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On
War
by Jakob Burckhardt
It is part of the wretchedness of life on earth
that even the individual believes that he can only
attain a full consciousness of his own value if he
compares himself with others and, in certain
circumstances, actually makes others feel it. The
State, law, religion and morality are hard put to
it to keep this bent within bounds, that is, to
prevent its finding public expression. In the
individual the open indulgence of it is regarded as
ridiculous, intolerable, ill-mannered, dangerous,
criminal.
On a big scale, however, nations from time to
time assume that it is allowable and inevitable for
them to fall upon each other on some pretext or
other. The main pretext is that in international
relations there is no other way of arriving at a
decision, and: "If we don't, others will." We shall
leave aside for the moment the highly diverse
internal histories of the outbreaks of wars, which
are often extremely complex.
A people actually feels its full strength as a
people only in war, in the comparative contest with
other peoples, because it only exists at that time.
It must then endeavor to sustain its power at that
level. Its whole standard has been enlarged.
In philosophic form, the dictum of Heraclitus,
"war is the father of all things," is quoted in
proof of the benefits of war. Lasaulx accordingly
explains that antagonism is the cause of all
growth, that harmony is born only of the conflict
of forces, the "discordant harmony" or the
"harmonious conflict" of things. This means,
however, that both sides are still in possession of
some vital energy, and not that one triumphs while
the other lies prostrate. Indeed, according to him,
war is divine in character, a world law and present
in all nature. Not without cause do the Indians
worship Shiva, the god of destruction. The warrior,
he says, is filled with the joy of destruction,
wars clear the air like thunderstorms, they steel
the nerves and restore the heroic virtues, upon
which States were originally founded, in place of
indolence, double-dealing and cowardice. We might
here also recall H. Leo's reference to "fresh and
cheerful war, which shall sweep away the scrofulous
mob."
Our conclusion is -- men are men in peace as in
war, and the wretchedness of earthly things lies
equally upon them both. In any case, we generally
suffer from an optical illusion in favor of those
parties and their members with whose interests our
own are in any way connected.
Lasting peace not only leads to enervation; it
permits the rise of a mass of precarious,
fear-ridden, distressful lives which would not have
survived without it and which nevertheless clamor
for their "rights," cling somehow to existence, bar
the way to genuine ability, thicken the air and as
a whole degrade the nation's blood. War restores
real ability to honor. As for these wretched lives,
war may at least reduce them to silence.
Further, war, which is simply the subjection of
all life and property to one momentary aim,
is morally vastly superior to the mere violent
egoism of the individual; it develops power in the
service of a supreme general idea and under a
discipline which nevertheless permits supreme
heroic virtue to unfold. Indeed, war alone grants
to mankind the magnificent spectacle of a general
submission to a general aim.
And since, further, only real power can
guarantee a peace and security of any duration,
while war reveals where real power lies, the peace
of the future lies in such a war.
Yet it should, if possible, be a just and
honorable war -- perhaps a war of defense such as
the Persian War, which developed the powers of the
Hellenes gloriously in all ways, or such as the war
of the Netherlands against Spain.
Further, it must be a genuine war, with
existence at stake. A permanent smoldering of small
feuds, for instance, may replace war but is without
value as a crisis. The German feudal heroes of the
fifteenth century were highly astonished when they
were confronted with an elemental power like the
Hussites.
Nor did the disciplined "sport of kings" of the
eighteenth century lead to much more than
misery.
In quite a special sense, however, the wars of
today are certainly aspects of a great general
crisis, but individually they lack the significance
and effect of genuine crises. Civilian life remains
in its rut in spite of them, and it is precisely
the pitiable existences referred to above which
survive. But these wars leave behind them vast
debts, i.e., they bequeath the main crisis to the
future. Their forces of despair do not come into
play, and hence do not remain victorious on the
field of battle, and yet it is they, and they
alone, which could bring about a real regeneration
of life, i.e., reconciliation in the abolition of
an old order by a really vital new one.
Finally, it is quite unnecessary -- as
unnecessary as in the case of the barbarian
invasion -- to prophesy of all destruction that
regeneration will come of it. It may be that this
globe is already aged (nor does it matter how old
it is in the absolute sense, i.e., how many times
it has revolved round the sun -- it may be very
young for all that). We cannot imagine, in great
tracts of denuded country, that new forests will
ever arise to replace those which have been
destroyed. And so people may be destroyed, and not
even survive as component elements of other
races.
And often it is the most righteous defense that
has proved most futile, and we must be thankful
that Rome went so far as to proclaim the glory of
Numantia, that conquerors have a sense of the
greatness of the conquered.
The thought of a higher world plan, etc., is
cold comfort. Every successful act of violence is a
scandal, i.e., a bad example. The only lesson to be
drawn from an evil deed successfully perpetrated by
the stronger party is not to set a higher value on
earthly life than it deserves.
Excerpted from Reflections on
History, by Jakob Burckhardt
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Reflections
on History, by Jakob Christoph
Burckhardt
Basel
in the Age of Burckhardt, by Lionel
Gossman
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