The Rudolf Steiner Archive

4. The Human Spirit and the Animal Spirit

[ 1 ] I would like to take a few moments today to recapitulate some points from my last lecture. Of particular importance to us were the insights we were able to gain from direct observation regarding the difference between human and animal mental life. We defined this difference by making it clear that animal mental life should not be distinguished from human mental life in such a way that one says: “Humans are so and so far ahead of animals in terms of this or that mental characteristic.” For to refute such a view, one need only point out how certain activities—which in humans can undoubtedly be achieved only by attaining a certain level of intelligence—are objectively carried out within the animal world in the construction of animal dwellings and in animal life as a whole, so that, so to speak, the products—the results of what the animal does—embody precisely the same intelligent activity as that which humans are capable of producing in the form of their tools and other creations. One could truly say: In what the animal accomplishes, the very same intelligence that we then also find in humans flows into it and solidifies within it. Therefore, we must not simply speak in terms of an “animal soul” and a “human soul” in such a way as to say that the animal is so-and-so far behind humans—and humans so-and-so far ahead of animals.

[ 2 ] Insofar as we have spoken of the soul—we describe the soul life, in contrast to the spiritual life, which we see primarily in its formation and development, as the life of innerness— we have pointed out that we have observed a close connection between the animal’s soul life and its physical organization, and that what the animal can experience in its soul life appears to us to be predetermined by the entire structure and arrangement of its organs. Therefore, we had to say: This animal soul life is determined by the way the animal is organized, and the animal lives its soul life, as it were, within itself. But this is the essence of human soul life: that the human soul emancipates itself to a high degree from the immediate organism and, in a certain sense—please do not misunderstand this; it is meant only relatively—experiences the spirit as such, as we have understood it, independently of the physical organization; that is, it is immediately capable of devoting itself to the spirit.

[ 3 ] As we now turn our attention to the human and animal spirit, we must first and foremost build upon the concepts and ideas we developed while examining the human and animal soul, and delve a little more deeply into a phenomenon that emerges from everything discussed previously. The animal has incorporated all its mental activities—which are, after all, directly linked to its organs and experienced within its soul—into what is inherited within the animal on a species-level. We can therefore say: In the animal’s soul life, the species-specific characteristics play out, and because these are hereditary, the animal, so to speak, enters into existence at birth in such a way that all mental processes—which can be experienced through the soul—are already predisposed. As a result, the animal enters existence, so to speak, fully formed and passes on the characteristics—which we can describe as an outflow of the animal spirit—to its offspring, again in a species-specific manner. The situation is different for human beings, who emancipate themselves from their physical organization with regard to their soul life. But because this physical organization naturally passes into the hereditary line, human beings enter existence in a certain sense helpless with regard to those functions that are meant to serve them in life. On the other hand, however, it is precisely this helplessness that makes possible what we might call soul-spiritual development. Thus, we find that the most significant aspect for a human being as they enter existence through birth is that what is determined from the outside remains open. With this, we have pointed out how we are to conceive of the relationship of the spirit to physicality—with the soul situated between spirit and physicality—in animals and humans. In the way the animal presents itself to us as a species and gradually lives out its instincts in life, we must see a direct activity of the spirit within the organic physical body. It is, as it were, the organic body in which the animal experiences itself soulfully—the spirit that has entered into reality. A direct relationship between spirit and body exists in the animal. When we turn our gaze to the animal and study it—whether superficially through lay observation or more precisely through what comparative anatomy and physiology or other sciences can offer us—everywhere we see, so to speak, the spirit crystallized in animal forms and in the conditions of animal life, which expresses itself in this way within the individual animal species. The external form and external life, too, are for us a direct imprint of what we call the spirit underlying the animal, so that we must seek the closest relationship between spirit and physicality in animals.

[ 4 ] The situation is quite different with human beings. When drawing attention to the crucial differences between humans and animals, it is extremely important not to, so to speak, overcomplicate matters. The most important point is close enough at hand—when it comes to viewing things in the right way—that there is no need to delve into all sorts of minute details of research. When we observe human beings, we find that something interposes itself between the spirit and the physical body—something that must not be assumed to exist in animals. And that is the essential point. In animals, the spirit exerts its influence directly, as it were, on their form and organization. In human beings, it does not exert a direct influence; rather, an intermediate link interposes itself, which we can observe very clearly in everyday life. As human beings present themselves to us purely through observation, this intermediate link—which, as it were, mediates the looser relationship between spirit and physicality—is expressed in what we call the self-conscious “I” in human beings. I do not wish to consider at this point how this self-conscious “I” takes shape within physicality, but I simply wish to say: As human beings appear to us in observation, as their psychological phenomena appear to us, this self-conscious “I” stands between spirit and physicality. Certainly, from the standpoint of a science that believes it stands on the firm ground of natural science, it is once again child’s play to simply object to the expression “self-conscious ‘I.’” But let us now examine the way in which this self-conscious “I” positions itself between spirit and physicality.

[ 5 ] Above all—as we already pointed out last time—we find that human beings depend on life in their environment, in the external world, with regard to the acquisition of language, the acquisition of a way of thinking, and also with regard to the acquisition of a certain sense of self-awareness. It is, after all, a well-known fact that if human beings were to develop in isolation, cut off from any human community, they would never acquire language, a certain way of thinking, or a certain sense of self-awareness, and would remain in the state of helplessness into which they were born. We see, then, that in animals, all the activities necessary for animal life and animal existence are inherent in the genetic lineage from the very beginning. We see these activities in humans arise in such a way that they must not be sought within the hereditary line any more than, for example, the heat necessary for incubating a chicken egg can be sought within the egg itself, for it must be supplied from outside. Here we can already see that human beings need to acquire the elements essential to their development through something within them, whereas in animals these are, so to speak, directly imprinted upon them spiritually. In humans, therefore, certain possibilities for development remain open, into which they absorb certain organizational forces through their self-conscious “I.” For no one will naturally doubt that as humans grow into language, into ways of thinking, into self-consciousness—and through the associated processes—changes in their organization are involved; so that, so to speak, what is found in animals as a predisposition resulting from activities that are hereditary is, in humans, taken in from the environment, just as heat is absorbed by an incubated chicken egg—that is, it is organized from the outside in. Thus, in humans, possibilities for development remain open to the influences of the environment, for, of course, spiritual science does not take the position that humans can accomplish anything without organs.

[ 6 ] We must therefore be clear that everything that acts upon a human being reorganizes him. This is also the case when we examine human organization quite closely: a human being is in fact reorganized by the forces approaching him from the outside, which must first approach him indirectly through his “I.” In doing so, we see something else: When we observe the human being as he positions himself in the world to become what he can become through language, mode of thinking, and self-consciousness, we grasp him, as it were, at one pole, at one end. But we must also grasp them at the other end. If one wants to penetrate this with thought, it is not all that easy. But it is indeed necessary to grasp human beings at the other end as well.

[ 7 ] Humans are indeed born helpless. It is, of course, child’s play to figure out what this means, but not so easy to incorporate it into one’s thinking. In the course of their lives, human beings must achieve something that animals are spared from having to achieve. Human beings achieve this while learning to walk—or, to put it more precisely, while learning to stand. Behind the act of learning to stand lies a great deal in human life: namely, the overcoming of what might be called the balance of physicality. If one examines the organizational plan in detail—the organization of the animal’s physique—one finds that animals are, in fact, organized in such a way that a certain balance is ingrained in them, enabling them to place themselves in a position where they can carry on their lives. It is constructed in such a way that a firm physical equilibrium is inherent in it. On the one hand, this is a source of helplessness; on the other, it is the advantage humans have over animals—namely, that they must first attain this equilibrium with the help of their “I.” Here, too, it is not appropriate to compare humans with the animals closest to them. If one examines comparative anatomy, looking at all the individual organs, it would be childish of spiritual science to assume a gulf between humans and the animals closest to them. But in the organizational plan of the animal, there is a predetermined balance. In humans, the possibility remains open to establish this balance only after birth. Yet even more possibilities remain open. In animals, the direction of their own movement is determined by their ingrained—if one wishes to use that word—predetermined organization. In humans, however, the possibility remains open to develop their own sense of movement, so to speak, within a certain range of freedom. Even more remains open to humans—we will return to how this manifests differently—namely, a certain possibility of imprinting life into the organization itself.

[ 8 ] One can certainly speak of a certain shaping of life within a living being. Or who, with even a modicum of artistic sensibility, would fail to notice that the organization of a duck is expressed in its sculptural forms? Or that the organization of the elephant is expressed in its sculptural forms? And that, when we look at it, the skeleton in particular—in contrast to the individual animal species—reveals mystery upon mystery to us, as if life were shooting into the form, becoming entangled in it, and appearing to us as if frozen? Here, too, humans have the leeway to pour life into the form in a very specific way, so that we need only point out that, when we study an animal form with our sculptural sense, we are far more interested in the universal, the generic, and the general, and we largely neglect the individual forms. In humans, we are interested in the noblest organ—as the organ of the skeleton—the structure of the skull, especially in its plastic form. And it is different in every human being because it remains open to what underlies the human being in the “I,” to the individual, whereas in animals it expresses the generic. So when we approach the human being from the other end, we find that during certain periods of life, the human being has freedom of action within the development of the sense of balance, the sense of self-movement, and the entire sense of life. What is interesting is that we can, so to speak, see this work of the spirit in the human being—this manifestation of the spirit in form and movement—at the very beginning of human life: how these forces truly come into play and express themselves in the acquisition of upright walking, in the development of the sense of self-movement, and in the formation of the body’s shape. But then, at a certain age, the possibility ceases for the forces that play freely in childhood to continue to exert their influence. By a certain age, these forces are complete in terms of the effect we have described. However, if they are truly present within the human being as individuality, they cannot simply disappear once they have completed their work in a certain area; rather, they must reappear to us in a later stage of life. We should be able to demonstrate, with regard to later life, that these forces are present—that they are realities in human life.

[ 9 ] We do indeed find these forces clearly emerging in a very characteristic way in the development of the human spirit. What a person accomplishes in developing their sense of balance, we find again later in life when they apply the same force to the development of their gestures. Gesture is something that truly leads us into the deeper structure of the human organism, insofar as the spirit lives within the human being. And as the human being expresses his inner life through gesture, he employs the same force that he first uses to develop his sense of balance in order to achieve a certain state of equilibrium. What a person develops in a tangible way while learning to walk and stand thus appears to us in a refined, deepened, and internalized form later in life, when—instead of being expressed physically—it is expressed more spiritually through gesture. That is why we truly feel a deep connection to a person’s inner being only when we stand face to face with them and allow their gestures—the entire way in which their inner life is expressed through their outward movements—to take effect upon us. In this respect, every human being is, in fact, to a greater or lesser extent a subtle artist in relation to their fellow human beings. If one were to consider the subtle psychological effects that pass from one person to another, one would see that an infinite amount depends—without people being consciously aware of it—on how gesture, taken as a whole, affects a person. This need not enter into coarse, external consciousness, but it nevertheless enters the soul and then manifests itself particularly in effects where external consciousness simply summarizes, in crude terms, countless intimate processes taking place beneath the threshold of consciousness with phrases such as: “I like him,” “I don’t like him,” or “I like her,” “I don’t like her.”

[ 10 ] But we can also see how the forces that have an organizing effect in self-movement continue to work in later life, as we move from the gesture expressed in movement to the point where the inner being of the human being, so to speak, pours itself into the outer form—but in a state of mobility—in facial expressions and physiognomy. Here, in fact, what initially functions as a sense of self-movement continues to work—allowing, so to speak, the human being’s helplessness room to develop further, and then bringing this helplessness under control. When we observe how a person, through their inner being, keeps their outer appearance in a state of constant flux, so to speak, through their facial expressions and the play of their physiognomy, we see how what initially appears in the organism merely as an expression of the effect on the physical body is increasingly transformed into the soul and thereby internalized. What acts more directly in the early stages of a person’s life is, as it were, captured within the inner self, within the self-conscious “I,” only to then pour out from the inside to the outside into the physical sphere, whereas initially it was a confrontation between the self-conscious “I” and the spirit. When we now observe a human being and are justifiably interested in the particular shape of their skull, we must say: In this particular skull shape, something of their innermost being is indeed expressed. Everyone knows that this is already the case in a general sense and that one will always find differences between the inner lives of different people reflected in the shape of their foreheads and skulls. Of course, one must not focus on certain areas of spiritual life that have emancipated themselves from the soul bound to the body. But as a certain foundation, there is nevertheless what can be described as the expression of the Spirit that has become the soul—an expression that has been so grossly misrepresented in what is called phrenology, skull observation, and the like. For the essential point is precisely to realize that those forms expressed in the human skull are, for the human being as such—as a moral and intellectual being standing before us—individual and not general. But wherever we attempt to generalize, we completely misunderstand the entire context. In this sense, the whole of phrenology, when practiced in this way, is materialistic nonsense. It should not be made into a science in the true sense of the word at all, for it cannot be one. What we encounter in the structure of the human skull is something individual that varies from person to person. The way in which we then seek to judge a person precisely according to these characteristics must be just as individual as the relationship a person has to a work of art. Just as there are no general, fixed rules there—but rather one must develop a relationship with each work of art, if it is truly one—so too, if one approaches what lies within a human being in terms of artistic sensibility according to general rules, one will already be able to arrive at certain judgments. Only these judgments will turn out quite differently from how they are usually expressed. But this is precisely what will become clear to us: If we observe a human skull, we will see how the spirit works within the form in a direct relationship, how the forces of the spiritual—of the “I”—literally push back from within against the skull’s shell, counteracting what works from the outside in. Only when one has a sense of this working from the outside in and from the inside out can one engage with what confronts us in the shape of the human skull that encloses the brain.

[ 11 ] Observation thus shows us how, in fact, the spirit in animals manifests itself directly through their forms. Since the animal’s psychological life is, in turn, directly linked to its organization, and since instinctive life is an expression of that organization, one will always be able to determine why this or that instinct or impulse must arise emotionally in the animal. In contrast, one can say of human beings: In them, too, we see the spirit working from within on their organization. But we also see how that which underlies the self-conscious “I” opposes and intrudes upon the organization—and thus upon the work of the spirit.

[ 12 ] But let us now consider human beings from a slightly different perspective. We see—as is plain to see—that they possess the ability to use language, a certain way of thinking, and a certain sense of self-awareness, all of which are instilled in them through education. These abilities arise from human beings’ contact with the outside world. But it is not enough simply to accept these things as given. For one must realize that something much deeper, much more intimate underlies language, the way of thinking, and self-awareness—all of which are triggered by the environment. Underlying this is the fact that human beings do, in a sense, possess three senses that we do not find in animals. One should not take the word “sense” merely in a comparative sense here; but let us stick to facts and not to words. Animals prove, to the greatest extent, incapable of demonstrating the same receptivity as humans in the realms of sound, concept, and what we call “selfhood.” If we examine the senses, we find that animals’ sensory capacity extends only as far as the sense of sound. — For external perception, this constitutes, for animals, a kind of ultimate limit. — Its sensory capacity extends as far as sound, but beyond that, its general organization does not yield the possibilities for understanding sound, concepts, or the “I-being” that exists within another being. The animal perceives the species: the dog perceives the dog, the elephant perceives the elephant, and so on. But no researcher of the spirit would attribute the perception of an “I-being” to the animal. Materialistic research will not succeed in proving the existence of a sense of “I” within the animal organism; therefore, natural science should not doubt this, and spiritual science will not doubt it. Thus, we have open possibilities for development in human beings regarding the perception of the inner nature of sound, the inner nature of concepts and ideas, and the inner nature of the “I” itself. If human beings did not have the potential for development in these three areas, the other powers I have mentioned would have no nourishment flowing from within and would be unable to express themselves. Animals lack the organs for these three areas of development. For in everything that human beings demonstrate in their transcendence of the animal realm, the imprint of what lies within them is revealed as the potential for the expression of sound perception, conceptual perception, and self-perception—that is, self-consciousness; whereas in the case of animals, we have described how the spirit is cast into form, and it therefore reveals to us a gesture determined by the generic and a physiognomy conditioned by the generic. All of this expresses, so to speak, how the spirit can act by coagulating directly into form. In human beings, we see how each person has their own specific gesture, their own specific physiognomy and facial expressions, and how it is precisely in these that what they possess on the other hand—in terms of developmental possibilities for sound, for concepts or ideas, and for self-consciousness—is expressed in a very special way. In fact, what a person possesses in terms of developmental potential for sound, concept, and the “I”-essence pours forth into their gestures, physiognomy, facial expressions, and the entire demeanor of their self-consciousness. There we see flowing from the inside out that which is first experienced through the direct interaction of the self-conscious “I” with the spirit, and we see it expressed in the human being.

[ 13 ] When we experience this, we can say to ourselves: Thus, we see in human beings—provided we approach them not with abstract, dry, and sober concepts, but with a living, vibrant perception—how the I-being, the imaginative being, and the speech-being work directly on the outer form and movement. It is literally as if, as crystallographers, we were studying the formative forces of a crystal and then forming a mental image of how we have a cube in rock salt, an octahedron in sulfur, a rhombic dodecahedron in garnet, and so on. Just as we see there how inner forces pour into the form, so too do we see in human beings, outwardly and immediately before our living vision, everything that a human being actually is to us—what makes a particularly strong impression on us in terms of their essence, and what confronts us as a congealed concept of the “I,” as congealed terms or ideas, and as congealed meaning of sound. Indeed, we can visualize quite vividly the very last thing that confronts us in tone or sound. For that communion with the spirit—which a person perhaps cultivates in the most intimate way, which every person, whether an artist or not, can cultivate with the spirit, and which, so to speak, works its way entirely into the finest spiritual fabric of their being—is experienced by the person in that peculiarity which, after all, should not be overlooked in its full significance for human life, must not be overlooked in its substance, in its intimacy — I am not speaking now of the content of the words, but of the depth of how the content is conveyed, of the depth of the sound character, the soul of language. Language possesses not only the spirit that expresses itself in the content of words; language also has a soul. And a language’s sound character affects us far more than we realize. A language that contains many “a” sounds affects our soul quite differently than one that, in the character of its words, contains more “i” or “#” sounds. For in the timbre of the sound character, the soul—which is poured out over all of humanity—pours over us, as if in the unconscious. This builds us up and works within us, and it is expressed in life again as a special kind of gesture. For human speech is also a special kind of gesture—not insofar as it is an expression of words, but insofar as it has a soul, in the way that a person lives and expresses themselves through language with their soul. Here we can even point out some very important differences.

[ 14 ] Everyone knows that among those peculiar, intangible factors that vary from person to person is the intimacy with which a person speaks—quite apart from what they say. When we take this into account, we realize that we come to know much, much of what is most intimate about a person precisely by observing how they speak. We often have to overlook this in life, because higher considerations can push it into the background. Nevertheless, there is something within us that pays close attention to the hoarseness or the melodiousness of a voice. Anyone who is a true observer of the soul knows that a hoarse voice is much more unpleasant in a man than in a woman—for the simple reason that these areas are intimately connected to our constitution, and in men there is a much more intimate relationship, a much deeper connection between the life of the soul and the entire manner of using the voice, the timbre, and so on, than is the case with women. It is true, but it cannot be proven. One can only point it out. If you pay attention to it, you will notice it for yourself. Anyone capable of attuning to such things will therefore feel the need—especially when expressing particularly important matters—to imbue their speech not only with content but also with precisely what has just been alluded to. And truly not out of immodesty, but to give an example of what is meant, I would like to refer here to the Rosicrucian mystery play I wrote, *The Gate of Initiation*. Throughout the most significant passages, it becomes evident that what cannot be expressed through content alone is conveyed in the treatment of language, right down to the vowel sounds; you will not be able to let an \(a\) follow a \(u\), or an \(a\) follow an \(i\).

[ 15 ] It is of the utmost importance that we consider this area as the “gesture of language” and observe how the spirit, in its power, influences the organization, and that we take note of the spirit’s direct effect on the soul, which contains the self-conscious “I.” Then we look back again to see how the human soul pours itself into physicality. Now, however, I come to a point that for many of you must, of course, be a hypothesis, and which may seem daring to some and even offensive to others to voice. But that is not the point.

[ 16 ] In human beings, we see the “I”-essence—that which the sense of imagination can produce and experience, and that which the sense of sound can experience—pouring into gesture, physiognomy, and facial expressions, as well as into form within the limits I have indicated, so that we see in human beings a direct manifestation of the spirit during that stage of life between birth and death, where the “I” positions itself between the spirit and the physical body. Now let us imagine the following: since these matters are more or less subtle, I speak in parables. Let us imagine what human beings accomplish with their “I”-essence, conceptual faculty, and the meaning of sound—as it pours itself in—initially, more or less, into equilibrium, into self-movement, and into self-consciousness; later into free gesture, free facial expressions, and the physiognomy that reveals the inner self—interact from the outset with a necessity such that no “I” interposes itself between these two, or rather three, aspects. So let us imagine the “I” set aside, with the two aspects of human nature interacting in such a way that, as it were, through a sense of sound that has not yet come to consciousness—which lives out the deepest inner self—a state of equilibrium is brought about from the very beginning in its experiences without the intervention of the “I”; then you have something that remains open in human beings, established without the intervention of an “I”: that is what determines the animal’s equilibrium from the very beginning. And imagine the concept through which human beings grasp their laws and the animal species—that is, the entire organism insofar as it is self-movement, and where it manifests as physiognomy and facial expressions—expressed in the animal’s entire movement—which is expressed in the animal’s instincts, passions, and so on— then you have, once again, that which is linked in the animal by a necessity of natural law—the very thing that humans possess in their lives, in which the “I” intervenes as a unifying factor. Once again, we find in the animal, linked by a necessity of natural law, what in humans is the immediate expression of life. In humans, the shaping of life still works its way into the form. But if you no longer think of it as reserved for life, but rather shaped directly by natural forces, then you have it in its generic form, as it appears to us in the physical structure of the various animal species.

[ 17 ] Thus we see in the human being a creature whose sensory world is situated in the middle between two poles. The human being has a sensory world: the world of perception, the world of sound, the world of taste, the world of smell, and so on. These lie between how a person perceives themselves—establishing relationships in various directions of space through the sense of balance, how they feel situated within their own body—and, on the other hand, the sense of sound, conceptual understanding, and the sense of self. Just as inner life relates to the senses lying in between out of an inner necessity, so too does it relate to the animal, necessarily shaping the entire bodily organization. If, in the case of human beings, you allow the two sides to belong together without the intervention of an “I,” then you have the direct influence of the spiritual upon the physical, existing without the interposition of the soul. In human beings, we have what we might call: on both the spiritual and physical sides, a manifestation in space, gesture, and so on, which remains open to the influence of the spirit from one side and from the other. We must come to terms with the fact that, in a sense, this actually lays the foundation for the entire understanding of the human being and of human spiritual life in general, insofar as it unfolds within the history of the spirit.

[ 18 ] We see that we must not confuse what a person experiences in a concept with what they experience when they actualize and develop the concept themselves. In a certain sense, a person is in a completely different situation with regard to the elaboration of the concept than with regard to the understanding of the concept. The elaboration of the concept is a completely different matter from the means of understanding the concept. I would like to point out a fact in this regard.

[ 19 ] In 1894, Laurenz Müllner, a great admirer of Galileo, delivered an inaugural address in Vienna upon assuming the rectorship of the University of Vienna, in which he drew attention to a peculiar fact that is, at first glance, quite interesting. He pointed out that Galileo was endowed with that spirit of humanity capable of conceptualizing the laws of mechanics and physics—the laws of pendulum motion, projectile motion, terminal velocity, and equilibrium—which are perhaps expressed in the most magnificent way—as Professor Müllner put it — in the skyward-soaring dome of St. Peter’s Basilica in Rome, in Michelangelo’s marvelous work. That is true; anyone moved by that work of art must admit it. And so we can say, Laurenz Müllner remarked: In Galileo’s understanding, those laws first appear conceptualized as we see them soaring toward the heavens in the uniformity and equilibrium of the gigantic dome of St. Peter’s Basilica in Rome. Through Galileo, humanity has, so to speak, understood how to conceptualize what is presented in St. Peter’s Basilica in Rome as Michelangelo’s artistic creation. But now there is this one fact: that Galileo’s birthday and Michelangelo’s death fall in the same year. Michelangelo died on February 18, 1564, and in the same year, almost to the day, on February 15, Galileo was born—the man who discovered the laws of mechanics and physics for humanity!

[ 20 ] This is indeed an extraordinarily interesting fact, for it indicates that human beings engage in that communion with the spirit—through which they are enabled to imprint upon things the laws that are subsequently discovered—in a direct manner, and not through the mind, not through concepts, and certainly not through intelligence. But this points to something else, namely that human beings, in their very constitution, are in communion with the spirit even before their intelligence has processed it internally, on a soul level. Therefore, we can say, in a sense: Human beings are constituted in such a way that they can themselves incorporate into matter what lives within them as an outflow of the spirit—that which has acted upon them—before they could grasp it with their intelligence. And this is indeed the case with all artistic creation. This fact interests us because it shows us that, in physical life—with regard to everything a person experiences and which finds expression in an organ—the person possesses, even before understanding the laws governing those organs, something within themselves that plastically carries out those laws and shapes them plastically. So that, if we think the idea through, it becomes quite clear that the sense for those laws of the spirit—which are expressed, for example, in a work of art—is present, and must be present, before the laws are incorporated into the soul. Therefore, we also have, so to speak, the reverse at the spiritual end of the human being—provided we do not use the word in a base sense, but rather elevate it appropriately into the spiritual realm. Then it indeed becomes clear to us: through an instinct that has been elevated and purified into the spiritual realm, human beings create what they only discover later. Just as animals create instinctively—as, for example, the bee colony brings about its wonderfully organized hive—so do human beings create directly from the spiritual world, before the spiritual world is reflected in their intelligence.

[ 21 ] Thus we see that, even from this perspective, everything points to the self-conscious “I” standing in opposition to the workings of the spirit. Through its instinct, the animal is able, on a spiritual level, to reflect in its intelligence what it incorporates into its burrows and the like. Let us take the beaver and its lodge as an example: Among beavers, there will always be “Michelangelos,” but never a “Galileo” who understands the laws in the same way that the “beaver-Michelangelo” incorporates them into the beaver lodge. In human beings, there is that which stands in opposition to the self-conscious “I”—that which the spirit creates when it enters into the organism.

[ 22 ] Thus, in considering human development, we have clearly seen that what interposes itself between the spirit and the physical organization is the expression of the self-conscious “I” in human beings; that in human beings, the refined physical organization directly experiences the spirit, as we see in artistic imagination, and that within humans there also lives the self-conscious being capable of resisting the integration of the spirit into the body. So it does not matter whether we give humans preference over animals or not; that would be the wrong approach; rather, we must observe that in animals, the spirit approaches the physical organization directly, and the soul brings life in accordance with this physical organization, whereas in human beings, the living “I” located within the soul interposes itself between the spirit and the physical organization, establishing mediation and acting as a mediator between the spirit and the physical organization. Through this, however, the human “I” has direct communication with what lives in the spiritual world. It first manifests this direct connection by striving to establish spiritual relationships in its environment—relationships that an animal can establish only through its instincts. We already see a certain sense of justice and a moral life clearly expressed in animals. However, we can only understand legal life, moral life, political life, and the entire course of world history if we recognize in human beings the emancipation of the spirit from the physical, whereby the “I” positions itself between spirit and physicality and thereby enters into direct communication with the spiritual world. The way in which this “I” enters into direct communication with the spiritual world constitutes the normal human condition. But just as the insertion of a self-conscious “I” between the spirit and physicality represents a step forward in relation to animal development, so it is also possible for human beings to proceed further along this path by further developing within themselves the spirit they have emancipated from physicality, as they experience themselves in free communion with it. We will see the possibilities of this in the lecture on “The Nature of Sleep,” and its full significance will become clear to us in the lecture “How Does One Attain Knowledge of the Spiritual World?” There we will see how the emancipation of the spirit from physicality has already taken place to a certain degree for the average person, but can be further advanced through the dormant, embryonic powers inherent in human beings, the unfolding of which can lead them to a direct insight into the spiritual world. We first had to lay a foundation for what we will be able to cultivate as the actual contemplation of the spiritual world. We have thereby gained the insight that the true significance of the human being lies in the fact that the human “I” interposes itself between the spirit and the physical body. But this is also given externally in a physical sense, in that the self-conscious “I,” as it appears to us in life, already confronts us within the human inner life—one might say—physiognomically and also through its gestures. Some of you will recall that I have not only stated but also substantiated that the old saying “Blood is a very special fluid” is based on a profound truth. This is indeed the case. And in what is simply expressed as a direct effect of the soul on blood circulation, one can already glimpse something of that influence of the self-conscious “I” on physicality, on the body’s organization. This is, so to speak, the next gateway through which the “I,” fertilized by the spirit, works into physicality. We see this when we observe the soul’s effect on blood circulation. I have pointed out on several occasions that in the very gross manifestations of the blush of shame and the pallor of fear, we see a direct effect of something taking place in the soul and expressing itself in the body, for fear and shame are indeed psychological processes. One would have to be an unconscious materialist to dispute this—which, for example, William James actually is, even though he wishes to be a spiritualist by effectively advocating the statement: “A person does not cry because they are sad, but they are sad because they cry.” One would therefore have to imagine that a person experiences sadness in their soul as a result of some material influences—however subtle—being exerted on the organism, which force out the tears; and when the person notices this—so William James argues—they become sad. If we fail to recognize the utter untenability of this conclusion, we will be unable to see that in phenomena such as laughter and crying—but also in the blush of shame, where a shift of blood occurs from the center to the periphery—we are dealing with physical processes that are directly subject to psychological and spiritual influences. If we consider this, we will be able to say: Indeed, in human beings, the soul expresses itself through blood circulation. However, what we say about human beings—that the self-conscious “I” manifests itself in the blood and in blood circulation—we cannot apply directly to animals, because a self-conscious “I” cannot influence the blood circulation in animals. But this is the essential point, because the animal does not open itself directly to the influence of the spiritual world, which necessarily exerts its influence. While in the animal’s blood circulation we again have something before us where the expression of the animal’s soul life is directly manifested, in the human blood circulation we see something of the way in which the spirit acts upon the “I.”

[ 23 ] When people eventually begin to study, even a little, the things that really matter—namely, that what I said at the beginning today is essential to human life, that human beings are not organized from the outset for a specific form of balance, self-movement, and sense of life, but must first attain them, — once people come to realize that the directions in space correspond to realities, that it is not irrelevant whether a spine is oriented horizontally or vertically relative to spatial conditions, or whether blood circulation flows in this or that direction—then they will see what is essential, above all, in the way such systems relate to the entire context of the world. For example, one will indeed have to see something essential in the directions toward a specific line in space. Once one realizes this, one will be able to appreciate the great significance of precisely the orientation and the entire process of blood circulation in the human circulatory system. Today, it is believed that the science of blood circulation is something more or less complete. That is not the case at all. We are only just beginning to learn something of the mysteries of blood circulation. So that I do not present these things as if they were mere assertions, I would like to point out the following.

[ 24 ] It has been no more than twenty-five years since a natural scientist of great significance in this field—namely, the criminal anthropologist Moriz Benedikt, who possessed the necessary mathematical background— first drew attention to the very significant fact—which is, of course, widely ignored again today—that the corresponding pulses in the right and left carotid arteries are different, which is extraordinarily important for understanding the interrelationships within the human being. And of particular importance is what was discovered not by a famous man in this field, but by a very humble man, Dr. Karl Schmid, and what he published in 1892 in the *Wiener Medizinische Wochenschrift* in his treatise “Heartbeat and Pulse Curves.” It points to some very important observations. Only when these matters—which are still in their infancy—are studied to some extent will we have made a start in understanding the connection between the self-conscious “I” and blood circulation on the one hand, and between the animal spirit active in animals and animal blood circulation on the other.

[ 25 ] Last time, I pointed out that we are indeed able to delve into the details of organology and individual functions, and can demonstrate the difference in how the spirit manifests itself in humans and how it manifests itself in animals. In contrast, it is quite understandable that recent research on the relationship between human and ape blood is less significant, because it focuses on external, purely material aspects—such as chemical reactions and so on—rather than on what really matters. If it were merely a matter of the physical, it would make no difference at all whether a wheel is used as a toy for children or in a clock. But it always depends on how a limb or organ is used within the totality of a being or thing. It does not depend on how human blood relates to ape blood or the like, but on how the organs in question are placed in the service of the overall organism. Goethe’s relationship to the natural sciences best illustrates how what is truly real intersects with external research. In Goethe’s era, a harsh materialism was already gaining momentum with regard to natural phenomena, and it was precisely the most outstanding natural scientists—who sought to establish the difference between humans and animals—who invoked something purely material in doing so. They believed that this difference was evident in the fact that animals have an additional bone in the upper jaw that is absent in humans, and they would say, for example: “This is the gulf between humans and animals—that animals still have an additional bone to support the upper incisors, whereas humans do not!” For Goethe, this was unbearable. What mattered to him was finding the difference between humans and animals not in the individual structural elements, but in relation to the way the spirit in humans and the spirit in animals makes use of the organs. Incidentally, I would just like to point out that Goethe’s theory of metamorphosis can be applied to all individual human organs. Thus, from the very beginning, Goethe could never come to terms with the idea that the superiority of humans over animals should be sought in a single material detail. For this reason, he first sought to prove that this assertion was incorrect and that this gap did not exist, and he set out to demonstrate the presence of the “intermaxillary bone” in humans. If Goethe had done nothing more than this single act, if he had found nothing else but that the intermaxillary bone is indeed present in humans—merely fused together so that it cannot be seen—he would already be a towering genius in the field of human evolution. Goethe said to himself—I am recounting this not because he did it, but because it comes to light in Goethe’s perception—: Together with Herder and others who strive to understand human beings from the perspective of the spirit, I have focused above all on the fact that human beings stand above animals precisely because animals are bound to their physical organization. Human beings, however, emancipate themselves from this and enter into direct communion with the spirit, and can thereby exert a reciprocal influence on the organs—which Goethe, as I have already indicated, expressed in these words: ‘The animals are instructed by their organs, said the ancients. I would add: so are human beings; yet they have the advantage of being able to instruct their organs in return.” Goethe could not help but admit: the organs are the same; they are merely shaped from a different perspective. Hence Goethe’s great joy when he finally discovered the intermaxillary bone in humans. There he writes to Herder:

“... I have found—neither gold nor silver, but something that brings me infinite joy—the os intermaxillare in humans! I compared human and animal skulls with Lodern, picked up the trail, and lo and behold, there it is. Now I ask you, don’t let on, for this must be kept secret. You should also be truly delighted, for it is like the keystone of the human being—it is not missing; it is indeed there! And how! I’ve also thought about it in connection with your whole being—how beautiful it will be there . . .”

[ 26 ] The difference between humans and animals cannot be found in any single aspect; it must be found entirely in the way the spirit makes use of things. For through this we come to see what a human being is in relation to the spirit—how he has emancipated himself from physicality and can enter into direct communion with the spirit. Hence the difference in the feeling that comes over us when we look upon something spiritual and when we look upon something physical and material. We will try to use words with a completely different meaning depending on whether we are looking at the spiritual or the physical.

[ 27 ] Two poems appear side by side in Goethe’s works. They contain three remarkable lines:

The Eternal continues to stir within all things:
For everything must dissolve into nothingness,
If it is to persist in being.

[ 28 ] That is how one poem ends. And the other begins:

No being can disintegrate into nothingness!
The Eternal continues to stir within all things,
May you find joy in existence!

[ 29 ] A complete contradiction! How can we explain it? Goethe presented it in such a stark way in two poems that follow immediately one after the other. Indeed, we can awaken this feeling in our hearts when we look at the spirit within material existence. If the spirit were to persist in material existence—if it were not to shatter every form—it would have to dissolve into nothingness. The moment we perceive the spirit within physicality, we must say: It must not disintegrate into nothing! But when we look at the spirit that reappears anew in the spiritual realm within every form, then we must say: We are dealing with eternal, immortal being—with the spirit with which we can unite in the emancipated human soul. Then we may say precisely this:

No being can disintegrate into nothingness!
The Eternal continues to stir within all things,
May you find happiness in Being!

[ 30 ] when we contemplate the immortal, eternal nature of a being.

[ 31 ] If we look at the soul—if we look at the spirit within the physical body—we must say: If it had fully expressed itself in the physical body, if it had wanted to hold on to the physical body, it would not have disintegrated into nothing.

[ 32 ] Thus, it is precisely the contemplation of the animal spirit and the human spirit that leads us, step by step, to begin to gain a glimpse of what, in essence, may be called the spirit. And before one can proceed to explore how to gain insights into the spirit, one must first and foremost understand how the spirit shines into the human soul, emancipating it from physicality so that it may lead a life within the soul that is independent of the physical organization and leads into its own realms.