The Rudolf Steiner Archive

2. Life and Death

[ 1 ] When one considers some of the remarks made today about humanity’s relationship to life and death, one is reminded of a line Shakespeare puts into the mouth of the brooding Hamlet:

The great Caesar, now dead and turned to clay,
Seems to plug a hole against the harsh north wind.
Oh, that the earth, before which the world trembled,
Might form a wall against wind and weather.

[ 2 ] Such a statement might be made by someone who, in the context of the discussions held eight days ago, is under the suggestive influence of certain concepts of time derived from the natural sciences, and who felt compelled to trace all the movements of the individual substances that make up the human body after death—someone who, above all, feels justified in asking: What do oxygen, nitrogen, carbon, and so on—the elements that make up the human body—do after a person’s death? Aside from the fact that there are many people today who are influenced by the evocative phrase “the eternity of matter,” there are others who have completely lost the ability to conceive of anything in infinite, empty space other than matter and its effects. However, as can be seen from many reflections on the nature of death, it is always essential in debates of this kind to define the concepts and ideas as precisely as possible. In many analyses that posit a contrast between death and life—and in doing so, as happens time and again, completely overlook the fact that the contrast between death and life depends on the entity to which it refers—upon closer examination, one cannot speak of the death of a plant, an animal, or a human being in the same way. The following discussions will explore the extent to which this is the case. But just how little clarity there is regarding the terms used in this field is evident, for example, from the following passage in the physiology of the great naturalist Huxley:

[ 3 ] It is stated there that one must distinguish between local, regional death and general death—the death of tissues within an organism— and then it is explicitly stated that human life depends on the brain, the lungs, and the heart, but that this is a trinity that can actually be reduced to a duality—namely, that if one artificially maintains respiration, one could quite well remove a person’s brain and they would still continue to live. That is to say, it is claimed that life continues even if the brain is removed. This means: If a person is no longer capable of forming any conception of what is around them or what is happening within them, if life could be sustained merely as a biological process within the organism through artificial respiration, then the organism would continue to live in the sense of this scientific definition. And one could not really speak of death, even though there is no brain at all.

[ 4 ] This is an idea: even if one were not to reject the notion of a life without a brain, one would at least—even if one found such a definition plausible—have to be clear in one’s mind that this very explanation demonstrates how the scientific definition of life in this form is not applicable to humans at all. For no one could call the life of an organism—even a human one—the life of a human being, even if the fact to which this alludes is entirely correct.

[ 5 ] Today, even in the field of natural science, we have come somewhat further than we were perhaps ten years ago, when people were almost embarrassed to speak of life at all and reduced all life to the life of the smallest organisms. This life of the smallest organisms was viewed as a complex chemical process. According to this view, if this definition were extended to a worldview, one could only speak of the smallest parts of life continuing to exist, so that one could then speak only of the preservation of matter. Today, however—for example, in light of research on radium—the concept of the eternal nature of matter has become somewhat more fluid. But the point to be emphasized here is that, in the field of natural science, attempts are already being made to speak of a kind of autonomy, at least in the case of the smallest living beings. It is said: the smallest living beings reproduce by division; one divides into two, two into four, and so on. In this case, one could not speak of death, for the first lives on in the second, and when these die, they live on in the next.

[ 6 ] Those who, in response, sought to speak of the eternity of single-celled organisms have now searched for a definition of death. But it is precisely this definition of the nature of “death” that is extraordinarily characteristic. The defining feature of death has been found to be that a corpse remains after death. And since no corpse remains after the death of single-celled organisms, they cannot truly die. Thus, one seeks the defining characteristic of what lies at the very foundation of life in what remains of life. Now it will be readily apparent that what remains of life gradually transforms into lifeless matter. Thus, in death, such lifeless matter becomes the external organism of the smallest living being as well as that of the most complex one. However, if one wishes to consider the significance of death for life, one must not focus on what remains—that which thus transforms into the lifeless—but must instead look to the cause, to the principles of life, as long as life exists.

[ 7 ] I said that one cannot speak of death in the same way for plants as for animals and humans, because one fails to take an important phenomenon into account. This phenomenon is also found in certain lower animals, such as mayflies, and it consists in the fact that the majority of plants and lower animals have the peculiarity that, at the very moment the process of fertilization is initiated and the possibility of a new living being is created, the death of the old one begins. In plants, the process of decline—the process of dying—begins at the very moment they have taken within themselves the potential for the formation of a new plant. Of those plants in which this can be observed, one can therefore say with certainty: The cause that has taken their life lies in the new living being or beings; they have left nothing of themselves behind in the old organism.

[ 8 ] A simple line of reasoning is enough to convince oneself that this is the case. There are certain plants that endure, that repeatedly bloom and bear fruit, where, so to speak, ever-new plant structures—like parasites—are grafted onto the old stem. But you can see for yourself that they pay for the opportunity to continue living by pushing certain parts into the lifeless, into death—that is, by surrounding themselves with bark. Of a plant that surrounds itself with bark, carries the inanimate within itself, and is able to continue living, one must quite rightly say that it possesses a surplus of life. And because it has this surplus—which it will not give up (it gives only what the young living beings need)—it must protect itself by repelling death outward. Thus, one can also say that every living being that contains within itself the possibility of outliving the production of a new living being is compelled to continually overcome life itself within itself by absorbing inorganic matter, inanimate matter. And this can be observed abundantly in animals and in humans.

[ 9 ] So here we have a struggle between death and life within the being itself. We have an interaction between a living element that develops in one direction and the constant inward movement of another element that develops toward death. If we now wish to proceed from this point of view and delve into the innermost essence of the human being, we must, of course, recall some of what has already been said many times, but which is never superfluous, because it is by no means yet among the commonly accepted truths.

[ 10 ] If, in accordance with very common notions—which is what we will do in the first half of this lecture—we approach the question of life and death from a humanities perspective, we must bear in mind that what is under consideration here is, in fact, very, very little recognized today. It is a truth that is just as new to humanity today as another truth—which is now considered trivial—was new, or rather unknown, to humanity three centuries ago. I have pointed out on several occasions that it is now a matter of course for the natural scientist and for those who base their views on scientific concepts to accept the statement: “All living things originate from living things.” Of course, I am speaking here only with the same qualification with which this statement is used in the field of natural science. We need not even address the question of spontaneous generation, for it can be noted from the outset that the analogous statement, which will be mentioned later, is used in the same way in the field of the spiritual sciences.

[ 11 ] It was not long ago that the great naturalist Francesco Redi had to fight tooth and nail to defend the statement: “All living things come from living things.” For before this seventeenth-century naturalist, it had been considered entirely possible—not only among laypeople but also in scientific circles—that new organisms could develop from decaying river mud or from organic matter that had begun to decompose. People believed this to be true of worms, and even of fish. This view—that living things can develop only from living things—is not yet old. And Francesco Redi, not long ago—just a few centuries back—provoked such a storm of indignation that he narrowly escaped the fate of Giordano Bruno. When one considers that the fashions of the times change, one can say that the fate of this truth can give us courage regarding the fate of the truth we must now articulate here. For this truth—that living things can only come from living things—sparked a storm of indignation back then. After all, today those who are compelled to draw similar truths from the wellspring of knowledge for other fields are no longer consigned to the flames of the stake. That is no longer the fashion. But today people make fun of such truths; they mock those who are able to communicate such things. And they declare those who are compelled to speak such truths regarding spiritual development to be spiritually dead. Yet the fate of the truth just mentioned also lies in the fact that today it has become a matter of course, a triviality, for anyone capable of judgment.

[ 12 ] What, then, was the fundamental error when this truth—that life can only come from life—had not yet been recognized? A very simple error of observation! People looked at what they could see directly and did not attempt to grasp the fact that a living being is truly based on a germ left behind by another living being, so that a new living being of a certain kind can arise only when an old living being leaves behind a germ of the same kind. In other words: people looked at the environment of the developing organism and should actually have looked at what had been left behind by another living being and was developing within that environment. But that is how it was done throughout all the centuries preceding the time of Francesco Redi. One could cite quite interesting accounts from books that, in the seventh and eighth centuries, were considered just as authoritative as the writings of today’s most modern natural scientists, and in which it was very precisely classified how, for example, hornets developed from a rotting ox carcass, wasps from a donkey carcass, and so on. This was neatly categorized. And using exactly the same method by which mistakes were made back then, mistakes are made today regarding the spiritual and psychological aspects of human beings.

[ 13 ] One observes a human being entering into existence and traces their individual development from birth throughout their life. One sees how their form, their various abilities, and their predispositions develop. We will discuss the specifics of this development in a later lecture. But if one wishes to recognize the essence of the human form—the essence of what is at stake here—one must ask, in particular: What are the hereditary relationships, and what is the nature of the environment from which the human being has emerged? This is exactly the same method as looking at the mud surrounding the emerging worm rather than at the egg itself. In what develops in human beings as predispositions and various abilities, a precise distinction must be made between the characteristic traits that are transmitted from parents, grandparents, and so on, and a certain core that the true observer will not fail to recognize. Only those who approach the spiritual-soul element in the same way that natural scientists approached it externally before Francesco Redi will fail to recognize how a core of the human being clearly manifests itself—one that cannot be traced back to what is inherited from parents, grandparents, and so on.

[ 14 ] In what develops within a human being, we must therefore distinguish between that which originates from the environment and that which can never be derived from the environment. In the case of a plant or animal, one will always find that the newly emerging being is essentially predisposed to develop up to the generic level of its ancestor. Take the highest animals. How far do they develop? Up to the generic level. And they are predisposed toward that generic level.

[ 15 ] Certainly, some will say: Doesn’t a horse, a dog, or a cat have individuality? They will believe that one could just as easily describe the individuality of a cat, a horse, and so on—perhaps even in a biography—as one can describe the individuality of a human being. Anyone who wants to may do so. But they should not take it as something real, but rather as something symbolic—for example, when students are given the assignment—as my colleagues and I had to do in our youth—to write the biography of their pen. Otherwise, one might just as well speak of the biography of a pen. But when it comes to reality, the point is not to cultivate analogies and comparisons, but to focus on the essential. In human beings, this is the individuality that does not make a person a generic being, but rather the very specific individuality that every human being is. Every human being strives toward the development of this individuality just as a plant strives toward the development of its species. And the fact that human beings, in their development, possess an excess of individuality beyond what is typical of the species is the foundation of all development and all progress—in education as well as in historical development. If every human being did not possess a spiritual-soul individual core that develops spiritually and soulfully in the same way that an animal develops physically within its species, there would be no history. Then one could speak of the human race only as a species. Then one could also speak only of evolution, but not of history or cultural development. That is why the natural sciences speak of the evolution of the horse as a species, but not of its history.

[ 16 ] We must therefore view the development of every human being as centered around a spiritual-soul core that has exactly the same significance as the species-specific characteristics in animals. What is species-specific in the animal kingdom corresponds to the individual in human beings. But if, in the animal kingdom, every being that moves toward the species-specific repeats the species of its ancestor and can arise only on the basis of the ancestor’s germ, the physical germ, then the individuality of each human being cannot arise from anything that exists here in the physical world, but solely from something that is spiritual-psychic. This means: a spiritual-soul core that comes into being at human birth does not merely point back to the human species, insofar as the human being traces back to ancestors, parents, and forebears, but rather points to an ancestor of a spiritual-soul nature—to a being who preceded them, who does not belong individually to the human species, or indeed to any species at all, but to this very same human individuality. Thus, when a human being is born, an individual core is born with them, one that is oriented toward nothing other than this individual human core itself. Just as the animal seeks its species, so does the human being seek their individual humanity. This means: just as this individual core appears at birth, so too did it exist beforehand—just as truly as a species germ existed for the animal. And we must seek in prehistory something essentially spiritual-soul-related that constitutes the spiritual-soul-related—not physical—germ of this individually developing spiritual-soul-related human being. Only those who fail to see that the spiritual-soul-related does not develop as a core within the general human appearance will deny that the conclusion just given is correct.

[ 17 ] Thus, every individual human life carries within it the proof that it existed before. We are therefore led back from an individual human life to an individual spiritual-soul seed, and from there again to another spiritual-soul seed—that is, we are led back from our individual life to a previous individual life and then, of course, to our next life. An unbiased examination of human life reveals this with the same certainty as the truth stated in the field of natural science appears as truth there. Suppose, for a moment, that one were to say, as a person with an unbiased mind: “One cannot know anything about this.” If one draws this conclusion over and over again, one might find oneself in the following predicament: “You must go against every observation and every logic.” Nevertheless, this truth concerning repeated earthly lives is still not widely recognized. But this truth—that the spiritual-soul aspect can arise only from the spiritual-soul aspect—will certainly become established in human cultural life just as rapidly in the near future as the other truth described above. And a time will come when people will have to realize that they used to believe something else, just as they once believed that lower animals, fish, and so on could arise from river mud.

[ 18 ] But if one traces this individual core of human being—which, so to speak, one can see entering into existence at birth—throughout the course of life, it reveals itself, so to speak, in a twofold relationship, above all in the developing human being, in youth. There it reveals itself as that which conditions the upward development of the whole human being. And anyone who can truly observe the inner life of youth—who has learned to observe the child not merely outwardly but intimately, who remembers for themselves what they experienced in this regard—will admit that what lies within the child is not yet present at a specific point in time, that it only reveals itself later as a sense of strength, as a zest for life, as a purpose in life that has a powerfully uplifting effect. What one carries within as one’s individual core of being has an effect not only on the outward shaping of life, but also extends into the most fundamental aspects of life and its functions. And when a person reaches a certain level of maturity and has the opportunity to take in many things from the outside world, this individual core of being acts in such a way that it enriches itself, adapts to the external world, and accumulates content. But when one observes this interrelationship between a person’s individual core of being and what comes to the person in the course of life—not only through what is to be learned and experienced, but also through experiences such as pleasure and suffering, pain and joy—then one will see in this spiritual-soul life itself, on a higher plane, a similar interaction to that which exists—let us say—between the new plant seed developing within the flower of the old plant and the old plant from which the new seed draws life.

[ 19 ] If we extend this line of thought to the tree, we can say that life is always being taken away as the tree becomes woody in the plant kingdom. But in return, certain parts of the tree itself are transformed into dead, lifeless products; bark, which becomes inorganic, surrounds the tree.

[ 20 ] In the same way, when we examine the nature of human life more closely, we see not only an upward development, but an upward development that allows the spiritual-soul core of the human being to rise and grow, enabling it to become integrated with the external world; and as it grows further and further, we see it come into conflict with its old predisposition—that is, come into conflict with itself. This happens because in youth, a person was able to build up and structure organs according to their predisposition, whereas now, as life progresses, this process is no longer possible, and they must continue to exist within a life that has become rigid. Thus we see that precisely when our life develops richly over time, when we take in new things and thereby enrich the core of our individual being, we come into conflict with what serves as the shell of this core—that which we have built up and which was in the process of growing. As long as we grow, and to the extent that we grow in this way, we do not take on any spiritual-soul death process within ourselves. It is only by taking in external elements that we take in a process of spiritual and soul death. But this is essentially the case throughout our entire life, even if it is less apparent in childhood than in later years.

[ 21 ] Thus we can say that, in the spiritual-soul realm, a process of growth and decay takes place in the innermost being of the human being—a process that is also spiritual and soul-related. But what exactly is the process that is taking place here? We can understand it well if we first consider it in a lower form and draw on something from the realm of ordinary life for our consideration, in order thereby, so to speak, to arrive at concepts and ideas about the higher realm of existence.

[ 22 ] Let’s take fatigue, for example. We speak of fatigue in relation to animals and human beings. The point here is to gain an understanding of the nature of fatigue. I cannot go into all the concepts that have been gathered on this subject right now, but let us consider the entire process of fatigue in relation to the life process. One could say: A person becomes fatigued because they wear out their muscles and because the muscles must be replenished with new energy. In this case, one could define it as follows: Humans become fatigued because they wear down their muscles through some kind of work. At first glance, such a definition seems quite plausible. Yet it is not true. But today it is already the case that we work with concepts that appear to merely skim the surface of things without seeking to penetrate to their depths. For consider this: if muscles could truly become fatigued, what would that imply for the heart muscle? Yet it never tires at all; it works day and night, continuously—and so do other muscle groups in the human and animal body. This gives you an idea that it is not correct to say that anything in the relationship between work and muscle could explain fatigue.

[ 23 ] When does an animal or a human being become fatigued? When work is not initiated by the organism or by the life process, but rather when work is initiated by the external world itself—that is, by the world with which a living being can interact through its organs. Thus, when a living being performs work based on its consciousness, the organ in question becomes fatigued. In and of itself, there is nothing in the life process that could give rise to fatigue. Therefore, if they are to become fatigued, the life process—and all the organs of life—must be brought into contact with something that does not belong to them at all.

[ 24 ] I can only draw attention to this important fact. Its implications offer immensely fruitful perspectives. Thus, only that which is conveyed to a living being indirectly through a process of consciousness—that which is brought about by a conscious impulse—can be a cause of fatigue. It would therefore be completely nonsensical to speak of fatigue in plants. Hence, one can say: In everything that is supposed to cause fatigue in a living being, there must in fact be something foreign confronting it; something must be introduced into it that does not lie within its own nature.

[ 25 ] Thus we can say that the disruption of the life process caused by fatigue indicates, even in a very minor area, that what we experience in our inner life does not simply arise from physical life, but rather stands in direct contradiction to the laws of that life. The contradiction between the laws of the life of consciousness and the laws of life and life processes alone explains what is present in fatigue—a fact you can verify for yourself if you consider it more closely. Therefore, we can say that fatigue is an expression of the fact that whatever is added to a life process must be foreign to it, and therefore can only disrupt it. Now, the life process can essentially compensate for what has been worn down by fatigue through sleep and rest. But wear and tear is caused by the emergence of something new in contrast to the old life process.

[ 26 ] Now, in the life of the individual human being, an inner process of wear and tear occurs as a result of the person entering into a relationship with the external world. What was present in the original constitution enters into interaction with the new. The result is expressed in the fact that, during the course of individual life, the individual life core is indeed transformed, but in doing so it must also, so to speak, shed what has become rigid—that which it has formed within itself from birth onward. The cause of death, with its connection to a new life, lies in the human soul just as, in the animal organic realm, the predisposition to fatigue can only arise from its interaction with the new and unfamiliar. One could therefore say: the process of death, of gradual withering away, can be better understood when one considers the contrast between the soul and the organic body, a contrast expressed in fatigue. Thus, we actually carry the seed of death within our inner core of being throughout our entire individual life. However, we could not continue to develop; we could not possibly take what we already are at birth a step further if we did not, from within, combine this death with life. Just as fatigue is part of performing external work, so too is the shedding and shedding of the outer shell part of the enrichment and higher development of the individual core of life.

[ 27 ] It is precisely in the spiritual-soul process of life and death that what we might call the following is expressed to us with great clarity: we earn our higher form, the further development of life, by enjoying the benefit of casting off what we once were. Development would not be possible if we could not cast off the old. But with what we have integrated into our spiritual-soul life in the new, we pass through death. What forces lie within this? Forces that are the fruits of the past life. We can indeed experience the seeds of these fruits, we can indeed experience observations of life, and we can also do many things in life, but we cannot integrate them into ourselves; we cannot truly transfer them into our outer shell. For we do not build our shell from what we learn in a single life—or at most only to a certain extent—but rather we build it according to what we have become in the previous life. We can therefore build our life only by using what we have acquired in our previous life, and we can continue to develop by shedding the old—like a tree sheds its bark—and passing into death. And with what we carry with us through death, we are able to build our next life, because it contains within itself the very same forces that built up our spiritual and soul growth when we developed, fresh and joyful, in our youth. It is of the same nature as these forces. We have absorbed it from our life experience and are building for ourselves a future being, a future physical shell, which will carry within it, as a bud in its potential, what we have gained in this one life.

[ 28 ] In response to such ideas, the following question is repeatedly raised: What good does it really do a person to speak of repeated earthly lives if they are unable to remember past lives, if there is no memory of past lives?

[ 29 ] It is, after all, in the nature of today’s spiritual culture that we are not yet able to think about and reflect on such questions of spiritual and soul life as readily as we do on the things of natural life; but we must nevertheless be clear that it is possible to develop concepts and insights regarding these questions of spiritual and soul life in exactly the same way. We can do this only if we truly examine this spiritual and psychological life more closely, if we ask ourselves: What is the nature of human memory, and how does it actually function?

[ 30 ] There is a point in a person’s life that can very easily lead one to form views on this question, and it is the following. You all know that in normal human life today, there is a period of which there is no memory throughout the rest of one’s life. This is the period of very early childhood. In modern, normal life, a person remembers his childhood up to a certain point, and then the memory fades. Although he is quite aware that he existed before that time, he does not remember it. He knows that it is his same spiritual-soul self that has built up his life, but he lacks the ability to extend his memory beyond this stage. Anyone who observes many childhood lives will be able to draw this conclusion. Of course, it will be realized only in essence in external life, but it is nevertheless correct. From the observation of the child’s soul, one can conclude that memory extends back exactly to the point where the concept of the “I”—the idea of one’s own “I”—arose in the human being in question. This is an extraordinarily important fact. At the moment when the child no longer says from within itself, “Little Karl wants this,” or “Little Marie wants this,” but instead says, “I want that”—from the moment when the conscious concept of the “I” begins, recollection also begins. Where does this remarkable fact come from? It stems from the fact that memory requires something more than simply having come into contact with an object once—or at all, so to speak. One can come into contact with an object as often as one likes; a memory is not necessarily evoked as a result. Memory, in fact, is based on a very specific psychological process—a very specific mental and psychological inner life process—which you can visualize by considering the following:

[ 31 ] One must distinguish between the perception of an object or experience and the mental image of that object. In the process of perception, one has something that one can experience again and again whenever one stands before the object. But there is something else involved in the experience. When one has come into contact with an object, having taken in a visual or auditory impression, one has also taken in something like an inner imprint, and it is this that we carry with us, that remains in the representation, that can be incorporated into memory. But this must first come into being. I know that what I have just said will be widely objected to by staunch Schopenhauerian followers—those who claim that our worldview is nothing but our representation. But this is based on a confusion between perception and representation. The two must be strictly distinguished. Representation is something reproduced. No matter how often an external experience occurs: if it does not receive the inner imprint of a representation, it cannot be incorporated into memory. If, on the other hand, it is argued that a representation is nothing other than what presents itself in perception, one need only point out that the representation of a piece of steel, no matter how hot, will certainly not burn anyone, but the sensory experience will burn. Therein lies the difference between a mental image and sensory perception. That is why we can say: A mental image is a sensory experience turned inward. But in this turning inward—in this external impact of the object in interaction with the human inner being, whereby the inner imprint is produced—something else also comes into play. What is experienced inwardly in our sensory life—every external sensory impression, everything we can take in from the external world—is incorporated into our “I.” A sensory perception can also exist without being incorporated into the “I.” From the external world’s perspective, it is impossible for a concept to be retained in memory unless it is taken up inwardly, into the realm of the “I.” Thus, for every idea we form from a sensory experience and that can be retained in memory, the “I” stands at the starting point. An idea that enters our inner life from the outside cannot be separated from the “I” at all. I am well aware that I am speaking figuratively. But these things nevertheless represent a reality, as we shall see in the course of the next lectures.

[ 32 ] We can imagine that the experience of the self is something like the inner surface of a sphere, as seen from the outside; that sensory experiences then approach it; and that the reflection of these experiences within the self gives rise to the mental image. For this to happen, however, the self must be present during every single sensory perception. Thus, in fact, the experience of the “I” is, in everything that can be incorporated into memory, like a mirror that reflects the experiences back to us inwardly. It must be present. This explains the following to us: As long as the child does not take in conceptual perceptions in such a way that they become ideas, but rather as long as they merely approach the child externally as sensory perceptions—experienced only externally between the “I” and the external world, but not transformed into an inner “I” experience—and as long as the child does not have the concept of the “I,” no “I” mirror, so to speak, reveals to the child what is all around it. Until then, however, one will also notice that the child projects a variety of things—which adults do not understand—into the environment through fantasy. In recollection, however, only what the “I” has already taken in can emerge, so that it is thereby pushed into memory. Where “I”-perception has occurred, the “I” stands before the mental images like a mirror, and what lies prior to this time of “I”-experience can no longer be recalled. Therefore, a person always comes into contact with the external world in such a way that the ego shares in all experiences—that the ego is always present. This does not mean that everything must come into consciousness, but only that experiences do not remain merely as sensory perceptions but are transformed into mental images.

[ 33 ] Thus we can now say: The innermost core of the human being—from whose center develops what has just been described as proceeding from incarnation to incarnation—is precisely obscured by the concept of the “I” as it is commonly understood. Human beings place themselves before their memory with their present-day development of the “I.” And therefore it is entirely understandable that their memory will extend only as far as the sensory world.

[ 34 ] Can experience itself provide proof that this can also be different? Can we speak of an extension of memory all the way back to earlier incarnations? This follows naturally from the definition itself, once one grasps what lies beyond one’s own “I-point”—which one, so to speak, conceals from oneself. Once one begins to grasp it, one must also recognize its innermost nature and essence, and one must also recognize what a human being does in human life—not merely in general, but in one’s own individual life. Is there a way, so to speak, to look beyond this “I”? There certainly is. And it lies in that inner life of the soul of which I have already spoken in the introductory lecture. If a person truly undertakes, through strictly methodical training, to develop their soul in such a way that the powers slumbering within it sprout forth, so that the soul rises above itself, then they can do so only by acquiring, with a certain inner self-denial, concepts that do not involve the immediate experience of the “I.” In everything where the “I”-experience is present, the “I”-experience places itself before the core of the human being. For the training of the soul, therefore, one must acquire concepts in which the “I”-experience is not present. That is why those inner soul exercises that a person undertakes must be carried out in a very specific way. What matters here is the content of the contemplation—what the individual incorporates into his soul life. And he must incorporate into his soul life something that, while corresponding to the inner nature of the soul, does not relate to the external world. What does not relate to the external world? Only reflection. But reflection usually extends to the external world. Therefore, it is of no use to those who wish to ascend into the higher worlds. One must therefore develop a life of imagination that, through images and symbols constantly presented to the soul, evokes within the “I” an activity such that the “I,” if it were seeking to grasp the truths of the ordinary sensory world, would never form such a concept. Thus, the soul must internalize images and symbols that do not arise when one accompanies everything external with one’s experience of the “I.”

[ 35 ] If one bears this in mind, one has the following experience, which can only be described by referring to that state into which a person repeatedly enters during their life, namely, the state of sleep. As a person falls asleep, all the thoughts, sufferings, pains, and so on that they have experienced during the day sink into an indeterminate darkness. A person’s entire conscious life descends into this indeterminate darkness, and it returns when they wake up in the morning. Compare the state of consciousness upon waking and upon falling asleep. As long as a person gains only conscious impressions from external sensory life, they bring back in the morning only what they had in consciousness the evening before. They wake up with the same content of consciousness, remember the same things, can think the same thoughts, and so on. But when a person engages in the kind of inner training described—in which the “I” is not involved—the situation is different. Then the person will indeed find that they notice their first progress in the fact that, upon waking, they feel enriched by sleep, and that what they took in before falling asleep returns to them with richer content. Then they can say: Now I have looked behind the spiritual world, which the “I” does not obscure, and as a result, something has become integrated into my conscious life that I did not gain from the sensory world, for I brought it with me from the world of sleep. Such are the first steps of one who is undergoing a spiritual-soul life. But then the possibility arises that, even during waking daily life, he can incorporate such content that is not permeated by the “I” experience, even though the “I” is present. The “I” experience must stand alongside this content just as it stands within all sensory content. When we consider this, we must say: One who is able to look beyond the “I” can look into the spiritual-soul content of human existence. Those who embark on such a path are often encouraged to develop certain feelings. The nature of these feelings already reveals the nature of the path itself. Thus, one must learn to be free of desire regarding future experiences, to become free of desire, and, in particular, to overcome fear and anxiety about future events. One must learn to say dispassionately: “You let everything come to you, whatever may come,” and not merely tell oneself this as a dry, abstract concept, but make it a feeling deep within. This does not mean one must become a fatalist, for one must actively intervene in life oneself. One is a fatalist if one thinks that everything happens of its own accord. But instilling this absolute balance as a feeling and sensation into the “I”—this is something that, in accordance with the spiritual-soul nature of the human being, exerts such a force that it shields the “I” from the perceptions that are already entering our consciousness. In this way, one remains within the “I”-world, yet takes in a new world of inner soul experiences. These experiences alone make it possible to see the innermost core of the human being—which, though it develops from birth as that which originates from a previous life, cannot be truly recognized—now in its true, individual form. One must first see it as it is, as it is immediately present and at work. How can one remember something one has never turned one’s eyes toward? Just as a child has no awareness of what took place before the development of self-perception, so too can a person not bring into memory those experiences of previous births that are not based on a recognition of the inner core of the human being—on the feelings and sensations of the spiritual and soul core that exists within every human being.

[ 36 ] Whoever truly goes through this—whoever, above all, learns to earn the ability to look back on past lives by facing the future with equanimity and composure, free of desire—will see that past earthly lives are not merely a logical conclusion, but prove to be a reality through a newly formed, truly evoked memory. But one thing is necessary for this. The ability to look into the past can only be attained through detachment, through equanimity and indifference toward the future. To the extent that we are prepared, in our feelings and sensations, to experience the future—to the extent that we can set aside our ego in the face of experiencing the future—to that extent are we able to look into the past. And the more a person develops this equanimity, the closer they come to the point where past earthly lives become a reality for them.

[ 37 ] This explains why it is often said that ordinary human beings have no memory of past lives. This objection is just like someone bringing a four-year-old child and saying, “This child cannot do arithmetic,” and then concluding from that: “Therefore, human beings cannot do arithmetic!” To this one could only reply: “Let the child grow to be ten years old, and he will be able to do arithmetic. Therefore, human beings can do arithmetic!” — The memory of past earthly lives is a matter of development! Therefore, it is necessary to learn to reflect on this through the compelling force of the logical conclusion that was placed at the beginning of today’s lecture. Then one will find that there must be a spiritual-soul core within the human being, and that we carry it through death into a new life, just as we carried it into this life at birth.

[ 38 ] Thus, spiritual science cannot simply point to what is eternal in human beings in relation to life and death, but must do so in a way that is factually correct. And we may say: The logical conclusion regarding life and death in relation to the human being tells us from the outset that within this human individuality lies the possibility of attaining memory of past lives. Then there is no longer any need to say: If one cannot remember them, past earthly lives are of no use to one! Does only what one remembers benefit one? Are not the times a child does not remember also important? We carry within us the fruits of past lives. In our present life, we develop within ourselves—without our conscious awareness—what we have brought from earlier lives. And when we begin to look back on earlier earthly lives, then the recollection is indeed there. Then we can also tell ourselves how good it was that we did not recall these past lives in earlier times. For example, the recollection is not only to be attained through what I have characterized as the feelings and sensations for the future life, but it is even compatible only with such a state of soul as described. If it were to arise artificially, and yet a person were to combine it with a life of desires and cravings permeated by egoism, his spiritual and soul life would be thrown out of balance, would fall apart. For certain things belong together—and certain other things repel one another.

[ 39 ] In this way, we were able to trace what is eternal in the human being—that which enters life through birth, that which passes from life into the spiritual worlds through death, and that which reappears in new incarnations. And connected to this is the fact that we can develop more highly in new incarnations only by utilizing the fruits of our past lives. Today, we will examine the relationship of the human core being to these two concepts. Once we have this in mind, we will no longer answer the question about the nature of life and death by saying: “The nature of death can be recognized in the corpse”—but rather we will say: We sought within the innermost core of the human being that which must bring about new life. But for new life to arise, the old must gradually die off and then cease to exist entirely, just as the old plant, when it is annual, must die so that the new plant can draw life from it. Anyone who views the world of death in this way will not focus on what remains as a corpse, but will look within every being for the characteristic essence of life that is carried over into a new life. So even if Shakespeare has the gloomy Danish prince utter what, for many, seems to follow from the certain facts of modern science:

The great Caesar, now dead and turned to clay,
Seems to plug a hole against the harsh north wind.
Oh, that the earth, before which the world trembled,
Might form a wall against wind and weather.

[ 40 ] If such a perspective is based solely on the paths of the dying person, then—by viewing the human being from the standpoint of spiritual science—we turn our attention to the spiritual-soul core that passes through birth and death and through ever-new lives. And we gain confidence—not by tracing the paths taken by oxygen, carbon, and nitrogen, but by seeking the paths of life, by looking at what the true core of the human being undergoes—so that we can set the following words against those of Shakespeare:

The smallest human on Earth,
A son of eternity,
Defeats, in life after life,
The ancient death!