrary: everything else is a consequence of the former; they bring about a progressive metamorphosis from stage to stage. One simply cannot conceive of the concept in its own, intuitive form; one demands that it represent the result of an external process. One can conceive of expansion and contraction only as being caused, not as causing. Goethe does not view expansion and contraction as if they followed from the nature of the inorganic processes taking place in the plant, but rather regards them as the manner in which that inner entelechial principle takes shape. He could not, therefore, regard them as the sum or synthesis of perceptible processes and deduce them from such processes, but had to derive them as a consequence of the inner, unified principle itself.

[ 17 ] Plant life is sustained by metabolism. In this regard, there is a fundamental difference between those organs that are closer to the root—that is, the organ responsible for absorbing nutrients from the soil—and those that receive nutrients that have already passed through other organs. The former appear to be directly dependent on their external inorganic environment, while the latter depend on the organic parts that precede them. Each subsequent organ therefore receives nourishment that has, as it were, been prepared for it by the preceding organ. Nature progresses from seed to fruit in a series of stages, so that what follows appears as the result of what preceded it. And Goethe calls this progression “progress on a spiritual ladder.” Nothing more than what we have indicated lies in his words: “that an upper node, in that it arises from the preceding one and receives the sap indirectly through it, obtains a finer and more filtered sap, also benefits from the influence of the leaves that has occurred in the meantime, must develop itself more finely, and must supply its leaves and buds with finer sap.” All these things become understandable when one interprets them in the sense intended by Goethe.

[ 18 ] The ideas set forth here are the elements inherent in the essence of the primordial plant, and specifically in the manner appropriate only to the plant itself—not as they appear in a particular plant, where they are no longer in their original form but are adapted to external conditions.

[ 19 ] In the case of animal life, however, something different occurs. Here, life does not lose itself in outward appearance, but rather separates itself, detaches itself from physicality, and uses physical appearance merely as its tool. It no longer manifests itself as a mere capacity to shape an organism from within, but rather manifests itself within an organism as something that still exists outside the organism, as its governing power. The animal appears as a self-contained world, a microcosm in a much higher sense than the plant. It has a center to which every organ is subservient.

“Thus every mouth is adept at taking in the food
that the body requires, whether it be frail and toothless
or powerful and well-toothed; in every case,
a suitable organ conveys the nourishment to the other limbs.
Likewise, every foot—whether long or short—
moves harmoniously in accordance with the animal’s senses and needs.” ^{77“Metamorphosis of Animals”; cf. Natw. Schr., Vol. 1, p. 344.}

[ 20 ] In a plant, the whole plant is present in every organ, but the life principle does not exist anywhere as a specific center; the identity of the organs lies in their being shaped according to the same laws. In an animal, each organ appears to originate from that center; the center, in accordance with its nature, forms all the organs. The form of the animal is thus the foundation of its external existence. However, it is determined from within. The mode of life must therefore conform to those internal principles of form. On the other hand, internal formation is in itself unrestricted and free; it can adapt to external influences within certain limits; yet this formation is determined by the internal nature of the type and not by mechanical influences from without. Adaptation, therefore, cannot go so far as to make the organism appear merely as a product of the external world. Its formation is limited within certain bounds.

“No god expands these boundaries; nature honors them;
For only within such limits was perfection ever possible.” ^{78*Metamorphosis of Animals*, op. cit., p. 345.}

[ 21 ] If every animal being were governed solely by the principles inherent in the primordial animal, they would all be the same. However, the animal organism is divided into a multitude of organ systems, each of which can reach a certain degree of development. This gives rise to diverse forms of development. Although, in theory, all systems are equal to one another, one system may nevertheless come to the fore, drawing upon the reservoir of formative forces inherent in the animal organism and diverting it away from the other organs. The animal thus appears to be particularly developed in the direction of that organ system. Another animal appears to be developed in a different direction. Herein lies the possibility of differentiation of the primordial organism as it manifests itself in genera and species.

[ 22 ] However, this does not yet account for the real (actual) causes of differentiation. Here, two factors come into play: adaptation, by which the organism shapes itself in accordance with the external conditions surrounding it, and the struggle for existence, which ensures that only those beings best adapted to the prevailing circumstances survive. However, adaptation and the struggle for existence could have no effect whatsoever on the organism if the principle constituting the organism were not one capable of assuming the most diverse forms while maintaining its inner unity at all times. The relationship between the external formative forces and this principle should by no means be understood as if the former exerted a determining influence on the latter in the same way that one inorganic entity influences another. External conditions are indeed the cause that the type develops into a specific form; but this form itself must be derived not from external conditions, but from the internal principle. In this explanation, one must always look to the former, but the form itself must not be regarded as their consequence. Goethe would have rejected the derivation of an organism’s forms from the surrounding external world through mere causality just as he rejected the teleological principle, according to which the form of an organ was attributed to an external purpose it was supposed to serve.

[ 23 ] In those organ systems of animals where the external structure is of greater importance—for example, the bones—the same law observed in plants reemerges, as in the formation of the skull bones. Goethe’s gift for recognizing inner regularity in purely external forms is particularly evident here.

[ 24 ] The distinction between plants and animals established by Goethe’s views might seem insignificant in light of the fact that modern science has grounds for justified doubts regarding a clear boundary between plants and animals. Goethe, however, was already aware of the impossibility of drawing such a boundary (see Natw. Schr. , Vol. 1, p. 11). Nevertheless, there are specific definitions of plants and animals. This is connected to his entire view of nature. He assumes in appearance absolutely no constant, fixed element; for in the latter, everything fluctuates in constant motion. However, the essence of a thing that is to be captured in a concept is not to be derived from fluctuating forms, but rather from certain intermediate stages at which it can be observed (see op. cit., p. 8). It is entirely natural in Goethe’s view that one establishes certain definitions, even though these are not captured in the experience of certain transitional forms. Indeed, he sees precisely in this the dynamic life of nature.

[ 25 ] With these ideas, Goethe laid the theoretical foundation for organic science. He discovered the essence of the organism. It is easy to misunderstand this if one demands that the type—that principle which shapes itself out of itself (entelechy)—be explained by something else. But this is an unfounded demand, because the type, grasped in its intuitive form, explains itself. For anyone who has grasped that “self-forming-after-its-own-nature” aspect of the entelechic principle, this constitutes the solution to the riddle of life. No other solution is possible, because this is the very essence of the matter itself. If Darwinism must presuppose a primordial organism, then one can say of Goethe that he discovered the essence of that primordial organism. ^{79In modern natural science, the term “proto-organism” is usually understood to mean a proto-cell (proto-zyte), i.e., a simple entity situated at the lowest stage of organic development. Here, one has in mind a very specific, real, and tangibly concrete entity. When one speaks of a “primordial organism” in the Goethean sense, it is not this that is to be considered, but rather that essence (substance), that formative, entelechial principle which causes that primordial cell to be an organism. This principle manifests itself in the simplest organism just as it does in the most perfect one, only in different forms. It is the animality within the animal, that which makes a being an organism. Darwin presupposes it from the very beginning; it is there, is introduced, and then he says of it that it reacted to the influences of the external world in this or that way. For him, it is an indeterminate X; Goethe seeks to explain this indeterminate X.} It was Goethe who broke with the mere juxtaposition of genera and species and undertook a regeneration of organic science in accordance with the nature of the organism. While the pre-Goethean taxonomy required as many different concepts (ideas) as there were externally distinct genera—between which no mediation existed—Goethe explained that, in terms of their idea, all organisms are the same, differing only in appearance; and he explained why this is so. This laid the philosophical foundation for a scientific system of organisms. All that remained was to carry it out. It would have to be shown how all real organisms are merely manifestations of an idea and how they manifest themselves in a specific case.

[ 26 ] The great contribution this made to science was also widely recognized by scholars with a deep education. The younger d’Alton ^{80Goethe’s Scientific Correspondence (1812–1832), ed. by F. Th. Bratranek, Vol. 1, p. 28.} wrote to Goethe on July 6, 1827: “I would consider it the greatest reward if Your Excellency—to whom the natural sciences owe not only a complete transformation in the form of magnificent overviews and new perspectives in botany, but also numerous excellent contributions in the field of osteology—were to recognize in these pages a commendable endeavor.” Nees von Esenbeck ^{81Ibid., Vol. 2, p. 19 ff.} on June 24, 1820: “In your treatise, which you titled ˂An Attempt to Explain the Metamorphosis of Plants˃, the plant first spoke to us about itself, and this beautiful personification also captivated me when I was still young.” Finally, Voigt ^{82Ibid., Vol. 2, p. 330 ff.} on June 6, 1831: “It was with keen interest and humble gratitude that I received the short treatise on metamorphosis, which now, as an early adherent of this doctrine, incorporates me most graciously into its historical record. It is strange that people have been more lenient toward animal metamorphosis—I do not mean the old one of insects, but that which originates from the spine—than toward plant metamorphosis. Aside from the plagiarisms and abuses, this tacit acceptance may be rooted in the belief that one risks less with it. For in the skeleton, the isolated bones remain eternally the same, whereas in botany, metamorphosis threatens to overturn the entire terminology and, consequently, the classification of species , and this is what the weak fear, because they do not know where such a thing might lead.” Here, there is a full understanding of Goethe’s ideas. There is an awareness that a new way of viewing the individual must take hold; and it is from this new perspective that the new systematics—the consideration of the particular—should first emerge. The type, built upon itself, contains the potential to assume infinitely diverse forms as it manifests itself; and these forms are the object of our sensory perception—they are the genera and species of organisms living in space and time. By grasping that general idea—the type—our mind has comprehended the entire kingdom of organisms in its unity. When it now contemplates the configuration of the type in each particular form of appearance , the latter becomes comprehensible to it; it appears to it as one of the stages, the metamorphoses, in which the type is realized. And to elucidate these various stages should be the essence of the systematics to be established by Goethe. In both the animal and plant kingdoms, there is an ascending series of development; organisms are divided into perfect and imperfect forms. How is this possible? The ideal form, the type of organisms, is characterized precisely by the fact that it consists of spatial and temporal elements. It therefore also appeared to Goethe as a sensible-supersensible form. It contains spatio-temporal forms as an ideal intuition (intuitive). When it then appears in reality, the truly (no longer intuitively) sensible form may or may not correspond completely to that ideal form; the type may or may not reach its perfect development. Lower organisms are precisely lower because their outward form does not fully correspond to the organic type. The more the outward appearance and the organic type coincide in a given organism, the more perfect that organism is. This is the objective basis for an ascending series of development. The task of a systematic presentation is to demonstrate this relationship for every form of organism. However, when establishing the type—the primordial organisms—this cannot be taken into account; the sole concern must be to find a form that represents the most perfect expression of the type. Goethe’s primordial plant is intended to provide such a form.

[ 27 ] Goethe has been criticized for failing to take the world of cryptogams into account when formulating his typus. We have already pointed out that this could only have been done in a fully conscious manner, since he did, in fact, engage in the study of these plants. However, there is an objective reason for this. Cryptogams are precisely those plants in which the primordial plant is expressed only in a highly one-sided manner; they represent the idea of the plant in a one-sided, sensually perceptible form. They can be judged by the established idea; this idea, however, only comes to its full expression in the phanerogams.

[ 28 ] What must be said here, however, is that Goethe never fully realized this elaboration of his fundamental ideas, that he did not venture far enough into the realm of the particular. Consequently, all his works remain fragmentary. His intention to shed light on this matter as well is evident from his words in the *Italian Journey* (September 27, 1786), that with the help of his ideas it would be possible for him to “truly define genera and species, which, it seems to me, has so far been done very arbitrarily.” He did not carry out this project; he did not specifically elucidate the connection between his general ideas and the world of the particular, with the reality of individual forms. He himself regarded this as a shortcoming of his fragments; on June 28, 1828, he wrote to [F.J.] Soret von de Candolle regarding this: “It is also becoming increasingly clear to me how he views the intentions that guide me—intentions that are indeed expressed clearly enough in my short essay on metamorphosis, but whose relevance to empirical botany, as I have long known, is not made clear enough. ” [WA 44, 161] This is likely also the reason why Goethe’s views were so misunderstood; for they were misunderstood solely because they were not understood at all.

[ 29 ] In Goethe’s concepts, we also find an ideal explanation for the fact discovered by Darwin and Haeckel that the developmental history of the individual represents a repetition of phylogenetic history. For what Haeckel offers here cannot be taken as anything more than an unexplained fact. It is the fact* that every individual undergoes, in abbreviated form, all those stages of development that paleontology simultaneously presents to us as distinct organic forms. Haeckel and his followers explain this through the law of heredity. But the latter is itself nothing other than a condensed expression of the aforementioned fact. The explanation for this is that those forms, as well as every individual, are manifestations of one and the same archetype, which, in successive periods of time, brings to fruition the formative powers potentially inherent within it. Every higher individual is more perfect precisely because it is not hindered by the favorable influences of its environment from unfolding completely freely in accordance with its inner nature. If, on the other hand, the individual is forced by various influences to remain at a lower stage, only some of its inner powers come to the fore, and what constitutes a whole in that individual is then only a part of a whole in the more perfect individual. And in this way, the higher organism appears in its development to be composed of the lower ones, or the lower ones appear in their development as parts of the higher one. We must therefore recognize in the development of a higher animal the development of all lower ones (the biogenetic law). Just as the physicist is not content merely to state and describe the facts, but investigates the laws governing them—that is, the concepts underlying the phenomena—so too, for anyone who wishes to penetrate the nature of organic beings, it is not enough to merely cite the facts of kinship, inheritance, the struggle for existence, etc., but must seek to recognize the ideas underlying these phenomena. We find this aspiration in Goethe. Just as Kepler’s three laws are to the physicist, so are Goethe’s ideas of type to the biologist. Without them, the world is for us a mere labyrinth of facts. This has often been misunderstood. It is claimed that the concept of metamorphosis in Goethe’s sense is merely a metaphor, one that has essentially taken shape in our minds through abstraction. It is said that it would not have been clear to Goethe that the concept of the transformation of leaves into floral organs only makes sense if the latter—for example, the stamens—were once actual leaves. But this turns Goethe’s views on their head. A sensually perceptible organ is made the first in principle, and the other is derived from it in a sensually perceptible way. This is not what Goethe ever meant. For him, that which is first in terms of time is by no means also first in terms of the idea or the principle. It is not because the stamens were once true leaves that they are related to the latter today; no, but because they are related ideally, according to their inner essence, they once appeared as true leaves. The sensory transformation is merely a consequence of the ideal relationship, and not the other way around. Today, the empirical fact of the identity of all lateral organs of the plant is established, but why are these called identical? According to Schleiden, it is because they all develop along the axis in such a way that they are pushed out as lateral protrusions, so that lateral cell formation remains only at the original body and no new cells form at the initially formed tip. This is a purely external kinship, and the idea of identity is regarded as its consequence. The matter is different again with Goethe. For him, the lateral organs are identical in their idea, in their inner essence; therefore, they also appear outwardly as identical formations. The sensory resemblance is, for him, a consequence of the inner, ideal one. Goethe’s conception differs from the materialist one in terms of the questions it raises; the two do not contradict each other, but rather complement one another. Goethe’s ideas form the foundation for the latter. Goethe’s ideas are not merely a poetic prophecy of later discoveries, but independent theoretical discoveries that are still far from being sufficiently appreciated and from which the natural sciences will continue to draw for a long time to come. Even if the empirical facts he used have long since been superseded—and in some cases even refuted—by more precise, detailed research, the ideas he formulated are, once and for all, fundamental to organic science, for they are independent of those empirical facts. Just as every newly discovered planet must orbit its fixed star according to Kepler’s laws, so must every process in organic nature occur according to Goethe’s ideas. Long before Kepler and Copernicus, people observed the phenomena in the starry sky. It was only later that the laws governing them were discovered. Long before Goethe, people observed the organic realm of nature; Goethe discovered its laws. Goethe is the Copernicus and Kepler of the organic world.

[ 30 ] One can also understand the essence of Goethe’s theory in the following way. Alongside ordinary empirical mechanics, which merely collects facts, there is also a rational mechanics that deduces a priori laws as necessary from the inner nature of the fundamental mechanical principles. Just as the former relates to the latter, so do the theories of Darwin, Haeckel, and others relate to Goethe’s rational organic theory. This aspect of his theory was not immediately clear to Goethe from the outset. Later, however, he expresses it quite decisively. When, on January 21, 1832, he wrote to Heinr. Wilh. Ferd. Wackenroder on January 21, 1832: “Continue to acquaint me with everything that interests you; it ties in somewhere with my reflections” [WA 49,211], he simply means to say that he has discovered the fundamental principles of organic science, from which everything else must be derivable. In earlier times, however, all of this worked unconsciously in his mind, and he dealt with the facts accordingly. ^{83Goethe often perceived this unconscious behavior as dullness. See K. J. Schröer, *Faust by Goethe*, 6th ed., Stuttgart 1926, Vol. II, pp. XXXIV ff.} It only became concrete to him through that first scientific conversation with Schiller, which we reproduce below. ^{84Natw. Schr., Vol. 1, pp. 108 ff.} Schiller immediately recognized the ideal nature of Goethe’s “primordial plant” and asserted that no reality could correspond to such a thing. This prompted Goethe to reflect on the relationship between what he called a “type” and empirical reality. Here he encountered a problem that ranks among the most significant in human inquiry: the problem of the connection between idea and reality, between thought and experience. This became increasingly clear to him: no individual empirical object corresponds perfectly to its type; no entity in nature was identical to it. The content of the concept of “type” cannot, therefore, originate from the sensory world as such, even though it is derived from that same world. It must, therefore, lie within the “type” itself; the idea of the primordial entity could only be one that, by virtue of a necessity inherent in itself, develops a content from within itself, which then appears in another form —in the form of intuition—in the world of phenomena. In this regard, it is interesting to see how Goethe himself, in contrast to empirical natural scientists, advocates for the rights of experience and the strict distinction between idea and object. In 1786, Sömmerring sent him a book in which he (Sömmerring) attempted to discover the seat of the soul. In a letter addressed to Sömmerring on August 28, 1796, Goethe found that the latter had interwoven too much metaphysics with his intuitions; an idea concerning objects of experience has no justification if it goes beyond them, if it is not grounded in the very nature of the objects themselves. In the case of objects of experience, the idea is an organ that serves to grasp, as a necessary connection, what would otherwise be merely perceived in blind juxtaposition and succession. However, since the idea must not add anything new to the object, it follows that the latter itself, by its very nature, is ideal, and that empirical reality must have two sides: one in which it is particular and individual, and the other in which it is ideal and universal.

[ 31 ] Goethe’s interactions with contemporary philosophers and his reading of their works led him to consider various perspectives in this regard. Schelling’s work *On the World Soul* and his *[First] Draft of a System of Natural Philosophy* ([Goethe’s] *Annals* for 1798–1799), as well as Steffen’s *Fundamentals of Philosophical Natural Science*, had a stimulating effect on him. He also discussed various matters with Hegel. These inspirations ultimately led him to revisit Kant, whom Goethe had previously studied at Schiller’s urging. In 1817 (see Annals), he examined, from a historical perspective, Kant’s influence on his ideas about nature and natural phenomena. It is to this reflection, which delves into the very heart of science, that we owe the essays:

A Happy Occasion,
Contemplative Judgment,
Reflection and Resignation,
The Drive for Knowledge,
The Project Is Excused,
The Intention Is Set in Motion,
The Content Is Preface,
The History of My Botanical Studies

The Writing of the Essay on the Metamorphosis of Plants.

[ 32 ] All of these essays express the idea already hinted at above, namely that every object has two sides: the first, immediate side of its appearance (form of appearance), and the second, which contains its essence . In this way, Goethe arrives at the only truly satisfying view of nature, which establishes the one truly objective method. If a theory regards the idea as something foreign to the object itself—as merely subjective—then it cannot claim to be truly objective if it makes use of the idea at all. Goethe, however, can claim to add nothing to the objects that is not already present within them.

[ 33 ] Goethe also delved into the specific, factual details of those branches of knowledge to which his ideas related. In 1795 (see K. A. Böttiger, *Literarische Zustände und Zeitgenossen*, etc., Vol. I, Leipzig 1838, p. 49), he attended Loder’s lectures on the theory of ligaments; indeed, he never lost sight of anatomy and physiology during this period, which seems all the more important given that he was writing down his lectures on osteology at precisely that time. In 1796, experiments were conducted to grow plants in the dark and under colored glass. Later, the metamorphosis of insects was also studied.

[ 34 ] Another suggestion came from the philologist [F. A.] Wolf, who drew Goethe’s attention to his namesake Wolff [WA 27, 209 ff.], who, in his *Theoria generationis* as early as 1759, had expressed ideas similar to Goethe’s regarding the metamorphosis of plants. This prompted Goethe to study Wolff more closely, which he did in 1807 (see Annals for 1807 and *Natw. Schr.*, Vol. 1, p. 5); however, he later found that, for all his acumen, Wolff had not yet grasped the main points clearly. He was not yet familiar with the concept of the “type” as something non-sensory, whose content develops solely out of inner necessity. He still regarded the plant as an external, mechanical combination of details.

[ 35 ] His interactions with numerous fellow naturalists, as well as the joy he felt at finding that his endeavors had been recognized and emulated by many kindred spirits, led Goethe in 1807 to consider publishing the fragments of his scientific studies that he had kept private until then. He gradually abandoned his plan to write a major work on the natural sciences. However, the individual essays were not yet published in 1807. His interest in the theory of colors pushed morphology back into the background for some time. The first issue of the series did not appear until 1817. By 1824, two volumes had been published—the first in four installments, the second in two. In addition to essays on Goethe’s own views, we find here reviews of significant literary works in the field of morphology, as well as treatises by other scholars, whose arguments, however, always serve to complement Goethe’s explanation of nature.

[ 36 ] Goethe was prompted to engage more intensively with the natural sciences on two further occasions. In both cases, it was significant literary works in the field of these sciences that were most closely connected to his own endeavors. The first time, the works of the botanist Martius on the tendency toward spirals provided the inspiration; the second time, it was a scientific dispute within the French Academy of Sciences.

[ 37 ] Martius described the plant form in terms of its development as a combination of a spiral tendency and a vertical tendency. The vertical tendency causes growth in the direction of the root and the stem; the spiral tendency causes expansion in the leaves, flowers, etc. Goethe saw in this idea merely a further elaboration—one that took spatial aspects (vertical, spiral) into account—of the ideas he had already set forth in his 1790 treatise on metamorphosis. Regarding the evidence for this assertion, we refer to the notes on Goethe’s essay “On the Spiral Tendency of Vegetation,” ^{85Na-tw. Schr., Vol. 1, p. 217ff.} from which it is evident that Goethe presents nothing substantially new in this essay compared to his earlier ideas. We would like to address this particularly to those who claim that a regression on Goethe’s part can even be perceived here—from his earlier clear insights to the “deepest depths of mysticism.”

[ 38 ] Even in his twilight years (1830–32), Goethe wrote two essays on the dispute between the two French paleontologists Cuvier and Geoffroy Saint-Hilaire. In these essays, we once again find the principles of Goethe’s view of nature summarized with striking brevity.

[ 39 ] Cuvier was an empiricist in the tradition of the older naturalists. For each animal species, he sought a specific term that corresponded to it. He believed he had to incorporate as many distinct types into the conceptual framework of his system of organic nature as there were distinct animal species in nature. However, in his system, these distinct types stood side by side without any connection. What he failed to take into account is the following. Our need for knowledge is not satisfied by the particular as such, as it immediately presents itself to us in appearance. But since we approach an entity of the sensory world with no other intention than to recognize that very entity, it cannot be assumed that the reason we are not satisfied with the particular as such lies in our cognitive faculties. Rather, it must lie in the object itself. The essence of the particular itself is by no means exhausted in this particularity of its own; in order to be understood, it urges us toward something that is not a particular but a universal. This ideal-universal is the true essence—the core—of every particular existence. The latter has in particularity only one aspect of its existence, while the second is the universal—the type—(see Goethe’s “Prose Sayings”; Natural Scientific Writings, Vol. 4, Part 2, p. 374). This is how it is to be understood when one speaks of the particular as a form of the universal. Since the true essence—the content of the particular—is thus the ideal-universal, it is impossible for the latter to be derived from the particular or abstracted from it. Since it cannot borrow its content from anywhere else, it must provide this content for itself. The typical-universal is therefore one in which content and form are identical. For this reason, however, it can also be grasped only as a whole, independent of the particular. The task of science is to show, in every particular, how it, by its very nature, is subordinate to the ideal-universal. Through this, the particular kinds of existence enter into a state of mutual determination and interdependence. What can otherwise only be perceived as a spatial-temporal juxtaposition and succession is seen in the necessary connection. Cuvier, however, wanted nothing to do with the latter view. It was, on the other hand, the view held by Geoffroy Saint-Hilaire. This is, in reality, the perspective from which Goethe took an interest in that dispute. The matter was often distorted by the fact that, through the lens of the most modern views, the facts were seen in a completely different light than they appear when approached without bias. Geoffroy drew not only on his own research but also on that of several German like-minded colleagues, among whom he also mentions Goethe.

[ 40 ] Goethe took an extraordinary interest in this matter. He was overjoyed to find a kindred spirit in Geoffroy Saint-Hilaire: “Now Geoffroy Saint-Hilaire is firmly on our side, and with him all the prominent scholars and followers in France. This event is of quite incredible value to me, and I rightly rejoice over the final victory of a cause to which I have dedicated my life and which is, above all, my own,” he told Eckermann on August 2, 1830. It is, in general, a curious phenomenon that Goethe’s research found greater resonance in Germany among philosophers than among naturalists, whereas in France it resonated more strongly with the latter. De Candolle paid the greatest attention to Goethe’s theory of metamorphosis and, in general, approached botany in a manner not far removed from Goethe’s views. Moreover, Goethe’s *Metamorphosis* had already been translated into French by [F. de] Gingins-Lassaraz. Under such circumstances, Goethe could well hope that a translation of his botanical writings into French, prepared with his collaboration, would not fall on barren ground. Such a translation was indeed delivered in 1831 by Friedrich Jakob Soret, with Goethe’s ongoing assistance. It included that first “Attempt” from 1790 (see Natw. Schr., Vol. 1, pp. 17ff.); the history of Goethe’s botanical studies (ibid., pp. 61ff.) and the impact of his teachings on his contemporaries (ibid., pp. 194ff.), as well as some remarks on de Candolle, in French with the German text in parallel.