The Rudolf Steiner Archive

5. Human Character

[ 1 ] Reading the words Goethe wrote after contemplating Schiller’s skull can leave a deep impression on the human soul. He was able to make this observation while he was present at the exhumation of Schiller’s remains, as they were to be transferred from the temporary grave where they lay to the Princely Crypt in Weimar.

[ 2 ] Goethe then took Schiller’s skull in his hand and believed that, in the shape and contours of this marvelous form, he could recognize the very essence of Schiller’s spirit, as if in an imprint. The way in which the spiritual essence expresses itself in the lines and forms of matter inspired Goethe to write the most beautiful words:

What more can a person gain in life,
Than for God-Nature to reveal itself to him,
How it allows the solid to dissolve into spirit,
How it firmly preserves what the spirit has created!

[ 3 ] Anyone who knows how to appreciate a mood such as the one that once pervaded Goethe’s soul will, starting from that mood, easily be able to direct their thoughts toward all those phenomena in life where an inner essence works its way outward to reveal itself externally in material form, in sculptural design, in lines, and in other ways. But in the most eminent sense, we find such shaping and imprinting, such a revelation of an inner being, in what we call human character. For human character expresses in the most manifold ways what a person experiences again and again; we understand it as a unified whole when we speak of human character. Indeed, we have the sense that character is something that, so to speak, is an essential part of a person’s entire being, and that it strikes us as a flaw when what a person thinks, feels, and does cannot be brought into harmony in a certain way. We speak of a rupture in a person’s being, of a rupture in their character, as something truly flawed in their nature. If a person expresses this or that principle and ideal in their private life, and at other times in public life in a completely opposite or at least divergent manner, we say that their being is falling apart, that their character has a fracture. And one is aware that such a fracture can drive a person into difficult situations in life—or even, quite possibly, into ruin. Goethe sought to point out what such a fragmentation of the human being means in a remarkable saying that he incorporated into his *Faust*. We are referring here to a saying that is very often misquoted, even by people who believe they know what Goethe truly intended. The saying in question is from Goethe’s *Faust*:

Two souls dwell, alas! in my breast,
One wishes to part from the other;
One, in crude lust for love,
Clings to the world with clinging limbs;
The other rises forcefully from the dust
To the realms of lofty ancestors.

[ 4 ] This inner conflict is very often presented as if it were something desirable for human beings. Goethe by no means characterizes it as something desirable; rather, it becomes quite clear at this point that he wants Faust, in that era, to express just how miserable he feels under the influence of these two impulses—one striving toward ideal heights, the other descending toward the earthly. This is meant to imply something unsatisfying. Goethe seeks to characterize precisely that which Faust is meant to transcend. We must not present this conflict as something legitimate in human character, but only as something that is to be overcome precisely through the unified character that is to be attained.

[ 5 ] But if we wish to bring the essence of human character before our souls, we must once again take into account what we outlined regarding the nature of devotion. We must again bear in mind that what we call the true life of the human soul—the human inner life—is not simply a chaos of jostling sensations, drives, ideas, passions, and ideals; rather, we must state with complete clarity that this human soul is divided into three distinct parts; that we can distinguish quite precisely: the lowest member of the soul, the sensory soul; the middle member of the soul, the intellectual or emotional soul; and the highest member of the soul, the conscious soul. These three members must be distinguished within human soul life. However, they must not fall apart within this human soul. The human soul must be a unity. What, then, unites these three parts of the soul into a unity within the human being? It is precisely that which we call, in the true sense, the human “I,” the bearer of human self-consciousness.

[ 6 ] Thus, this human soul appears to us in such a way that we must divide it into its three parts: the lowest part of the soul—the sensory soul; the middle part—the intellectual soul or emotional soul; and the highest part— the conscious soul—and the “I” appears to us, as it were, as the active agent, the actor who plays upon the three soul components within our soul being, just as a person plays the strings of an instrument. And that harmony or disharmony which the “I” brings forth from the interplay of the three soul components is what underlies the human character.

[ 7 ] The “I” is truly something like an inner musician who, at times, sets the soul of feeling, at times the soul of understanding or the soul of emotion, and at times the soul of consciousness into action with a powerful stroke; but when these three soul elements resonate together, their effects manifest as harmony or disharmony, which are revealed through the human being and appear as the very foundation of his character. Of course, we have described character here only in very abstract terms; for if we wish to understand it as it actually manifests in human beings, we must delve somewhat deeper into the whole of human life and being; we must show how this harmonious and disharmonious interplay of the “I” with the soul components is expressed in the entire human personality as it stands before us, and how it reveals itself to the outside world.

[ 8 ] This human life—as we have often emphasized—appears to us as something that alternates daily between states of wakefulness and states of sleep. When a person falls asleep in the evening, their sensations, their pleasure, their suffering, their joy, their pain, all their drives, desires, and passions, all their perceptions and impressions, ideas, and ideals sink into an indeterminate darkness; and their true inner self passes into a state of unconsciousness or the subconscious.

[ 9 ] What happened there? — Well, what happens as we fall asleep becomes clear to us when we recall something that has already been discussed: that, from the perspective of spiritual science, the human being is a complex being, consisting of various parts. What we already know about this must be outlined again today so that we can grasp the entire nature of the character that underlies the human being.

[ 10 ] Everything in the human being that is revealed to us in relation to the external sensory world—what we can see with our eyes, touch with our hands, and what external science alone can observe—is what spiritual science calls the human physical body. But that which permeates and interweaves this physical body of the human being—that which, between birth and death, prevents this physical body from being a corpse, from succumbing to its own physical and chemical forces—we call the etheric or life body in spiritual science. Essentially, the outer human being is composed of the physical and etheric bodies. Then we have a third component of the human being; which is the bearer of everything we see sinking into an indeterminate darkness as we fall asleep. We refer to this third member of the human being as the astral body. This astral body is the bearer of pleasure and suffering, joy and pain, of drives, desires, and passions—of everything that ebbs and flows within the soul during waking life. And within this astral body lies the very center of our being: the “I.” For the ordinary human being, however, this astral body is further subdivided, for within it we find, as subdivisions, so to speak, what has been listed to you as the soul components: the feeling soul, the intellectual soul, and the conscious soul.

[ 11 ] When a person falls asleep in the evening, the physical body and the etheric body remain in bed; the astral body steps out, along with everything we call the sensory soul, the intellectual or emotional soul, and the conscious soul; the “I” also steps out. The astral body and the “I,” in their entirety, are in a spiritual world during the state of sleep. Why does a person enter this spiritual world every night? Why must they leave their physical body and their etheric body behind every night? This serves a good purpose for human life. We can truly grasp this purpose if we now consider the following: Spiritual science tells us that the astral body is the bearer of pleasure and suffering, of joy and pain, of drives, desires, and passions! Fine! But these are precisely the experiences that sink into an indeterminate darkness as we fall asleep. Nevertheless, it is claimed that the astral body, together with the “I,” is in the spiritual worlds—the true inner human being is in a spiritual world, is in a spiritual world together with the astral body. — But instincts and passions—all that which actually resides in the astral body—do, so to speak, fade away into an indeterminate darkness during the night. Isn’t that a contradiction?

[ 12 ] Well, the contradiction is only apparent. In fact, the astral body is the vehicle of pleasure and suffering, of joy and pain, of all the inner emotional experiences of the day that ebb and flow; but it cannot perceive them on its own, as human beings are today.

[ 13 ] In order for this astral body and the “I” to perceive their own experiences, they depend on these inner experiences being reflected outwardly; and they can only be reflected if, upon waking in the morning, the “I” together with the astral body merges into the etheric and physical bodies. Thus, for everything a person experiences inwardly—for all pleasure and suffering, for joy and pain, and so on—the physical body, but especially the etheric body, acts like a mirror that reflects back what we experience within. Just as we see ourselves in a mirror, so do we see what we experience in the astral body reflected in the mirror of our physical and etheric bodies; but we must not believe that this soul life, which unfolds before our soul from morning to evening, requires no effort to come about. The inner being of the human being—the “I” and the astral body, everything that constitutes the consciousness soul, the intellectual soul, and the feeling soul—must work with its forces upon the physical body and the etheric body; it must, so to speak, through its interaction with these two bodies of the human being, first bring about the ebb and flow of daily life.

[ 14 ] During the course of the day, certain forces are expended. In this interaction between a person’s inner being and their outer self, soul forces are continually expended. This is expressed in the fact that in the evening a person feels tired—that is, unable to draw from within those forces that enable them to intervene in the workings of the etheric and physical bodies. When, in the evening, a person feels in their weariness how that which most actively mediates their spirit into matter begins to falter, when they feel unable to speak, when sight, smell, taste, and finally hearing—the most spiritual of the senses—gradually fade away because the person cannot draw upon these forces from within, then this shows us how these forces have been depleted during the course of the day.

[ 15 ] Where, then, do the forces come from that are expended from morning until evening? These forces come from night life, from the state of sleep. During the life the soul leads from falling asleep to waking up, it, as it were, fills itself with the forces it needs to be able to conjure up the entire day’s life before us. In daily life, it can develop its forces, but it cannot draw from it the forces it needs for its own development. — It goes without saying that the various hypotheses put forward by conventional science regarding the replenishment of the forces expended during the day are also known to spiritual science, but we need not go into that now. — So we can say: When the soul emerges from the state of sleep and enters the waking state, it brings with it from the realm that is, as it were, its spiritual home, the forces it must use throughout the day to build up that soul life which it conjures up before us. Thus we know what the soul brings with it from the spiritual world when it awakens in the morning.

[ 16 ] Let us now ask ourselves the opposite question: Does the soul carry nothing into the spiritual world in the evening when it falls asleep?

[ 17 ] What does the soul of the evening bring with it from the waking state into the state we call sleep?

[ 18 ] If we wish to gain a deeper understanding of what the soul brings from the external world of physical reality—in which it moves from experience to experience while awake—into the spiritual realm of sleep, then we must, above all, focus on what we call the personal development of the human being between birth and death. This human development is evident to us in that, in later stages of life, a person appears more mature, more imbued with life experience and wisdom, and has acquired certain abilities and powers in later years that they did not possess in earlier years.

[ 19 ] We can already see for ourselves that human beings take in something from the external world and transform it within themselves if we consider the following: Between 1770 and 1815, certain events took place that were of great significance for the development of the world. A wide variety of people experienced these events. There were some who lived through them, yet these events passed them by without leaving an impression; there were others upon whom these events had such an effect that they were filled with life experience and wisdom, enabling them to ascend to a higher level of their spiritual life.

[ 20 ] What actually happened there?

[ 21 ] This is best illustrated by a simple event in human life. Let us consider the development of human beings with regard to the ability to write. What actually happened that enables us, at a certain moment in our lives, to pick up a pen and express our thoughts through writing? Many things had to happen first. A whole series of experiences had to be undergone, from the first attempt to pick up a pen and make the first stroke, all the way through to the efforts that ultimately led to our truly mastering this art. If we recall everything that had to unfold over the course of months and years, if we recall everything we went through in the process—perhaps punishments, reprimands, and the like—in order to finally transform a series of experiences into the ability to write, then we must say: these experiences have been recast and remolded, so that they appear, as it were, in an essence in later life in what we call the ability to write.

[ 22 ] Spiritual science shows how this happens—how a series of experiences converges, as it were, and crystallizes into a capacity. But this could never happen if human beings were not able to pass through sleep again and again. Anyone who observes life will know what is already evident in everyday life: When we strive to commit this or that to memory, the process of memorization and retention is greatly aided if we can sleep on it; then it becomes our own. And so it is throughout human life.

[ 23 ] The experiences we go through must become one with our soul; they must be processed by it; they must be brought to a state of consolidation so that they can be transformed into ability.

[ 24 ] The soul carries out this entire process during sleep. The experiences of the day, which unfold over time, converge during nighttime sleep and are transformed into what we call “crystallized experiences” and “human abilities.” Thus we see what we take with us in the evening from our external experiences—namely, that which is then transformed and woven into our abilities. In this way, our lives are enriched as the experiences of the day are recast during the night into abilities, into powers.

[ 25 ] Today’s sense of time has little understanding of these things; but it was not always this way—there were times when, drawing on ancient clairvoyance, people were well aware of these matters. Let us cite just one example in which a poet illustrates in a most remarkable way how he was aware of this transformation. The ancient poet Homer, who is rightly called a seer, describes in his *Odyssey* how Penelope, in her husband’s absence, is besieged by a number of suitors, and how she promises them that she will make her choice only after she has finished weaving a cloth. But at night she would repeatedly unravel what she had woven during the day. If a poet wishes to depict how a series of experiences we have during the day—a series of experiences such as those of Penelope with her suitors—should not be transformed into any particular ability and should not coalesce into the ability to make a decision, then he must depict how what the daytime experiences weave must be unraveled again at night, for otherwise it would inevitably transform into the capacity for decision-making. Such things may seem like hair-splitting to someone who is filled only with modern consciousness, and he may believe that people are projecting something onto the poets; but the truly great among humanity were in fact only those who worked their way out of the great mysteries of the world, and when people today speak so beautifully of originality and the like, they have no idea from what depths the world’s truly great artistic achievements have emerged.

[ 26 ] So we see how the external experiences we bring into the soul’s state of sleep are transformed into abilities and powers, and how the human soul thereby progresses in the life between birth and death, how it brings something into the spiritual world only to bring it back out again for the further development of the human soul. But when we then consider this development between birth and death, we must say: Oh, a certain narrow limit is set for human beings with regard to this development. This limit becomes particularly evident to us when we consider that, although we can work on our soul faculties and enhance them, although we can transform them and exist in a later epoch of life with a more perfect soul than in an earlier one, there is nevertheless a limit to this development. Certain abilities can be developed in human beings, but not everything that could only advance through the transformation of the organs of the physical and etheric bodies. These are present from birth with their specific predispositions; we find them already there. For example, we can acquire a certain understanding of music only if we have the predisposition for a musical ear from the outset. This is a striking example that shows how transformation can fail, and that while experiences can unite with our soul, we must forgo incorporating them into ourselves.

[ 27 ] When we encounter such limitations in our physical life, we must refrain from weaving these experiences into our physical life between birth and death. Because this is so, when we view human life from a higher perspective, we must regard the ability to shed this body—to cast it off—as something immensely beneficial, as something of immense significance for our entire human existence. Our ability to transform the human body fails precisely because we find ourselves with this etheric body and physical body again every morning. It is only in death that we shed it. We pass through the gate of death into a spiritual world. There, in this spiritual world, where we no longer encounter a physical and etheric body as an obstacle, we can develop within the spiritual substances everything we were able to experience between birth and death—but to which we had to resign ourselves because we reached our limits. — When we step out of the spiritual world and into a new life, only then can we allow these forces—which we have woven into the spiritual archetype—to enter an existence that we can now vividly shape within the initially malleable human body. Only now can we weave into our being that which we acquired in the previous life but were unable to fully incorporate into our being. Thus, the elevation of life is made possible through death, because what we were unable to incorporate into ourselves in one life as the fruit of our experiences, we can now weave into our being in the next life. That which is the true inner essence of the human being—that which works its way into existence through the human body—passes through the gateway of death from one life to the next. Human beings now have not only the opportunity, so to speak, to work on their physical form in the coarser realm so that they can imprint upon this physical form what they were previously unable to imprint, but they also have the opportunity to imprint certain finer fruits of their previous lives into their entire being.

[ 28 ] When we see a human being come into existence through birth, we can say: Just as the “I” and the astral body—with the soul of sensation, the soul of understanding or emotion, and the soul of consciousness—enter into existence through birth, they are not without specific characteristics; rather, they possess certain qualities and traits that they have brought with them from previous lives. On a grosser level, even before birth, a human being works into the physical structure of their body everything they have previously received as fruits; but on a finer level—and this is what distinguishes humans from animals—even after birth, throughout their entire childhood and youth, they incorporate into the finer structure of their outer and inner nature everything that the “I” has brought with it from its previous life in the form of defining characteristics and reasons for its existence. And the fact that the “I” works this in—and the way the “I” works from within the human being’s essence, expressing itself in what it lives out in the world—is what enters this world as the human being’s character. This human “I” is at work, after all, between birth and death, causing what it has developed to resound through the instruments of the soul—the soul of sensation, the soul of understanding, and the soul of consciousness. But it does not work within this soul in such a way that the “I” stands, as it were, as something external in opposition to what lives in the sensory soul as drives, desires, and passions; no, the “I” appropriates these drives, desires, and passions as belonging to its inner being: the “I” is one with them, and is also one with its insights and knowledge in the conscious soul.

[ 29 ] Therefore, a person takes with them through the gate of death whatever harmony and disharmony they have developed within these soul members, and works it into their human outward appearance in the new life. In this way, the human “I,” shaped by what it has become from a previous life, manifests itself in a new life. That is why character appears to us as something definite, as something innate, yet at the same time as something that only gradually develops over the course of life.

[ 30 ] From the very beginning, an animal’s character is determined by its birth and is fully formed; it cannot actively shape its outward appearance; but human beings have precisely this advantage: that they come into the world without displaying a specific character outwardly, yet possess within the depths of their being—where forces from past lives have found their way into this existence—the power to shape this indeterminate exterior and thus gradually form their character, to the extent that it is determined by their previous lives.

[ 31 ] Thus we see that, in a certain sense, human beings possess an innate character, which, however, only gradually comes to the fore over the course of their lives. If we bear this in mind, we will be able to understand that even great personalities could be mistaken when it comes to judging human character. There are philosophers who claim that human character cannot change, that it exists as something quite specific within us. But this is not correct; it is true only insofar as what stems from previous lives appears to us as an innate character. This, then, is what emerges from the innermost core of the human being as the human center, imprinting a common seal upon all the individual parts of the human being and bestowing a common character. This character penetrates, so to speak, into the soul itself; it also penetrates into the outer physical members. We see the inner being, as it were, pouring outwards in such a way that it shapes everything in its wake in a certain sense, and we sense how this inner center holds the individual parts of the human being together. Even in the outer physical body, we sense something that can appear to us as an imprint of the inner being on the human being’s exterior.

[ 32 ] An artist once captured in a truly marvelous way something that is usually not given due theoretical consideration. He depicts human nature at the very moment when the human “I”—which holds all the members together, forming a center and providing unity—is lost to them. He shows how the individual aspects of being, each following its own course, then take different directions—one heading this way, the other that way. There is a great, famous work of art that captures precisely this moment of human existence, when a person loses sight of what underlies his character, of what belongs to the whole human being. The work of art in question here has often been misunderstood. Do not think that the intention here is to level a cheap criticism at minds whose work I revere in the highest sense; but it is precisely in this that the difficulty of the human path to truth is revealed—that even great minds err in the face of certain phenomena, precisely out of an immense drive for truth.

[ 33 ] One of Germany’s greatest art connoisseurs, Winckelmann, was bound to be mistaken—given the very nature of his character—regarding the work of art known as the Laocoön. Winckelmann’s interpretation of the Laocoön is widely admired. It is widely acknowledged in many circles that one cannot say anything better than what Winckelmann said about the figure of Laocoön, that priest of Troy who, surrounded by his two sons and entwined by serpents, is being crushed to death. Winckelmann, who stood before the work of art with beautiful enthusiasm, said: here one sees the priest Laocoön, who, in every form manifested in his body, nobly and magnificently expresses infinite pain—above all, a father’s pain. He stands between his sons; the serpents entwine their bodies. The father—so Winckelmann believes—perceives his sons’ pain, and in his paternal instinct he feels that monstrous force that draws in his lower abdomen and squeezes out the full extent of the pain. We might understand the figure of Laocoön from the fact that he forgets himself as he is consumed by infinite compassion for his own flesh and blood.

[ 34 ] Winckelmann offered a beautiful explanation of this pain in the Laocoön, but anyone with a conscience who, precisely because they revere Winckelmann as a great figure, looks at the Laocoön again and again must ultimately conclude: Winckelmann must have been mistaken here, for it is entirely impossible that the group captures a moment arising from compassion. The head is positioned in such a way that the father does not see his sons at all. Winckelmann’s interpretation of the group is entirely incorrect. When we look at the group and have an immediate sense of it, we realize that in the Laocoön group we have the very specific moment where, through the encircling of the snakes, that which we call the human “I” has emerged from Laocoön’s body, and where the individual drives stripped of the “I”—each extending right into the physical—go their own way. Thus we see how the lower abdomen, the head, and every single limb go their own way and are not brought into a harmonious unity with the outer form, precisely because the “I” has vanished.

[ 35 ] Such a moment—which shows us, in the external, physical realm, how a human being loses their unified character when the “I,” which as a strong center holds the limbs together, fades away—is depicted for us in the Laocoön. And it is precisely when we allow something like this to take effect on our soul that we penetrate into that unity which expresses itself to us as the harmonizing force of the body’s limbs—the very force that imprints upon us what we call human character.

[ 36 ] But now we must ask ourselves: If it is true that, in a certain sense, a person’s character is innate—and this cannot be denied, for any glance at life can teach us that, beyond a certain limit, everything a person is born with cannot be changed by any amount of effort—if, on the one hand, a person’s character is innate, is it still possible for that person to do something to reshape their character in some way?

[ 36 ] But now we must ask ourselves: If it is true that, in a certain sense, a person’s character is innate—and this cannot be denied, for any glance at life can teach us that, beyond a certain limit, everything a person is born with cannot be changed by any amount of effort—if, on the one hand, a person’s character is innate, is it still possible for that person to do something to reshape their character in some way?

[ 38 ] Knowing something about this is particularly important for education. Just as it is extraordinarily important to understand the differences and the nature of human temperaments if one is to be a true educator, so too is it necessary to know something about human character—and also to understand what a person can do between birth and death to reshape this character, which is, in a certain sense, determined by their previous life and its fruits. If we wish to understand this, we must be clear that human beings go through certain generally typical stages of development in their personal lives. You will find the necessary points of reference for what is now outlined in my booklet: *The Education of the Child from the Perspective of Spiritual Science*. First, a human being goes through a phase from the moment of birth until the time when the teeth begin to change around the age of seven. This is the phase during which the physical body can be shaped primarily through external influences. From the age of seven onward—from the change of teeth until the ages of thirteen, fourteen, or fifteen, that is, until sexual maturity—there is a phase during which the etheric body, the second member of the human being, can be shaped most effectively. Then the human being enters a third epoch, during which the astral body—the lower astral body—can be formed; and then, beginning around the age of twenty-one, comes the stage of life in which the human being now faces the world, as it were, as an independent, free being and works on the development of his or her own soul. The years from twenty to twenty-eight are important for the development of the powers of the feeling soul.

[ 39 ] The next seven years or so—these are always just average figures—up to the age of thirty-five are particularly important for the development of the intellectual or emotional soul, which we can cultivate especially by interacting with life. Those who do not wish to observe life may see this as nonsense; but those who look at life with open eyes will know that certain aspects of the human being can be developed, particularly during certain stages of life. In our early twenties, we are especially capable of unfolding our desires, drives, passions, and so on through interaction with life, in response to the impressions and influences of the outside world. We will be able to sense a growth in our powers through the corresponding interaction of the intellectual soul with the environment; and whoever knows what true knowledge is also knows that all previous acquisition of knowledge can be only a preparation; that the maturity of life, when one can truly acquire knowledge with a comprehensive overview, generally does not set in until around the age of thirty-five. Such laws exist. Only those who do not wish to observe human life at all will fail to observe them.

[ 40 ] When we consider this, we see how human life is structured between birth and death. But from the fact that the “I” works in such a way that it harmonizes the soul’s members with one another, and that it must also structure what it has developed in accordance with the outer physical body—from this we come to understand how important it is for educators to know that the outer physical body undergoes its development up to the age of seven. Everything from the physical world that can influence the physical body—everything that endows it with power and strength—can only be brought to the human being during this first epoch. Now there is a mysterious connection between the physical body and the soul of consciousness, which can become thoroughly apparent through close observation of life.

[ 41 ] If the “I” is to become strong enough to assert itself through the powers of the conscious soul in later life—that is, only after the age of thirty-five—and if the “I” is to work within the soul in such a way that, by permeating the conscious soul, it can step out of itself toward a knowledge of the world, then it must not encounter any limitation in the physical body, for the physical body, in particular, can be precisely what poses the greatest obstacles to the conscious soul and the “I” if this “I” does not wish to remain closed off within, but rather seeks to go out into an open interaction with the world. But since, through education, we can impart forces to the child’s physical body within certain limits up to the age of seven, we see here a remarkable connection in life. Oh, what the educator does with the child is by no means insignificant for the person’s later life! Only those who do not know how to observe life are unaware of such mysteries of life; but whoever can compare early childhood with what occurs from the age of thirty-five onward in terms of free interaction with the world knows that we can do the greatest good for a person who is to enter into open interaction with the world—who is to engage with the world and not remain closed off within themselves—by influencing them in an appropriate manner during the first phase of their life. What we provide the child during this time—the joys of immediate physical life and the love that flows in from their surroundings—nourishes the physical body with strength, makes it receptive to development, and renders it, as it were, malleable and pliable.

[ 42 ] And the more joy, love, and happiness we bring to the child during this first stage of life, the fewer obstacles and hindrances the person will face later on, when—drawing from their conscious soul and through the work of the “I,” which plays upon the conscious soul as upon a string—they are to develop an open, free character that interacts with the world. — Everything we subject the child to in the way of unkindness, dark fates, and pain up to the age of seven hardens its physical body, and all of this then creates obstacles for later life. And in the later years described above, what is called a closed character then emerges—a character that locks away its entire being within its soul and cannot achieve free, open interaction with all the impressions of the outside world. Such are the mysterious interconnections of life.

[ 43 ] And once again, there are connections between the etheric or life body and what develops particularly during the second epoch of life. There is a connection between the etheric body and the intellectual or emotional soul. The intellectual soul contains the forces that can be drawn out of it through the interplay of the “I” with this soul. These are all the forces that shape a person into someone who is proactive and courageous, or into someone who is cowardly, indecisive, or indifferent. Depending on whether the “I” is stronger or weaker, the person manifests as a cowardly or courageous character. But when a person has the best opportunity, through interaction with life, to particularly imprint this quality of the intellectual or emotional soul and to solidify it into a firm character, they may encounter hindrances and obstacles in their etheric or life body. If we now instill in the etheric or life body—between the ages of seven, thirteen, and fourteen—everything that can permeate it with such forces that it will encounter no resistance in later life—that is, specifically for the years between twenty-eight and thirty-five—then we have done something for this person’s upbringing for which they must be deeply grateful to us. If we give a person the opportunity, between the ages of seven and thirteen, to stand alongside us in such a way that we can be an authority figure for them—that we are personally a bearer of truth for them—if, at this age, for which authority is particularly beneficial, we stand alongside the young person as teachers, parents, or educators in such a way that they say to themselves: “What they demonstrate to us is true”—then we strengthen the powers of the etheric body, and that person will encounter the least resistance in the etheric or life body during later life, from the age of twenty-eight to thirty-five; they will then, in accordance with the disposition of their “I,” be able to become a courageous person with initiative. Thus, through these mysterious interrelationships of life—if we understand them—we can influence human beings in an immensely beneficial way.

[ 44 ] In our chaotic educational system, we have lost the awareness of such connections that we used to instinctively understand. It is always a pleasure to observe what older teachers still knew about these things, as if drawn from a deep instinct or inspiration. One must say: Rotteck’s old *World History* may be outdated in some respects today; but when one picks up this old Rotteck History of the World—which we found in our fathers’ libraries when we were young, for that is where it was read—with an understanding of human nature, one discovers a unique style of presentation, a style that shows that this teacher from Baden, who taught history in Freiburg, did not merely teach in a dry and matter-of-fact manner. If one reads just the preface to this Rotteck World History—which, in its spirit, is something extraordinary—one gets the feeling: This is a person who speaks to young people from a place of deep awareness: You must provide people at this age—between fourteen and twenty-one, when the astral body is developing—with the forces that spring from beautiful, grand ideals. Throughout his work, Rotteck seeks to draw out what can fill people with the grandeur of heroes’ ideas, with enthusiasm for what people have strived for and endured in the course of human development. And such an awareness is fully justified; for whatever is poured into the astral body in this stage of life—from fourteen to twenty-one years of age—in this manner directly benefits the feeling soul afterward, when the “I” seeks to develop its character through free interaction with the world. What has flowed into the soul in the form of high ideals and enthusiasm is imprinted upon the feeling soul—that is, it is incorporated into the character. This is incorporated into the “I” itself; it is imprinted upon the character.

[ 45 ] Thus we see how, in fact, because the human sheaths—the physical body, the etheric or life body, and the astral body—are still malleable in a certain sense, they can be shaped through the upbringing a person receives in youth, thereby making it possible for the individual to work on their character later in life. If the necessary steps have not been taken, it becomes difficult to work on one’s character; in such cases, the strongest measures are required. It then becomes necessary for the individual to consciously devote themselves to a deep, inner, meditative contemplation of certain qualities and feelings, which they consciously imprint upon their soul life. Such a person must strive to experience, in substance, the cultural currents that—as confessions of faith, for example of a religious nature—seek to be more than mere theories. We must devote ourselves again and again to the great worldviews—to that which, in later life, still leads us through our concepts and feelings, through our ideas, into the great, all-encompassing mysteries of the world—and not merely in a single act of contemplation. If we can immerse ourselves in such mysteries of the world, gladly surrender to them again and again, and if they are imprinted upon us through prayers we repeat day after day, then even in later life we can reshape our character through the interplay of the “I.”

[ 46 ] The first point here is that human beings imprint upon the members of their soul—the soul of sensation, the soul of understanding or emotion, and the soul of consciousness—that which is incorporated into their “I,” that which their “I” has acquired. Now, in general, a human being cannot do much with regard to the outer physical body. We have seen that a human being has a limit with regard to the outer physical body, that it is endowed with certain predispositions; yet if we observe more closely, we see that this limit nevertheless allows a human being to work on his or her outer physical body even between birth and death.

[ 47 ] Who has not already observed how a person who truly devotes themselves to deeper insights for a decade, for example—insights that do not remain mere dry doctrine, but are transformed into joy and sorrow, into bliss and pain, which, in essence, only thereby become true insight and become interwoven with the self— who has not observed that even that person’s physiognomy, gestures, and entire demeanor change, as the work of the self penetrates, so to speak, right into the outer physicality!

[ 48 ] But there is not much that a person can imprint on their physical body through what they acquire in life between birth and death. Most of what a person acquires in this way is something they must relinquish—something they must preserve for a future life. In return, a person brings various things with them from previous lives and, if they acquire the inner capacity to do so, can enhance these through what they work toward between birth and death.

[ 49 ] And so we see how a person can work right down into the physical realm, how character is not limited merely to the inner life of the soul, but extends outward into the external limbs of the body. That aspect of a human being in which the very essence of their innermost character is most distinctly expressed is, first and foremost, their facial expressions; second, what we might call their physiognomy; and third, the sculptural formation of the bones of their skull—that which we encounter in the study of the skull.

[ 50 ] If we now ask ourselves: How is a person’s character expressed outwardly, in their gestures, physiognomy, and bone structure? — we find a clue in the spiritual-scientific study of the human being, which can tell us: The “I” first works formatively on the sensory soul, which encompasses all drives, desires, passions—in short, everything that can be called the inner impulses of the will. What the “I” plays on this string of soul life is then manifested outwardly in gestures. What plays out internally in the sensory soul as character reveals itself outwardly in facial expressions and gestures, and we can say that these gestures can reveal a great deal to us about a person’s inner life, particularly with regard to their character.

[ 51 ] Although in human beings the “I” works primarily within the sensory soul—arising, as it were, from their character—what the “I” strikes, as it were, on the string of the sensory soul resonates into the other members of the soul. When the “I” works primarily through the sensory soul, the sensory soul resonates particularly strongly, and the other soul members must resonate along with it; this, however, is expressed in gesture. Everything that manifests itself in the crudest manner solely within the sensory soul appears in the human abdomen through gesture. In someone who pats their stomach contentedly, we can clearly see how they live entirely enclosed within their character in the sensory soul, and how little of their volitional impulses in the higher soul members is expressed.

[ 52 ] But when the “I,” which lives primarily in the sensory soul, nevertheless acts out—in this sensory soul—the impulses, desires, resolutions of the will within this sensory soul, surges up into the intellectual soul, then this is expressed in a gesture that relates to that organ of the human being which is primarily the outward expression of the intellectual or emotional soul: here, in the region of the heart. That is why we see in those people who have what is called the “conviction in their voice”—who speak from their feelings, yet are able to transform these feelings into words and express that they take something to heart—that they do not speak from the objectivity of judgment, but out of passion. We can recognize the passionate character—which, however, resonates into the intellectual soul—we can recognize the person who, though living entirely in the feeling soul, is nevertheless capable, through his strong ego, of allowing these tones to resonate into the intellectual soul, when he stands with his arms spread wide.

[ 53 ] There are popular orators who tuck their thumbs into the buttonholes of their vests and stand broad-shouldered before the audience: these are the ones who speak from the immediate emotional soul, who put into words what they feel selfishly and entirely personally—not from a position of objectivity—but now reinforce it with the gesture of their thumbs in the buttonholes of their vests.

[ 54 ] Those people who allow what is imprinted and resonated by the “I” in their sensory soul to rise up into their conscious soul are those who, through their gestures, work on the organ that is specifically the outward expression of the conscious soul. Such people clearly demonstrate this when they find it particularly difficult to bring what they feel inwardly to a certain decision; it appears to us as an outward imprint of this decision when a person places a finger to their nose, especially when they wish to indicate how difficult it is for them to bring it up from the depths of the conscious soul.

[ 55 ] And so we can see how everything that actually manifests itself in the soul’s faculties as the distinctive work of the “I” pours out into the gesture.

[ 56 ] However, we can see—depending on whether a person lives primarily in the intellectual soul or the emotional soul—what lies closer to the human inner being, what is not determined by external factors, what does not cause the person to sigh in servitude, and what is more truly their own—and how this manifests itself in their physiognomic expression, particularly on their face. When the “I” strikes a chord in the intellectual soul, but this chord resonates down into the emotional soul—when a person is initially capable of living with their “I” in the intellectual soul, yet everything within it then sinks down into the emotional soul; when his judgment permeates him so deeply that he burns with passion for it, then we see how this is expressed in the receding forehead and the protruding chin. What is actually experienced in the intellectual soul and merely resonates down into the feeling soul is expressed in the lower parts of the face. When a person unfolds what the intellectual soul is capable of unfolding—the harmony between the outer and the inner, where the person is neither closed off by inner brooding nor becomes empty inside through complete self-surrender, where there is a beautiful harmony between the outer and the inner—in other words, when the “I” lives primarily in its character formation within the intellectual soul, this is expressed in the central part of the face—the outward expression of the intellectual or emotional soul.

[ 57 ] And here we can see how fruitful spiritual science becomes for the study of culture. It shows that these successive characteristics are expressed in a very distinctive way among the successive peoples throughout the course of world history. Thus, the intellectual or emotional soul was particularly pronounced in ancient Greece. There was that beautiful harmony between the outer and the inner; there was present what is called in spiritual science the characterful expression of the “I” in the intellectual or emotional soul. Among the Greeks, therefore, we encounter in their physical form the Greek nose in its perfection. It is true that we can only understand such things when we grasp the external form—that which is imprinted in matter—from the spiritual foundations from which it arises.

[ 58 ] And the physiognomic expression that arises when a person brings to the level of knowledge what lives primarily in the intellectual or emotional soul—when they live it out in the conscious soul—results in a prominent forehead. In this physiognomic expression lies the revelation of the intellectual or emotional soul; hence, this is expressed in a particular formation of the forehead, as if what the “I” works on in the intellectual soul were flowing upward into the conscious soul.

[ 59 ] But when a person lives in a very special way with their “I,” so that they express with character what the essence of the “I” is within their conscious soul, then they can, for example, channel what the “I” strikes on the string of the conscious soul down into the intellectual or emotional soul and into the sensory soul. The latter represents a certain higher stage of human development. It is only in our conscious soul that we can be imbued with lofty moral ideals and with broad insights into the world.

[ 60 ] All of this must live within our conscious soul. That which the “I” gives to the conscious soul in the form of powers so that it can gain these insights and an overview of the world—that which the “I” can give to the conscious soul so that high moral ideals and lofty aesthetic views may live within it—can flow downward and become enthusiasm and passion, what might be called the inner warmth of the feeling soul. — This occurs when a person can become inflamed with passion for what they recognize. Then the noblest thing to which a person can initially rise is in turn brought down into the feeling soul. In this way, a person elevates the feeling soul by allowing it to be permeated by what is first present in the conscious soul. However, what we experience in this way in the soul of consciousness—what may appear as the ideal character through the work of the “I” in the soul of consciousness—cannot be imprinted into human physicality, because our outer physicality is limited by the predispositions we bring with us at birth. Consequently, we must refrain from imprinting it onto the physical body; it can become an expression of a noble soul character, but we can never bring it to the point of becoming an expression of the outer physical body. We must take it with us through the gate of death, but then it becomes the most powerful force for the next life.

[ 61 ] What we have kindled in the feeling soul with that passion that can blaze for high moral ideals—what we have poured into the feeling soul in this way and what we can take with us through the gate of death—we can carry over into the new life, and there it can develop into the most powerful formative force. In the new life, we see expressed in the structure of the skull—in its various protrusions and depressions—what we have cultivated within ourselves in terms of lofty moral ideals. Thus we see what a person has made of themselves living on right down into the bones; therefore we must also recognize that everything pertaining to the understanding of the actual bone structure of the skull—the understanding of the ridges and depressions in the skull’s structure—suggests something about character and is inherently individual. It is a mockery to believe that one can establish general patterns or typical principles for cranial science. No, there is no such thing. For every human being, there is a unique study of the skull; for what a person brings with them as a skull is carried over from previous lives, and this must be recognized in every individual. Thus, there is no general science for this. Only those who think in abstract terms, who want to reduce everything to schemes, can establish a general science of the skull; but anyone who knows what shapes a person right down to the bones—as has just been described—will be able to speak only of an individual understanding of human skeletal structure. Thus, we also find something in this cranial formation that is different for every person, and for which we can never find the cause within a single lifetime. In cranial formation, we can grasp what is called reincarnation; for in the forms of the human skull, we grasp what the human being has made of himself in previous lives. There, reincarnation becomes tangible. One must only first know where to look for these things in the world.

[ 62 ] Thus we see that whatever arises, in a certain sense, from human character must be traced back to its origin even within the most rigid structures, and we find ourselves faced with a wondrous mystery in human character. We began by describing this human character as the “I” shapes it within the structures of the feeling soul, the intellectual or emotional soul, and the conscious soul. We then saw how what the “I” develops within them is imprinted upon the outer physical body—down to the gestures, the physiognomy, and even into the bones. And as the human being is guided from birth through death and on to a new birth, we see how the inner being works upon the outer form, imprinting a character upon the human being that reflects the inner life of the soul, and also upon what serves as the outer image and likeness of this inner life—the physical body. And so we can well understand how deeply it can move us when, in the Laocoön, we see the outer physical character disintegrating into its individual limbs; we see, as it were, the disappearance of the character that belongs to the essence of the human being, as reflected in the outer gesture of this work of art. Here we have before us what so clearly demonstrates the process of shaping matter, and conversely, something that shows us how the predispositions we have brought with us from earlier times determine us—how, in fact, the material form shapes the spirit throughout a lifetime— and how the spirit, by shattering life, can express in a new life that character which it acquires as the fruit of that new life. Here we may be seized by a mood that echoes the mood Goethe felt when he held Schiller’s skull in his hand and said: “In the forms of this skull I see the spirit imprinted materially; imprinted with character—that which resonated with me in Schiller’s poetry, in the words of friendship that so often reached me; indeed, here I see how the spirit worked within matter. And when I contemplate this piece of matter, its noble forms reveal to me how past lives prepared what shone so powerfully toward me in Schiller’s spirit.

[ 63 ] This reflection thus leads us, as a matter of our own conviction, to repeat the remark Goethe made while contemplating Schiller’s skull:

What more can a person gain in life,
Than for God-Nature to reveal itself to him,
How it allows the solid to dissolve into spirit,
How it firmly preserves what the spirit has created.