The Rudolf Steiner Archive

First Lecture

[ 1 ] Some of my friends have encouraged me to speak to you a bit about linguistics during this visit. Even more so than with the natural science courses—I must say—it goes without saying that, given such a sudden decision, what can be covered in these few hours can only be quite superficial. Even more so than the scientific reflections, these linguistic observations must be taken with a certain degree of leniency, because they are entirely improvised. The aim, therefore, can only be to offer a few pointers that might prove particularly useful for our teaching at the Waldorf School—and for teaching in general.

[ 2 ] Perhaps what we have roughly intended can best be achieved if we link one or two points to a kind of historical perspective on language. Therefore, I ask you to regard what I will say today as a loose collection of various remarks intended to serve as an introduction to what we will be discussing together over the next few hours.

[ 3 ] It is precisely in the German language that we can observe how the development of a people’s language also reflects the development of their inner life itself. However, we must be clear that people do not have the same relationship to language in every historical period as they do in another. The further back we go in the history of a people’s development, the more vividly we find, in a certain sense, all that is connected with language—both the powers of the human soul and the flexibility of the human body. I have indeed experienced this myself on numerous occasions. If you look through my books, you will find a very conscious effort to express myself in German as much as possible, even when dealing with philosophical topics. This is precisely what some of my opponents hold against me; they can’t help but rail against what is consciously sought in these very books with regard to language. Even in German today, it is extraordinarily difficult to find, so to speak, inner, living forces that continue to shape the language. In particular, it is difficult to find meaningful connections—that is, to express a certain meaning in a fully adequate way by attempting to incorporate a particular word, as I have tried, for example, with the word kraften, a word that is otherwise rarely used in the German language. There I attempted to transform into an active form what is otherwise expressed only passively. I have attempted something similar with other words as well; but even though we are only a century behind Goethe, we already find it difficult today to coin such far-reaching new words that concisely express the ideas we are trying to incorporate as new thoughts arising from the development of our times. We do not realize, for example, that the word Bildung is no older than Goethe’s time! Before Goethe’s time, there were no “cultured” people in Germany; that is to say, what people meant by that term had not yet been articulated as “a cultured person.” Even in the second half of the 18th century, the German language still possessed a strong inner plasticity, and so words such as “Bildung” or even “worldview”—which have only emerged since Goethe’s time—could still be formed. It is a great blessing to live in a linguistic context that still allows for such internal linguistic development. One notices this particularly strongly, for example, when one is constantly hearing about the translations of one’s books into French, English, or other languages. People translate with the sweat of their brow, doing the best they can; but whenever one person has translated something, another finds it utterly terrible—no one thinks the translation is any good. And when you delve into the matter, you realize that much of what is written in the books simply cannot be expressed that way in translation. I then reply to people: In German, everything is correct; you can place the subject first, second, or third—more or less, everything is still correct. —And the pedantic, philistine notion that something cannot be said in an absolute sense isn’t as prevalent in German as it is in Western languages. But just think where one ends up when bound to a stereotypical way of expression! One cannot yet think individually, but can really only think—in the spirit of the group—about things one wants to communicate to other people. This is also very much the case for the populations of Western civilizations; they think in stereotypical forms of expression. You see, it is precisely in the German language that one can observe how what I would like to call the “linguistic genius” has gradually become rigid, and how, even in our time, German is approaching the stage where one can no longer break free from these stereotypical forms. This was not the case in Goethe’s time, and even less so in earlier periods. And this is likely connected to the overall linguistic development of Central Europe.

[ 4 ] In relatively recent times, Central Europe—extending far to the east—was inhabited by a primitive people, a people with great intellectual potential but a relatively primitive material culture—a culture that was more or less strictly rooted in economic life and in everything that could be developed from it. And much of the intellectual culture of the Greeks was initially absorbed indirectly through the Eastern Germanic tribes. Thus, much of what was Greek found its way into the language of Central Europe through the Germanic languages, which later became German. Throughout the centuries in which Christianity spread from south to north, an immense amount of linguistic material was incorporated along with the concepts, ideas, and mental images. The various Germanic tribes of Central Europe truly had no way of expressing the most important concepts—which they were to receive through Christianity—using their own language. Even what has been handed down to us does not always tell us the whole truth. For example, what is called “blessing” essentially belongs to what spread with Christianity. This specific concept of blessing did not exist in Norse-Germanic paganism. We do have incantations, but they had a magical quality, possessed a magical power; that was not true blessing. This blessing is something that essentially only entered the language through Christianity; and this blessing is connected to the noun “blessing.” This is a word formation adopted in ancient times under the influence of Christianity. And this word formation is signum = “the sign,” so that with Christianity the word signum was introduced, and from it the terms “blessing” and “blessing” were derived. Now I ask you to consider what linguistic creative power the linguistic genius still possessed back then! Today we would no longer be able to transform and adapt a foreign word so deeply that signum becomes “blessing.” Rather, we would retain the foreign word as a foreign word, because the language-shaping power that springs from within no longer wells up from the depths. With many words that are already perceived today as quite German, one must be aware that they are nothing other than intruders that came with Christianity. Take the word “predigen,” for example. “Predigen” is nothing other than “praedicare.” We once had the opportunity to transform “praedicare” from within. “Predigen” is not a German word at all, but merely a transformation of the word “praedicare,” which, of course, also means “to preach”; yet we have no truly German word for this Christian activity of preaching.

[ 5 ] Thus, if we wish to understand the true language-forming power of the German language, we must first sift through our language. We must, so to speak, separate out everything that has found its way into the language indirectly through the cultural currents that have flowed into our Central European culture. With some words, you actually don’t even notice it anymore. You speak of “Weihnachtsfest” and experience the festival. “Weihnacht” is a proto-Germanic word, but “Fest” is a Romance, a Latin word, which became German in ancient times. “Fest”—that takes us back to a time when, on the one hand, with the arrival of Christianity, truly foreign elements did indeed make their way in, but at the same time, these were so transformed that today we no longer even have the impression that it is a foreign word. Who in the entire German-speaking world today thinks to note that the word “verdammen” is a Latin word—derived from “damnare”—that has become German? So we must be very discerning if we wish to arrive at what is actually the true German language; for much has indeed entered with Christianity; much has also entered through the development of the school system out of Christianity. The curriculum in this school system was adopted just as it had been in the south, within the Greco-Latin culture. And there were no existing words for what needed to be communicated. The words had to be introduced at the same time as the concepts. This first took place in the Latin schools but then spread down to the lower schools as well; and so what today forms the foundation of our education—the school itself—is a foreign word. For “Schule” is no more a German word than “Scholastik” is. “Schola,” Old High German “scola,” meaning “school,” is thus a foreign word. And “Klasse” is certainly a foreign word. Indeed, one need only look wherever one wishes: “Tafel” is a foreign word—tabula; “schreiben” is a foreign word—scribere. Thus, virtually everything that has found its way into the school has actually entered our language from outside, because we received the school curriculum from the south, which is Romance in origin.

[ 6 ] This, in a sense, constitutes the layer of elements we must sift out of the German language if we wish to study the true character of the German linguistic essence. We must have sifted out almost all distinctly foreign words. For these do not express what springs from the German folk-soul; rather, they have been poured into the essence of the German folk-soul; they form, so to speak, a kind of varnish over the German essence. We must seek what lies beneath this varnish. If, for example, we look at the school system to find what lies beneath the varnish, we find relatively little, but what we find is very characteristic. For example, a truly Germanic word is the word Lehrer (teacher); another truly Germanic word is Buchstabe (letter), from which Buch (book) is derived. It originated from the sticks that were thrown down to form words, through the ancient custom of using thrown beechwood sticks to represent letters, from which the act of putting them together—that is, reading—arose, and the reader, who became the teacher. These are ancient Germanic formations. But as you can see, they have a completely different character; they lead us back in every respect to the spiritual life that was lived in Central Europe.

[ 7 ] Thus, the ancient pagan essence and the Christian essence collided, and along with these two essences, the two linguistic elements—the southern and the more northern—also collided. You can create a mental image of what a powerful, transformative spiritual force must have been at work in the German language during the first millennium after the Mystery of Golgotha, enabling it to embrace Christianity as fully as it did, and at the same time to incorporate, along with Christianity, the words that expressed the most essential mysteries of the faith.

[ 8 ] However, this represents only a single layer. When we examine this single layer of Romance linguistic elements penetrating into German, we go back to very early times—times still somewhat connected to the Migration Period. But even later, the Romance influence exerted a major impact on German. And so we see how, through a wide variety of events, a second layer arrived from the west, brought by Romance linguistic influence. Beginning in the 12th century and continuing well into the 18th century, French words were continually adopted—French words for things for which we already had concepts and feelings, but which served to modify certain concepts and feelings. I have jotted down a number of these words; however, my notes do not claim to be exhaustive, since—as all these lectures are improvised—they are, so to speak, written down from memory. I have tried to select words that appear to be purely Old High German. Take, for example, the word “fein.” “Fein” is a word you won’t find before the 12th century. It came over from French via “fir.” From this you can see how, in the 13th century, the language’s creative power was still so great that a word could be transformed so thoroughly that today we perceive it as a thoroughly German word. Even a word like Kumpan, which has become very popular, is simply a transformation of compagnon; and a word we encounter very frequently today, Partei, is among those words that were introduced back then. “Tanz” entered the German language back then. These are all words that have only been in German since the 12th century and that came in during this second wave of influence—the one I would specifically like to call the “French” one: “Schach,” “matt,” “Karte,” “As,” “Treff,” “kaputt”—all words that made their way into our language back then. What is very remarkable is that we have countless—or at least a great, great many—such words that, from the 12th century onward through the 13th, 14th, 15th, and 16th centuries, made their way into German from France, from the West. These are indeed words that contributed greatly to the emergence of a light, casual element within the language—one that permeated the previously much heavier German speech. The language previously spoken in German-speaking regions had a much more substantial quality; and you will see how it would not have been easy to express such things with it. It would have been easy to say: “You are a bold hero.” That could be easily expressed in Old High German. But not: “You are a fine fellow”—that could not be expressed with the same nuance as it is today; for that, one simply needs the word “fine.” Nor would other expressions have become possible had it not been for this invasion by French.

[ 9 ] Surprisingly little has come directly from the northern regions of Italy. During the Renaissance, there were a few things related to music, but otherwise practically nothing. In contrast, a third type of “invasion”—albeit not as strong—of words like “bizarre” arrived later via a detour through southern Germany and Austria. It was then that the word “lila” first appeared; it didn’t exist before. These words arrived at the same time as the words “Neger” and “tomate.” All of this originated in Spain. At the same time, however, we see a phase of the intrusion of foreign linguistic elements in which it is already apparent that the linguistic genius is no longer as flexible. These words bear a much closer resemblance to their original counterparts. And the situation became most unfavorable later on, when the Germans began to allow English to penetrate their language—actually not until the late 18th century and then in the 19th century. It was primarily words relating to external life that made their way in; but they have remained almost exactly as they are in English. By then, the German linguistic genius had already lost the ability to transform and internalize them.

[ 10 ] Thus, I have tried to draw your attention to how, when one looks back to earlier times, the capacity for assimilation and transformation is exceptionally strong, particularly in the case of Germanic-German elements. Take—and I want to reinforce this point strongly—for example, a word so distinctly German that, even if one is well-versed in the nuances of dialects, one cannot possibly doubt the authenticity of the word in question: You may be familiar with the word Riegelwand for a half-timbered wall. Riegel rolls off the tongue and is pronounced in a purely Germanic manner. And yet, this word has existed in the German-speaking world only since the time when architects trained in Italian and Latin began building with such materials, which later gave rise to the development of half-timbered walls. In very ancient times, buildings were constructed differently, and these architects had introduced the word regula—meaning “rule”—to describe their method of work; and in those days, the language-forming spirit was still strong enough to transform the word regula into Riegel. But who today knows that this word Riegel, which appears to be Old High German, is nothing other than Regel, regula! We would no longer be capable of making such transformations today. We also consider “Keller,” the cellar below, to be a proto-German word, and yet it is nothing other than the transformation of “cellarium.” I’d like to give you another example of a word that looks entirely Old High German, so you can see how precarious the situation could have become if people had begun, in line with certain trends that existed some time ago, to eradicate all foreign words. Had they done so, “Riegel” would have been eliminated, “Keller” would have been eliminated; but do you know what else would have had to go? The word “Schuster” would have had to go! “Schuster”—this word entered the German language because people from the south came and taught the Germans to sew footwear instead of simply tying it together, as had been done in the past. And the word “sutor” is connected to the sewing of footwear; this word, transformed, became the modern German word “Schuster.” So the modern word “Schuster” is definitely a foreign word.

[ 11 ] You can see from this how thoroughly we actually have to sift through things if we want to get to words that are originally German. We cannot simply take what floats on the surface of the language today, because that follows entirely different laws. If we want to go back to what was creatively linguistic in the linguistic genius, then we must first sift through things. In a curious way, the language-forming element takes precedence. And this is best seen when one pays attention to how things can still be introduced into the language—I would say, how things can be introduced through a certain tyranny from below—even in a time when the language-forming genius no longer has its full bearing. For example, the following happened in Europe not so long ago: There is a town near Raab called Kocs. And—I believe it was in the 16th century—an inventive man from this small town near Raab came up with the idea of making handy carts that were easy to drive; these carts spread a bit and made the town of Kocs famous. Just as “Frankfurter sausages” are well-known—and just as certain sausages are called “Frankfurter sausages”—so these carts came to be called “Kocsi.” And you see, this had such staying power that the word that arose from it—the word “Kutsche”—even made its way to France and to the proud English! And yet this word is not old at all; rather, it spread with a certain tyrannical power from the cart drivers in Kocs in relatively recent times.

[ 12 ] So let’s be clear about this: When we are faced with a fully formed language, we must strip away a great deal of the external trappings—precisely in order to penetrate to its inner core. But once we have penetrated to the core, we must say the following: this core shows us, however, that—with its inner, language-forming power—it could only have arisen in an era when thoughts were rooted much more deeply than they are today, for example, within German culture. For this to happen, thoughts must be much closer to the very essence of the human being. Today, we no longer feel the power that we sense in thought still present within the word itself. We sometimes feel it when we go back to the dialects, which in turn are several levels deeper. Today, in educated colloquial speech, we say “Blitz” to express something brief. In certain South German dialects, people still say “Himlizzer.” When you say that, the entire concept of a flash is contained within it! There is still a sense of what is formed in nature within it. In short, in the dialects one still returns to word forms in which one can sense, through the word form itself, what is happening out there in nature. But this is certainly the case with the core of languages. There, the conceptual, the ideal element, is much closer to the phonetic element. And in German, in particular, one can trace through the history of the language how, in earlier times, the immersion of meaning into sound was still common practice, and how the matter then became abstract. In words such as “Tag” (day)—which is a proto-Germanic word—those who can perceive \(T\) and \(A\)—you can feel this particularly through eurythmy—still sense what I would like to call the “penetration of meaning into sound.” Later, words emerged—ideas whose abstract meaning was incorporated into the word. Let us consider the proper name “Leberecht.” A child is named “Leberecht” to give them the guidance that they should live righteously, that they should not stray. Or “Traugott.” When such words were formed, a certain language-forming element was still present, but it was abstract, not original.

[ 13 ] That is what I wanted to say to you today by way of introduction, so that we can then move on to more specific topics.