George Simmel

© 1968 BY TEACHERS COLLEGE PRESS
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOG CARD

NUMBER 67-25064
MANUFACTURED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

This is Hildie's book.
Acknowledgements
The patience of those who assisted me in bringing this book into

print cannot be adequately described; however, 1 wish to acknowledge
how much 1 depended on the good will of others in preparing this set
of translations. For orientation, encouragement, and numerous clarifi-
cations, my special appreciation goes to TIleodore Abel, Carl Backman,
Arturo Biblarz, Richard DeHaan, Leo Lowenthal, Benjamin Nelson,
Alex Simirenko, Rudolph H. Weingartner, Kurt H. Wolff, and Dennis
H. Wrong. 1 am grateful also to Arnold Simm~l for permission to pub-
lish these translations of his grandfather's works and to the American
Journal of Sociology for their translation of "A Chapter in the Philoso-
phy of Value."
This undertaking would have been impossible indeed without the
cooperation of staff at the University of California at Santa Barbara,
the American University of Beirut, and the University of Nevada: the
secretaries who typed and retyped the numerous revisions; Charles B.
Spaulding and Samir Khalaf, who arranged facilities that permitted me
to work on the translations; and, especially, Thomas O'Brien, Dean of
the Graduate School at the University of Nevada, who made funds
available for the final preparation of the manuscript.
K. PETER ETZKORN
Pensa cola, Florida
March, 1968
VIl
Contents
Georg Simmel: An Introduction

by K. Peter Etzkorn 1
1 The Conflict in Modern Culture 11
2 On the Concept and Tragedy of Culture 27
3 A Chapter in the Philosophy of Value 47
4 SociologicaI Aesthetics 68
5 On Aesthetic Quantities 81
6 On the Third Dimension in Art 86
7 TIle Dramatic Actor and Reality 91
8 PsychologicaI and Ethnological Studies on Music 98
IX
GEORG SIMMEL
l'he Conflict in Modern Culture
and Other Essays

Georg Simmel:
An Introduction
by K. Peter Etzkorn
NE TEST OF THE IMPORTANCE of ideas and contributions of

eminent men is undoubtedly whether they are considered rele-
vant by future generations. Georg Simmel's work, although it was pro-
duced over fifty years ago, is still considered of major relevance to
~~~~~~~l()gical andp~ilosophical inquiry. It is part1Y~ ln testimony to this
that the present selection of several ~ of his translated essays on cultural
subjects is being made available.
Simm~}858-191illlived during a period of significant social and
political change in Central Europe. The impact of technological devel-
opments made possible by the Industrial Revolution was increasingly
changing the major modes of social life. Institutional structures were
confronted with problems of adaptation. Frequent challenges were
made to established modes of thought and novel ideas in response to
social change. New and rapid modes of communication aided in the
diffusion of ideas and made possible the emergence and sustenance of
new forms of social life. To such topics much of Simmel's work is
addressed and many of these topics have not lost their immediacy in
spite of sorne substantive changes in technology and social life sin ce
then. We too are confronted ,vith puzzles of urban growth, the Hmega-
lopolis," with technological change and political adaptation, and with
the problem of the individual's integration into a largely impersonal
society and the meaning of life, its values, and its cultivation and cul-
ture. Perhaps because of his having entered the discussion of these
topics "earlier," before sorne of these issues became conventionally
appropriated by emerging academic disciplines, he had the chance to
develop an analytic attitude that in his hands promised to be highly
productive. He could address himself to the issues of social life more
directly tharÎ ~ is possible within the restrictions of already established
1
GEORG SIMMEL
and frequently narrowly defined academic departments. Thus he fasb-

ioned his own sociological method for the study of social life in terms
of what he conceived as the demands of the subject matter: the unend-
ing dialectic of human existence.
For Simmel, the continuity of the processes of life clashes neces-
sarily with the acts of personal individuation, which are also the creative
acts in which social institutions are established. These, in turn, gain
a reality of their own which transcends their immediate raison d'être.
Frequently in this pro cess, what originally were considerèd as means
come to be regarded as ends. In Simmel's dialectic, man is always in
danger of being slain by those objects of his own creation which have
lost their original human coefficient. This process, however, always
occurs for Simmel within the framework of social relations regardless
of specific historical periods. The dialectic is neither characteristic of
capitalism, nor of socialism, nor of liberal democracy; it is much more.
For Simmel, this dialectic between life and more-than-life represents
the very nature of human existence, the very destiny of civilization, and
thus it becomes the core of his scholarly inquiry.l In his sociological
studies, Simmel addresses himself most directly to the study of the forms
of human interaction. Human interaction, in this instance, represents
another expression of the overriding dialectic of life, because man and
fellow man are simultaneously dependent and independent of one an-
other. When studying forms of interaction, Simmel is interested in
the patterning of relationships between man and man-especially in
those interaction dimensions that transcend any individual's attributes.
As Friedrich H. Tenbruck has observed, by studying forms of interac-
tion Simmel wishes to ascertain the extent to which the range of indi-
vidual human conduct is restrained in keeping with the individual' s
cognizance of his diversified relationships with other individuals.2 rThese
persons, in tum, react and interact with him through concrete social
relationships that at once restrain and stimula te him. These individuals,
of course, are also constrained by his very own activities. fEvery indi-
vidual who is in contact with another aids in the process of creating
mutual expectations for what constitutes norms of appropria te conduct
-modern sociologists would call this "normative role performance."
Yet these emerging rules may soon grow so powerful in guiding any
participant's choice of actions that they tend to rule him. The indi-
vidual sees himself confronted with rules of his own making which have
outgrown him. His initiative becomes juxtaposed to the requirements
of his being part of a larger social whole. This basic dynamic of social
life is explored by Simmel in its intriguing variations, whether they are
manifested in man's relationships to phenomena of culture or to fellow
ma~
THE CONFLICT IN MODERN CULTURE AND OTHER ESSA YS
Georg Simmel, the youngest of seven children, was born in Berlin

in 1858. In this capital he pursued aH of his formaI academic training,
a ttending the gymnasium, completing university studies in history,
philosophy, and Italian language and culture, obtaining his doctor's
degree with a dissertation on Kant's ~~~Monad~ (1881),
and obtaining his first teaching position at the UnivêrSfty of Berlin in
1885. He was to remain at this university until 1914, when, four years
before his death, he was caHed to Strasbourg as full professor. He was
highly respected by his students and enjoyed the satisfaction of fre-
quently having to teach in the largest available lecture hall. That his
style of delivery must have been extremely stimulating can be inferred
from the many reminiscences of former students that are collected in
Kurt Gassen's Buch des Dankes an Georg Simmel. 3 Over many years,
he offered courses on history, social psychology, sociology, and on vari-
ous subfields of philosophy, such as the philosophy of religion and of
art.
Simmel's intense involvement in the different ways in which the
drama of life unfolds is, perhaps, better suggested by glancing at his
varied publications than at his university course offerings. In order to
gain a full appreciation, one really needs to peruse the long bibliography
of his works in Gassen's book. Some limited indication, however, is
also represented in the following translations, which, related though
they are by a common concern with culture, show Simmel applying
different special emphases in its study. For further perspective, we also
mention the translated titles of several of his major works: Social
Differentiation (1890), r!~pl~T1]S~oi ih~ ~~ (1892),
Introduction to the PhiIOsoptryoT1.IiOTais (1892-93), The Phil9s_opJ?1
otMoE~ (1900), Sociology (1908), Goethe (191~braTult
(i9l6j,-Major Problems of Philosophy (1910), The War and Spiritual
Decisions (1917), and Perspectives on Life: Four Chapters in Meta-
physics (1918).
Whether he is dealing with the subjects of ethics and religion,
with the biographies of creative men, or with the problems of artistic
production, he seems always to be wrestling with the methodological
implications of his basic dialectic position. He attempts to catch the
subject in the net of his analytical dissection without thereby depriving
it of its exciting quality, and he proceeds in this endeavor with great
skill. FoHowing him requires the close attention of the reader.
The selection of essays offered here in translation represents only
a small fragment of Simmel's total work in this form. They are selected
because of their topical concern with the question of man's relation
to culture. In these essays, Simmel examines various implications the
social life has for the status and development of culture in its impact
3
GEORG SIMMEL
on individuals and on social groups. He conceives of culture as the

medium through which the basic dialectic of life is expressed. While it
would be important to annotate sorne of the essays if they were to be
regarded as definitive scientific statements, the primary goal was to
make theln available in English to the modern reader and to let Simmel
speak as directly as possible through the medium of a translation.
Nevertheless, a few introductory comments seem caIled for, to assist
the modern reader in placing these essays in the context of the history
of ideas.
Unfortunately, very little is known about the circumstances of
their composition. As early as 1919, it was necessary for Kûhler, in his
sensitive appraisal of Simmel's work, to observe that it was not possible
to learn from the essays when they were written, nor what influenced
Simmel to write them, nor whether Simmel pursued any particular
objective in furthering the cause of science or in attacking certain the-
oretical positions. Kûhler wrote: "They are self-contained, as it were,
time1ess creations. They are enclosed by an invisible frame which guards
their 'right of distance' in aIl directions." 4 These words were only too
prophetie. A portion of Simmel' s personal notes was lost in a train
compartment after his death, and the major portion confiscated by the
Nazi Gestapo in Hamburg harbor when Simmel's son, having been
released from Dachau concentration camp, was allowed to emigrate
with his family to the United States of America. 5
The first essay, "The Conflict of Modern Culture," was a lecture
not published until 1918, the last year of Simmel's life. It may weB be
one of his last statements concerning the broad issues of the dynamics
of culture, aesthetics, and social life. We find Simmel analyzing the
peculiar characteristics of the modern era in the revolt against the rule
of forms in the realm of ideas, arts, and philosophy. He provides us
with an explanation for the rise of these new phenomena, which later
writers came to caU Mass Culture. There are central themes reflecting
social and cultural life in aU epochs of human history, and it is these
emerging themes in modern culture that need to be sought out, accord-
ing to Simme1, if we wish to understand the movements in our own
time.
In "The Concept and Tragedy of Culture," first published in 1911,
Simmel develops the notion of the duality between the cultural meaning
of objects, on the one hand, and their substantive meaning, on the
other. This duality, however, always seems to demand a synthesis of
subjective developments with the appropria te objectively spiritual values.
Thus he views cultural phenomena as being in a precarious balance
between having meaning by gaining social and individual recognition
and merely existing without recognition and value for human life.
4
THE CONFLICT IN MODERN CULTURE AND OTHER ESSAYS
Through the use of numerous examples, Simme1 he1ps the reader to

approxima te his position concerning the imperfect dimensions of this
basic tragedy of culture, which to him reflects the general dialectic of
life. In the pro cess of becoming part of the culture, the individual is
also being subjected to two independent and usually conflicting de-
mands: the potentials of his human nature and the requirements of
the social order. 6
On the basis of this discussion, Simmel then turns to an analysis
of sorne of the major problems of culture in modern life such as the
problems of the fetishism of commodities, of alienation, and of a
largely refined division of labor and bureaucracy.
In "A Chapter in the Philosophy of Value," published in 1900,
Simme1 explores the variety of social conditions under which social
values are created and become attached to cultural objects. This essay
is perhaps more direct in its approach than its philosophical title indi-
cates. It offers a critical examination of a variety of explanations offered
by previous writers on the subject of human values. Simmel proceeds
to develop his own expIa nations of how objects come to attain valued
positions in social behavior. Basic interpersonal relations, instead of
quantitative measures, are presented as crucial e1ements in the pro cess
of value attribution. The exposition deals more with the economic
than the cultural realm, but is equally applicable to both. An examina-
tion of particular social structures and their relationships to the valua-
tion pro cess conc1udes this essay.
The same topic is explored in the earlier es say, "Sociological
Aesthetics/' published in 1896. Here, the beauty value of objects is
held not to reside in the objects themselves, but rather in the reciprocity
between the individual beholder and the object. Depending on how
deeply individuals involve themselves in social re1ationships that result
in the social objectification of their individual preoccupations with the
aesthetic stimulus of symmetry, the outcome will be of greater or less
aesthetic value. This preoccupation is not necessarily restricted to what
are traditionally considered areas of aesthetic concern. For Simmel even
such deve10pments as the poli tics of socialism or certain forms of social
organization such as bureaucracy are partially explained by an aesthetic
drive towards symmetry. It appears that certain forms of social orga-
nization and works of art seem to attain value for the same reasons;
they may represent or express objective dimensions of the same subjec-
tive desires.
This point is further explored in Simmel's talk in 1903 to a gather-
ing of psychologists, "Concerning Aesthetic Quantities." He argues that
even such physiological sensations as those, for exampIe, that result from
varying the spatial dimensions of representations in painting, are per-
5
GEORG SIMMEL
ceived and mentally interpreted according to expectations identical with

those that govern interpersonal relationships: "Man (as a social being)
is the measure of aIl things also with respect to visual perspective."
In a later essay, "On the Third Dimension in Art" (1906), aesthetic
problems of painting and their societal manifestations become the focus
of Simmel's analysis. He argues that our perceptions are influenced by
the categories under which we organize sense impressions. An analysis
of the social conventions relating to the perception of a third dimension
in painting serves as the starting point for a discussion which then leads
to a consideration of the artistic meaning of tactile values and to an
excursion into general aesthetics.
Similarly in "The Dramatic Actor and ,Reality" (1912), Simmel
addresses himself to the special aesthetic questions of the legitimate
theater and to the social implications of one person playing the role
of another. The conditions under which a play is "more than Iife"-
that is, art-are worked out. The artistic actor is the creator of a new
world and not the imitator of an old reality. Thus, to Simmel dramatic
art is genuinely rooted both in the aesthetic unity of the poetic work
and in the social realities of the playwright, actor, and audience.
In closing the present selection of translations with Simmel's first
published es say, "Psychological and Ethnological Studies on Music,"
we cannot help noting the fact that, from his earliest publications on,
his work consistently revolved around the question of the place of the
individual in the realm of culture. 'I11is is so even though this early
study is more under the influence of the academic conventions of the
late nineteenth century-such as the interest in evolutionary thought-
than are his later, perhaps more personal, essays. In this lengthy study,
Simmel questions a variety of evolutionary hypotheses concerning the
origin of music as an art form in human society. He do es this by men-
tally "testing" these propositions in the light of ethnographic evidence
concerning musical practice in a variety of cultures. Then he proceeds
with his own expIa nations, which estabIish music as a communication
medium of highly diffuse information. In examining the implications
of this position, he explores the dialectic relationship between the
cultural product of music and the society and conditions under which
music becomes meaningful. Musical values, just Iike other artistic and
genera~ aesthetic or simply human values can best be understood if
viewed in interdependence with the specific social groups formed or
somehow affected by them and affecting them in turn. Here, as in his
later writing, it is the interdependence between the social actors and
the results of the interactions that holds his fascination and cornes to
form the central subject of his inquiry.
If one considers Simmel's basic concerns and their obvious rela-
6
tionship to the body of traditional subjects of the various contemporary

social sciences, one may wonder why more of his extensive work has
not yet been made available in English translation to facilita te access
to his ideas. The present essays, for instance, illustrate how Simme1,
in his perceptive analysis of IIThe Dramatic Actor and Reality," ante-
cedes Ralph Linton's discussion of role and status by many years. Only
Lewis A. Coser, to my knowledge, has pointed this out, in an aside in
his introduction to a collection of essays evaluating Simmel's sociologi-
cal contributions. 7 "The Dramatic Actor and Reality" also contains
notions on role distance that remind us of Erving Goffman's later
studies in the sociology of interaction. 8 To give another example, a
number of ideas in Simmel's "Sociological Aesthetics" throw light on
the long standing debate within sociology between sociological nominal-
ists and realists. To this day, however, the solution offered by Simmel,
as outlined in his es say "On the Conflict and Tragedy of Culture" and
in his other more specificaIly sociological writings, has not been accepted
universally. There are still scholars who view society as the composite
of many individuals or others who view it as sorne super-organism.
Simmel suggested that the more appropriate conception is to view aIl
life as being structured in various forms of mutual interaction among
individuals who are structured in various relationships.
There may be many reasons why Simmel's impact has been re1a-
tively limited, even in Germany. In Germany, for example, he is per-
haps more nearly identified as a philosopher, while in the United
States, he belongs among the 'Ifathers" of sociology. It would seem
that in either country his influence has come not from the recognition
of the total conception of his work, but only from the recognition of
sorne selected aspect of it. 9 We may speculate on the reasons for this
partial appreciation and recognition, either of wruch fails to do
justice to him, if only because for him the analysis of social life could
not truly be compartmentalized.
The limited appeal of Simmel's work may have been reIated to
his consistent insistence on social interaction (Wechselwirkung) , on
the mu tuaI interdependence between culture and individual, and be-
tween individual and fellow man. Concerning his method, Raymond
Aron observes that Simmel's approach has found many admirers but
few disciples. 10 There can be no doubt that becoming a disciple of
Simmel's would demand a great deal of dedication, often only be-
cause of the difficulty and complexity of his arguments. A more sig-
nificant reason, 1 be1ieve, has been offered by Nicholas Spykman,
who also can be credited with having provided the first major presenta-
tion of Simmel's epistemology in the United States. He points out
that Simmel's perspective on substantive topics is always couched as a
7
GEORG SIM MEL
function of several variables rather than as a function of one. Since

the latter, more traditional, mode of conceptualizing scientific prob-
lems had been accepted during Simmel's lifetime and had been demon-
strated, more so than his own approach, to produce pragmatic results,
his mode of approach was probably extremely difficult to translate into
systematic methods for the study of scientific topics. Moreover, this
difficulty was probably increased by the fact that he himself did not
offer systematic expositions of the methodological implications of his
position for the study of social dynamics. l l
Beginning during the latter part of Simmel's life, but primarily
since his death, scientific models for the study of social phenomena
that relate several variables simultaneously to one another have gained
sorne acceptance. Perhaps Simmel was too advanced in scientific vision
for his own age and may now be more easily understood in the intellec-
tuaI climate of the present. There is sorne indication that this is so.
The 1950's brought a number of new translations of Simmel's work in
sociology as weIl as the reprinting of earlier translations in anthologies.12
On the centennial of his birthday (1958), commemorative volumes
were prepared in German and English, with the English volume pro-
viding additional translations. 13 Attention to Simmel's work continued
in the 1960's with Rudolph H. Weingartner's study and Lewis A. Coser's
book of essays.14 Frequent reference to Simmel's work in contemporary
studies of small-group dynamics and of certain other work in social
psychology suggests his usefulness to students of these subjects. Perhaps
this collection of translations may stimulate interest in exploring
Simmel' s ideas in the area of culture, an area which will assume even
grea ter significance as modem societies come to provide means which
allow man to turn more of his attention to culture and away from the
pursuit of the sheer necessities of life.
A Note on the Translations
In translating Simmel one is faced with the problem of how to

render in English a variety of terms central to Simmel's conception
of human life. On the whole, Simmel's terminology is similar to that
so characteristic of his contemporary Dilthey, in his Geisteswissen-
schaften. The problem of translating the German of this period has
aIready been discussed by Gerth and Mil1s, Kurt H. Wolff, and H. P.
Rickmann. 15 In general, we have followed their example for the sake
of helping gradually to establish a conventionalized English rendition.
In addition, we have adopted Rudolph H. Weingartner's practice of
rendering the German Seele as "psyche" wherever this seemed appro-
priate. 16 In several instances "self" represented the best English equiva-
8
lent. AlI essays but Chapter in the Philosophy of Value" are

translated by the editor.
Notes to Introduction
1. For a fuller discussion of Simmel's dialectic of social life, see particularly
Albert Saloman, "German Sociology," Chapter 20 in Georges Gurvitch and
Wilbert E. Moore, eds., 20th Century Sociology (New York: Philosophical
Library, 1945).
2. Friedrich H. Tenbruck, "Georg Simmel," Kolner Zeitschrift für Sozi-
ologie und Sozialpsychologie, 10 (1958), 587-614, p. 598.
3. Kurt Gassen and Michael Landmann, eds., Buch des Dankes an Georg
Simmel: Briefe, Erinnerungen, Bibliographie (Berlin: Duncker and Hum-
blot, 1958).
4. Max Frischeisen-Kohler, "Georg Simmel," Kantstudien, 24 (1919),1-51,
p.5.
5. Gassen and Landmann, op. cit., p. 14.
6. Rudolph H. Weingartner, Experience and Culture: The Philosophy of
Georg Simmel (Middletown, Connecticut:Wesleyan University Press,
1962), explores the peculiar meaning of Simmel's culture concept in his
discussion of Lebensphilosophie, p. 71 passim.
7. Lewis A. Coser, ed., Georg Simmel (Englewood Cliffs, New Jersey:
Prentice-Hall, Inc., 1965), p. 5.
8. Erving Goffman, Encounters (Indianapolis, Indiana: Bobbs-Merrill,
1961) .
9. For an appraisal of the impact of Simmel's work on different schools of
sociology and philosophy see also Tenbruck, op. cit.
10. Raymond Aron, German Sociology (London: William Heinemann,
Ltd., 1957), p. 6.
Il. Nicholas J. Spykman, The Social Theory of Georg Simmel (Chicago:
University of Chicago Press, 1925), p. 6.
12. Kurt H. Wolff, tr., ed., The Sociology of Georg Simmel (Glencoe: The
Free Press, 1950). Kurt H.Wolff and Reinhard Bendix, trs. Georg Simmel,
Conflict and the Web of Group-Affliations (Glencoe: The Free Press,
1955). Edgar F. Borgatta and Henry J. Meyer, eds., Sociological Theory:
Present Day Sociology from the Past (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1956).
Lewis A. Coser and Bernhard Rosenberg, eds., Sociological Theory: A Book
of Readings (New York: The Macmillan Co., 1957).
13. Gassen and Landmann, op. cit. Kurt H. Wolff, ed., Georg Simmel,
1858-1918 (Columbus, Ohio: The Ohio State University Press, 1959).
9
CEORG SIMMEL
14. Weingartner, op. cit., and Coser, op. cit.

15. See H. H. Gerth and C.Wright Mil1s, trs., eds., preface to From Max
Weber: Essays in Sociology (New York: Oxford University Press, 1946).
Kurt H. Wolff, tr., ed., "A Note on the Translation," in The Sociology
(op. cit.) pp. lxiii-Ixiv. Wilhelm Dilthey, Pattern and Meaning in History,
ed. and introduced by H. P. Rickmann (New York: Harper Torchbooks,
1961), pp. 22-24.
16. Weingartner, op. cit.
10
The Coriflict ln Modern Culture*
HENEVER LIFE PROGRESSES beyond the animal level to that of

spirit, and spirit progresses to the level of culture, an internaI
contradiction a ears. The whole histo of culture is the workin out
Of this contradiction. We speak of culture wheneve Hfe produces
certain forms in which it expresses and realizes itself: works of art,
religions, sciences, technologies, laws, and innumerable others. These
forms encompass the flow of life and provide it with content and form,
freedom and order. Bu~lthough these forms arise out of the life
pro cess, because of their unique constellation they do not share the
restless rhythm of life, its ascent and descent, its constant renewal, its
incessant divisions and reunifications. These forms are frameworks for the
creative life which, however, saon transcends them. They should also
house the imitative life, for which, in the final analysis, there is no spa ce
leftÂThey acguire fixed ident:ities, a logic and lawfulness· of their own;
this new rigidity inevitably places them at a distance from the spiritual
dynamic which created them and which makes them independent.
Herein lies the ultimate reason why culture has a history. Insofar
as life, having become spirit, ceaselessly crea tes such forms whIëïïl)ë:.
come self-enclosed and demand permanence, these forms are inseparable
from life; without them it cannot be itself. Left to itself, however, life
streams on without interruption; its restless rhythm opposes the fi.xed
duration of any particular form. Each cultural form, once it is created,
is gnawed at varying rates by the forces of life. As soon as one is fully
developed, the next begins to form; after a struggle that may be long
or short, it will inevitably succeed its predecessor.
History, as an empirical science, concerns itself with changes in the
* A translation of Der Konflict der modernen Kultur, 2nd ed. (Munich:
Duncker and Humblot, 1921), 30 pp.
Il
GEORG SIMJ'vIEL
forms of culture, and aims to discover the real carriers and causes of
change in each particular case. But we can also discern a deeper pro cess
at work. Life, as we have said, can manifest itself only in particular
forms; yet, owing to its essential restlessness, life constantly struggles
against its own products, which have become fixed and do not move
along with it. This process manifests itself as the displacement of an
old form by a new one. This constant change in the content of culture,
even of whole cultural styles, is the sign of the infinite fruitfulness of
life. At the same time, it marks the deep contradiction between life's
eternal flux and the objective validity and authenticity of the forms
through which it proceeds. It moves constantly between death and
resurrection-between resurrection and death.
This characteristic of cultural pro cesses was first noted in economic
change.b:rhe economic forces of every epoch develop forms of produc-
tion which are appropriate to their nature. Slave economies, guild con-
stitutions, agrarian modes of soil labor-all these, when they were
formed, expressed adequately the wishes and capacities of their times.
Within their own norms and boundaries, however, there grew eco-
nomic forces whose extension and development these systems ob-
structed. In time, through graduaI explosive revolutions, they burst
the oppressive bonds of their respective forms and replaced them with
modes of production more appropriate. A new mode of production,
however, need not have overwhelming energy of its own. Life itself,
in its economic dimension-with its drive and its des ire for advance-
ment, its internaI changes and differentiation-provides the dynamics
for this whole movementALife as such is formless, yet incessantly gen-
erates forms for itself. As soon as each form appears, however, it de-
mands a validity which transcends the moment and is emancipated
from the pulse of life. For this reason, life is always in a latent opposi-
tion to the form. This tension soon expresses itself in this sphere and
in that; eventually it develops into a comprehensive cultural necessity.
Thus life perceives "the form as such" as something which has been
forced upon it. It would like to puncture not only this or that form,
but form as such, and to absorb the form in its immediacy, to let its own
power and fullness stream forth just as if it emanated from life's own
source, until an cognition, values, and forms are reduced to direct
manifesta tions of life.
At present, we are experiencing a new phase of the old struggle-no
longer a struggle of a contemporary form, filled with life, against an old,
lifeless one, but a struggle of life against the form as such, against the
princiPle of form. Moralists, reactionaries, and people with strict feel-
ings for style are perfectly correct when they complain about the
increasing "lack of form" in modem life. They fail to understand,
however, that what is happening is not only a negative, passive dying

out of traditional fOnTIs, but simultaneously a full y positive drive to-
wards life which is active1y repressing these forms. Since this struggle, in
extent and intensity, does not permit concentration on the creation
of new forms, it makes a virtue of necessity and insists on a fight
against fOnTIS simply because they are fOnTIs. This is probably only pos-
sible in an epoch where cultural forms are conceived of as an exhausted
soil which has yie1ded an that it could grow, which, however, is still
complete1y covered by products of its former fertility.
Similar events certainly took place during the eighteenth century.
Then, however, they occurred over a longer period, from the English
Enlightenment of the seventeenth century to the French Revolution.
Moreover, there was an almost complete1y new ideal standing behind
these revolutions: the liberation of the individual, the application of
reason to life, the progress of mankind towards happiness and perfec-
tion. New cultural forms deve10ped easily in this milieu-almost as if
they had somehow been prepared-and provided inner security to man-
kind. The conflict of the new forms against the old did not generate
the cultural pressure we know today, when life in aIl possible manifes-
tations agitates against being directed into any fixed forms whatever.
The concepts of lite, which several de cades ago became dominant
in the philosophical interpretation of the world, prepared the way for
our situation. In order to place this phenomenon within the arena of
the history of ide as, 1 will have to range a little further afie1d. In every
important cultural epoch, one can perceive a central idea from which
spiritual movements originate and towards which they seem to be
oriented. Each central idea is modified, obscured and opposed in in-
numerable ways. Nevertheless, it represents the "secret being" of the
epochAln every single epoch, the central idea resides wherever the most
perfect being, the most absolute and metaphysical phase of reality join
with the highest values, with the most absolute demands on ourse1ves
and on the world. Certainly, there follow logical contradictions. What-
ever is unconditionally real does not require to be realized, nor can one
evidently say that an existing most unquestioned being is only supposed
to come into being. Weltanschauungen in their ultimate perfections
do not concern themse1ves with such conceptual difficulties. Wherever
they commit one, where otherwise opposing series of existence and
ethical obligation are joined, one can be assured to locate a really central
idea of the respective worId view.
1 will indicate with greatest brevity a few of these central ideas. For
Greek c1assicism, it was the idea of being, of the uniform, the substa.ïi=
tial, the divine. This divinity was not presented pantheistically without
form, but was molded into meaningfully plastic forms. The Christian
GEORG SIM MEL
Middle Ages placed in its stead the concept of God as at once the source
and goal of all reality, unguestioned lord over our existence and yet
demanding free obedience and devotion from us. Since the Renaissance,
this pIace has come to be occupied gradually by the concept of nature.
It appeared as the only being and truth, yet also as an ideal, as something
which first had to be represented and insisted upon. At first this oc-
curred among artists, for whom the final kernel of reality embodied the
highest value. The seventeenth century built its ideas around the con-
cept of naturallaw, which alone it saw as essentially valid. The century
of Rousseau enshrined nature as its ideal, its absolute value, the goal
of its longing. Toward the end of this epoch, ego, the spiritual per-
sonality, emerged as a new central concept. Sorne thinkers represented
the totality of being as a creation of the ego; others saw personal iden-
tity as a task, the essential task for man. TIms the ego, human in-
dividuality, appeared either as an absolute moral demand or as the
metaphysical purpose of the world. Despite the colorful variety of its
intellectual movements, the nineteenth century did not develop a com-
prehensive central idea-unless, perhaps, we give this title to the idea
of society, which for many nineteenth-century thinkers epitomized the
reality of life. Thus the individual was often seen as a mere point of
intersection for social series, or even as a fiction like the atom. Alter-
nately, complete submergence of the self in society was demanded; to
devote oneself completely to society was viewed as an absolute obliga-
tion, which included morality and everything else. Only at the very
end of the century did a new idea appear: the concept of life was raised
to a central place, in which perceptions of reality were united with
metaphysical, psychological, moral, and aesthetic values.
The expansion and development of the concept of life is con-
firmed by the fact that it brought together two important philosophical
antagonists, Schopenhauer and Nietzsche. Schopenhauer is the first
modern philosopher whoctoes not inquire for sorne contents of life,
for ideas or states of being (Seinsbestèinden) within the deepest and
most decisive strata. Instead, he asks exclusively: What is life, what is
its meaning, purely as life? One must not be misled by the fact that he
does not use the term "life," but speaks only about the will towards
life of the will itself. The will represents his answer conceming the
question about the meaning of life which transcends aIl his speculative
extrapolations beyond life. This means that life cannot obtain any
meaning and purpose from beyond itself. It will always grasp its own
will though it be disguised in a thousand forms. Sin ce it can only remain
within itself, because of its metaphysical reality, it can find only un-
bounded illusion and ultimate disappointment in each apparent goal.
Nietzsche, on the other hand, who also starts from life as the singular
determination of itseH and the sole substance of an its contents, finds

in life itself the purpose of life which it is denied from the outside.
This life by its nature is increment, enrichment, development towards
fulfillment and power, towards a force and beauty Rowing from itself.
It gains greater value not through reaching a designated goal, but
tl1roiigh itsown development by becoming more alive and thusgainlng
a vaIue which increases towards the infinite. AIthough Schopenhauer's
desperation about life is radically opposed to Nietzsche's jubilation
because of deep, essential contrasts which deride any intellectual media-
tion or decision, these two thinkers share a basic question which sep-
arates them from aIl earlier philosophers. This basic question is: What
~s the!l1eaning of life, what is its value merely as life? One cari only
inquire into knowledge and morality, self and reason, art and God,
happiness and suffering, once this first puzzle has been solved. Its
solution decides everything else. I t is only the original fact of life
which provides meaning and measure, positive or negative value. The
concept of life is the point of intersection for these two opposed lin es
of thought which provide the framework for the fundamental decisions
of modern life.
I will now illustrate through several contemporary examples the
uniqueness of the cultural situation we are (in 1914) undergoing, in
which the longing for a new form always overturns the old one, in par-
ticular, the opposition against the principle of form as such. We find
this opposition even when consciousness appears to progress towards
new structures. fIne Middle Ages had their ecclesiastical Christian
ideals, and the Renaissance had its rediscovery of secular nature. The
Enlightenment embraced the ideal of reason, and German idealism
embellished science by artistic fantasies and provided for art a founda-
tion of cosmic width through scientific knowledge. But the basic im-
pulse behind contemporary culture is a negative one, and this is why,
unlike men in aIl these earlier epochs, we have been for sorne time now
living without any shared ideal, even perhaps without any ideals at ~
~If you were to ask educated people today by what ideals they live,
most would give a specialized answer derived from their occupa tional
ex erience. Onl ra rel would the s eak of a cultural ideal hich
rules them as total human beings. There is a good reason for this. Not
only is there a lack of material for a comprehensive cultural ideal, but
the fields which it would have to circumscribe are too numerous and
heterogeneous to permit such intellectual simplification. Moving to
individual cases, I will address myself first to art.
Of the various endeavors which collectively are designated as
Futurism, only the movement which calls itself Expressionism seems
to have a sharply de1ineated identity of its own. If 1 am not mistaken,
GEORG SIMMEL
the meaning of Expressionism is that the inner emotions of the artist

are manifest in his work exactly as he experiences them; his emotions
are continued, extended in the work. Human emotions cannot be
reified in artistic convention, or moulded by a form which is forced
on them from without. For this reason Expressionism has nothing in
common with that imitation of a being or of an event which is the
intention of Impressionism. Impressions, after aIl, are not purely indi-
vidual products of the artist, exclusively determined from within, but
passive and dependent on a world outside. The work of art which re-
flects them is a sort of mixture between the artistic life and the peculiar-
ity of a given object. Any artistic form must reach the artist from
some\vhere: from tradition, from a previous example, from a fixed prin-
ciple. But aIl these sources of form are restraints on life, which wishes
to flow creative1y from within itself. If life yie1ds to such forms, it only
finds itself bent, rigidified, and distorted in the work of art.
Let us consider, in its purest form, the expressionistic model of the
creative process. The movements of the painter's spirit, according to
this mode1, extend without any interference to the hand which holds
the brush. The painting expresses them, just as a gesture expresses
inner emotions or a shout expresses pain: the movements of the brush
follow those of the spirit without resistance; hence the image on the
canvas represents an immediate condensation of inner life, which did
not permit anything superficial or alien to enter into its unfolding.
Expressionistic paintings have often been named after sorne object with
which they seem to have nothing in common, and many people consider
this strange and irrational. In fact, however, it is not as meaningless
as it would appear according to previous artistic preconceptions. The
inner emotions of the artist, which flow forth in an expressionistic work,
may originate in secret or unknown sources within the soul. But they
can also originate in stimuli from objects in the external world. Until
recently it was assumed that a successful artistic response must be
morphologically similar to the stimulus that evoked it; indeed the whole
impressionistic school was based on this conception. It was one of the
great achievements of Expressionism to dispe1 this idea. Instead it
demonstrated that there is no need for the identity between the form
of the cause and that of its effect. Thus, the perception of a violin or
a human face can evoke in a painter emotional responses which his art
metamorphoses into a completely different form. One might say that
the expressionistic artist replaces his mode1 with the impulse lying be-
hind the model that stimula tes his life, which obeys only itselt, towards
movement. Expressed in an abstract manner, which nevertheless traces
the realistic line of the wall, the creative act represents the struggle of
16
life for seIf-identity.Whenever life expresses itseIf, it desires to express

only itseIf; thllS it breaks through any form which would be superim-
posed on it by sorne other reality.
The established phenomenon, the painting, does of course have a
form. But according to the artisfs intention, the form represents only
a necessary evil. Unlike aIl previous artistic forms, it do es not have a
meaning by itself. For this reason, abstract art is also indifferent to the
traditional standards of beauty or ugliness, which are connected with
the primacy of form. Life, in its flow, is not determined by a goal but
driven bv a force: hence it has its significance beyond beauty and ugli-
ness. Once the product exists, it becomes evident that it do es not possess
the kind of meaning and value which one expects from an objectified
datum that has become independent of its creator. This value, however,
has been withheld froIn the painting-we might say, almost jealously
-bya life which gives expression only to itself. Our peculiar preference
for the late works of major artists may be based on this fact. Creative
life has here become so sovereign in these works, so self-sufficient and
rich, that it rejects any other form which is traditional or shared with
others. Us expression in a work of art is nothing but its natural fa te.
As connected and meaningful as the work may appear from this per-
spective, it may appear fragmented, unbalanced, as if composed of
pieces, when viewed from the point of view of traditional forms. This
is not an example of a senile incapacity for making a form, no weak-
ness of age, but rather strength of age. In this epoch of his perfec-
tion, the great artist is so pure that his work will reveal through its
form what has been autonomously generated through the drive of his
life. The unique right of the form has been lost to the artist.
In principle it is completely possible that a form which is perfect
and meaningful purely as a form will represent a fully adequate expres-
sion of immediate life, c1inging to it as if it were an organically grown
skin. This is undoubtedly so in the case of the great c1assical works of
art. Disregarding them, however, we find a pecùliar property of the
spiritual realm which has implications far beyond its consequences for
the arts. We rnight say that the arts express something which is alive
beyond the scope of perfected and available artistic forms. Every major
artist and each great work of art contain more breadth and depth which
flow from hidden sources than art is able to express. Men try incessantly
to shape and interpret this life. In c1assical examples the attempt is
successful, and life fuses cornplete1y with art. However, life attains a
more highly differentiated and more self-conscious expression in those
cases where it contradicts and even destroys artistic forms. There is,
for example, the inner fate which Beethoven intends to express in his
GEORG SIMMEL
Iast compositions. The old artistic form is not broken up; rather, it is
overpowered by something else, something which breaks forth from
another dimension.
It is simiIar in the case of metaphysics. Its goal is the search of
truth; yet something more is often expressed through it. This something
becomes unrecognizable, since it overpowers the truth as such, since
what it asserts is full of contradictions and can be easily disproven. It
can be counted among the typical paradoxes of the spirit-that only
sorne systems of metaphysics would be given the status of truth if they
were measured by the standard of actual experience. Perhaps, simi1arly,
there is a1so sorne element in religion which is not religious; when this
element cornes to the surface, all concretized religious forms, in which
there is true religion, may be destroyed. This is the inner dynamic of
heresy and apostasy.
There is more in Imman products, perhaps in every single one which
derives fully from the creative power of the spirit, than is contained in
its forms. This marks off everything that has soul from all that is pro-
duced merely mechanically. Here, perhaps, may be found the motiva-
tion for the contemporary interest in the art of Van Gogh. In him more
than any other painter, one senses a passiomite life which swings far
beyond the limits of pictorial art. It flows from a unique breadth and
depth; that it finds in the painter's talent a channel for its expression
seems only accidentaI, as if it could just as well have given life to prac-
tical or religious, to poetic or musical activities. It is primarily this
burning life, which can be felt in its immediacy-and which sometimes
enters into a destructive contrast with its obvious form-that makes Van
Gogh so fascinating.
The desire for complete1y abstract art among sorne sectors of mod-
ern youth may stem from passion for an immediate and unrestrained
( nackten) expression of self. The frenetic pace of the lives of our
youth carries this tendency to its absolute extreme, and it is youth above
a11 which represents this movement. In general, historical changes of an
internaI or external revolutionary impact have been carried by youth.
In the special nature of the present change, we have a particular refer-
ence to it. VVhereas adults because of their weakening vitality, concen-
trate their attention more and more on the objective contents of life,
which in the present meaning could as well be designated as its forms,
youth is more concerned with the process of life. Youth only wishes
to express its power and its surplus of power, regardless of the objects
involved. Thus cultural movement toward life and its expression alone,
which disdains almost everything formaI, objectifies the meaning of
vouthful life.
J A fundamental observation must be made here which also applies
outside the art world. f'Nhat are we to make of the widespread search
for originality among contemporary youth? Often it is only a form of
vanity, the attempt to become a "sensation" both for oneself and others.
The motive in better cases is a passion for giving expression to the truly
individuallife. The certainty that life is really only its expression seems
to take hold of youth only in times such as ours, when nothing tradi~
tional is accepted. To accept any objective form, it is felt, would drain
away human individuality: moreover it would dilute one's vitality by
freezing it into the mold of something already dead. Originality reas~
sures us that life is pure, that it has not diluted itself by absorbing
extrinsic, objectified, rigid forms into its flow. This is perhaps a sub~
liminal motive, not explicit but powerful, which underlies modern
individualis~
We can find this same basic desire in one of the most recent
philosophical movements which turns its back most decisively against
traditional expressions of philosophy. 1 will designate it as Pragmatism,
since the best known branch of this theory, the American, has thus been
named. 1 consider this particular branch as most superficial and lim~
ited. We can construct an ideal type of Pragmatism independent of any
existing fixed version, which will illumina te its relation to our present
inquiry. Let us first understand what Pragmatism is attacking. Of aIl
areas of culture, there is none which we consider more independent of
life, none so autonomous in its isolation from the motives, needs, and
fates of individuals than cognition. That two times two equals four, or
that material masses are attracted to one another inversely to the square
of their distances, is valid whether or not living minds know it, regard-
less of any changes of mind which mankind might undergo. Even
technical knowledge, which is directly interwoven with life and plays
a large role in the history of mankind, remains essentially untouched
by the ups and downs of life's flow. So~called "practical" knO\vle~ge,
afterall, is only "theoretical" knowledge which has been applied to
pr~cti~alp':1œ_oses. As a form of knowledge it belongs to an order wltll
laws of its own, -an idealized empire of truth.
It is this independence of truth, which has been presupposed
throughout history, that Pragmatism most avidly denies. Our external
life no less than our internaI life, the pragmatist daims, is based on
sorne imagination of knowledge. If it is true it will preserve and support
our life; if it is an error, it will lead us into rnin. Our imaginations are
formed by pnrely psychic influences. In no way are they mechanical
reflections of the reality in which our real lives are intertwined. Hence
it would be a most remarkable coincidence if they were to lead to de-
sirable and predictable consequences within the realm of the real. It is
probable, however, that among the numerous impressions and ideas
GEORG SIM MEL
which determine our active life, there are those which obtain the title
of truth because they support and sustain life, while others with op-
posing consequences are called erroneous. Hence there is no origina11y
independent truth which is subsequently drawn into the stream of life
in order to guide it appropriately. On the contrary, among the infinite
number of images and ideas which are borne along on the stream of our
consciousness, there are sorne which correspond with our will to live.
One might say that this is an accident; without this accident, however,
we could not exist. It is precisely these supportive ideas which we
recognize as right and true. Thus it is neither the objects by them-
selves, nor sovereign reason, which determine the truth-value of our
thoughts. Rather, it is life-which expresses itself sometimes through
the stark necessities of survival, sometimes through the deepest spiritual
needs-that forces us to dassify our ideas, one pole of which we
designate as the full truth and the other as full error.
1 cannot give a full exposition of this theory or criticize it here.
Nor am 1 here concerned with its truth or falsity. 1 want simply to
observe that it has been developed at a particular stage in history.
Pragmatism, as we have seen, deprives truth (Erkennen) of its old daim
to be a free-floating domain ruled by independent and ideallaws. Truth
has now become interwoven with life, nourished by this source, guided
by the totality of its directions and purposes, legitimized through its
basic values. Life has thus reclaimed its sovereignty over a previously
antonomous province. This can be reformulated in a more ideological
way: The form of truth (Erkennen) in the past provided a fixed frame
or an indestructible canvas for the total world of our thoughts and
feelings, which it claimed to infuse with an inner consistency and a
self-sufficient meaning. Now, however, thought and feeling are being
dissolved in and by the stream of life; they yield to its growing and
changing forces and directions, without providing them with any re-
sistance based on an independent right or a timeless validity. The
purest expression of Life as a central idea is reached when it is viewed
as the metaphysical basic fact, as the essence of a11 being. This goes far
beyond the transformation of the problem of knowledge: now every
object becomes a pulse beat of absolute life, or one manner of its
presentation, or a developmental stage. In the total unfolding of the
world toward the spirit, life ris es as spirit. As matter, it sinks below.
When this theory resolves the problem of knowledge through an in-
tuition which, beyond aIl logic and rational intelligibility, immediately
grasps the intrinsic truth of things, it means to say that only life is
capable of understanding life. From this perspective an objectivity, the
object of an knowledge, must be transformed into life. Thus the process
of cognition, now interpreted as a function of life is confronted with
20
an object which it can completely penetra te since it is equal in its

essence. While original pragmatism revolved the image of the world
into life from the point of view of the subject only, it (LebensPhiloso-
phie) did this for the object as well. Nothing is retained here of form
as a principle independent of life, as a mode of being with meaning and
power of its own. What might still be designated form, when staying
within the terms of this imagery, could only exist because of reprieve
given by this life.
This movement away from formaI principles reaches a zenith not
only in the pragmatists, but in aIl thinkers who are filled with the
modern feeling against c10sed systems. Earlier epochs, ruled by c1assical
and formaI considerations, had raised these systems to a level of
sanctity. The c10sed system aims to unite aIl truths, in their most
general concepts, into a structure of higher and Iower elements which
extend from a basic theme, arranged symmetrically and balanced in
aIl directions. The decisive point is that it sees the proof of its sub-
stantive validity in its architectural and aesthetic completion, in the
successful c10sure and solidity of its edifice. This represents the most
extreme culmination of the formaI principle: perfection of form as the
ultimate criterion of truth. This is the view against which life, whlch
continuously creating and destroying forms, must defend itself.
The philosophy that exalts and glorifies life insists firmly on two
things. On one hand it rejects mechanics as a universaI principle: it
views mechanics as, at best, a technique in life, more likely a sympton
of its decay. On the other hand it rejects the daim of ideas to a meta-
physical independence and primacy. Life does not wish to be domi-
nated by what is below it; indeed, it does not wish to be dominated at
aIl, not even by ideas which c1aim for themselves a Tank above it.
Although no higher form of life is capable of knowing itself without
the guidance of ideas this now seems to be possible only because ideas
themselves derive from life. It is the essence of life to generate its
guidance, salvation, opposition, victories, and victims. It sustains and
elevates itself, as it were, by an indirect route, through products of its
own. That they confront it independently Tepresents its own achieve-
ment, expresses its own distinctive style of life. This internaI opposition
is the tragic conflict of life as spirit. It gets more noticeable the more
self-conscious life becomes.
Viewed in the most general cultural perspective, this movement
implies a turn away from dassicism as the absolute ideaI for human
culture. Classicism, after aIl, is the ideology of form, which regards
itself as the ultimate norm for life and creation. Certainly nothing
more adequate or refined has taken the place of the old ideal. The
attack against c1assicism is not concerned with the introduction of new
21
GEORG SIMMEL
cultural forms. Instead self-assured life wishes to liberate itself from the
yoke of form as such, of which c1assicism is a historical representation.
l can report briefly on an identical trend within a specialized area
of ethics. A systematic critique of existing sexual relationships has been
named "the new morality." It is propagated by a small group, but its
aims are shared by a large one. Its criticism is directed mainly against
two elements of the contemporary scene: marriage and prostitution.
Its basic theme can be expressed as follows: the most personal and
intima te meaning of erotic life is destroyed by the forms in which our
culture has reified and trapped it. Marriage, which is entered for a
thousand nonerotic reasons, is destroyed from within by a thousand
unyielding traditions and legalized cruelties; where it is not wrecked,
it loses aIl individuality and leads to stagnation. Prostitution has almost
turned into a legal institution which forces the erotic life of young
people into a dishonorable direction which contradicts and caricatures
its innermost nature. Marriage and prostitution alike appear as op-
pressive forms which thwart immediate and genuine life. Under
different cultural circumstances, these forms may not have been so inap-
prapriate. Now, however, they calI forth forces of opposition which
sprung from the ultimate sources of life. We can see here how large a
shadow falls between the will to destray old forms and the des ire to
build new ones. These reformers are not really interested in working
out an adequate replacement for the forms which they condemn. The
destructive force of their criticism impedes the cultural pra cess of
obsolescence and reconstruction which would normally take place. The
force acting in the guise of new forms, is temporarily and as it were
without dis guise directed against those old forms emptied of genuine
eratic life. Now, however, it is confronted with the previously men-
tioned contradiction since eratic life, as soon as it is expressed in cultural
contexts, necessarily requires sorne form. Nevertheless, it is only a super-
ficial observer who sees here nothing but unbounded and anarchie lust.
Genuine erotic life in fact flows naturally in individual channels. Op-
position is directed against forms because they force it into generalized
schemata and thereby overpower its uniqueness. The struggle between
life and form is fought here less abstractly and less metaphysically as
a struggle between individuality and generalization.
We can find the same tendency in contemporary religion. Observe,
for instance, the fact that quite a few intellectually advanced individuals
employ mysticism to satisfy their religious needs. This has been noticed
since araund the turn of the century. On the whole it can be assumed
that these people were socialized into the ideologies of one or another of
the existing churches. A double motivation for their mysticism is un-
mistakable. First of aIl, the forms which objectify and direct religious
feeling are felt to be inadeqnate for contemporary life. On the other

hand, these mystical tendencies snggest that life's longing may be
frustrated by objective forms in themselves, that the religious impulse
must search for different goals and ways. It seems clear that a finn
determination and delimitation of the boundaries of religious experience
has been replaced. Mysticism aspires toward a deity which transcends
every personal and particular fonn; it seeks an undetermined expanse of
religions feeling which does not conflict with any dogrnatic barrier, a
deepening into formless infinity, a mode of expression based only on
the powerfullonging of the soul. Mysticism appears as the last refuge
for religious individuals who cannot as yet free themselves from a11
transcendental guidance, but only, as it were preliminarily, from that
which is detennined and fixed in content.
The most decisive instance of this development-even though it may
be full of contradictions and be eternally separated from its objective-
is a tendency for forms of religious belief to dissolve into modes of
religions life, into religiosity as a purely functional justification of re-
ligion. Until recently, changes of religious culture have always pro-
ceeded in the fo11owing way: a certain form of religious life, originally
fully adequate in its strengths and essential characteristics, gradua11y
rigidifies in superficialties and Barrow specialization. It is displaced by
a newly rising form in which religious impulses can flow, dynamically
and without impediment. In other words, a new religious fonn, a new
series of beliefs took the place of an outmoded one. For a relatively
large number of people today, the supernatural objects of religious
belief have been radically excised; their religious impulse, however, has
not thereby been eliminated. Its effective force, which fonnerly mani-
fested itself through the development of more adequate dogmatic con-
tents, can no longer express itself through the polarity of a believing
subject and a believed object. In the ultimate state of affairs towards
which this new tendency is aiming, religion would function as a medium
for the direct expression of life. It would be analogous not to a single
melody within the symphony of life, but to the tonality within which
the whole work is perfonned. The spa ce of life, filled entirely by secular
contents, actions and fate, thoughts and feelings, would be permeated
with that unique inner unity between humility and authority, tension
and peace, danger and consecration, which can only be called religious.
Life spent in this fashion would demonstrate its absolute value-a value
which, under other circumstances, was given to it only through the
singular forms in which it appeared and through the individual contents
of belief towards which it had crystallized. Angelus Silesius gives us a
foretaste of it, when he separates religious values from aIl fixed con-
nections with something specifie and recognizes their place as lived life.
GEORG SIMMEL
The Saint when he is drinking

Is also pleasing God
As if he were praying and singing.
He is not concerned, however, with the so~called "secular religion." The

latter still c1ings to determinate contents, which are empirical instead of
transcendental. It also channels religious life into specifie forms of
beauty and greatness, distinction, and lyrical motion. Here, however,
religiosity is in question whether it is a direct pro cess of life which
encompasses every pulse beat: Is it a being, not a having, is it a form
of piousness which is called belief whenever it deals with objects? Now,
however, religiosity is siInilar to life itself. It does not aim to satisfy
extrinsic needs, but searches instead for continuo us life in a deeper
sphere in which it is not yet tom. between needs and satisfactions. In
this sphere of religious perfection, it does not require an object which
prescribes for it a certain fonn-just as an expressionistic painter does
not satisfy his artistic needs by c1inging to an exterior subject. Life
wishes to express itself directly as religion, not through a language with
a given lexicon and prescribed syntax. One could use an apparently
paradoxical expression and say: The soul can find faith only by losing it.
To preserve the integrity of religious feeling, it must shake off aIl de~
termined and predetennined religious form.
This desire is often exposed to a form of purely negative criticism
which doesn't even understand itself. Nevertheless, it encounters a
profound difficulty: life can express itself and realize its freedom only
through forms; yet fonns must also necessarily suffocate life and obstruct
freedom. Piety, or the power of believing, is part of the constitution of
the soul, integral to its life: it would influence the soul even in the
absence of a religious object-just as an erotic individual must conserve
and prove his powers even though he might never meet an object worthy
of his love. Nevertheless, 1 wonder whether the fundamental will of
religious life do es not require an object, whether a merely functional
character and its unformed dynamics which color and bless the mere
ups and downs of life-which appear to represent the definitive mean-
ing of so many religious movements-can ever really satisfy it. Perhaps
this new religiosity is only a casual interlude. It can be counted among
the deepest inner difficulties of numerous modem people that it is
impossible to further protect the religions of church tradition, while at
the same time the religious drives continue to persist in spite of aIl
"enlightenment." This is so since religion can be robbed only of its
c10thing but not its life. There is a tempting way out of this dilemma
in the cultivation of the religious life as a thing in itself, the transfonna-
tion of the verb "to believe" from a transitive "1 believe that ... "
to a purely intransitive ('I believe." In the long run, perhaps, this

might become no less entangled in contradictions. Here again we see
the basic conflict inherent in the nature of cultural life. Life must
either produce forms or proceed through forms. But forms be10ng to
a completely different order of being. They demand sorne content above
and beyond life; they contradict the essence of life itself, with its weav-
ing dynamics, its temporal fates, the unceasing differentiation of each
of its parts. Life is inseparably charged with contradiction. It can enter
reality only in the form of its antithesis, that is, only in the form of
fOTm. This contradiction becomes more urgent and appears more ir-
reconcilable the more life makes itself felt.! The forms themselves,
however, deny this contradiction: in their rigidly individual shapes, in
the demands of their imprescriptible rights, they boldly present them-
selves as the true meaning and value of our existence. This audacity
varies with the degree to which culture has grown.
Life wishes here to obtain something which it cannot reach. It
desires to transcend aIl forms and to appear in its naked immediacy.
Yet the pro cesses of thinking, wishing, and forming can only substitute
one form for another. They can never replace the form as such by life
which as such transcends the form. AlI these attacks against the forms
of our culture, which align against them the forces of life "in itself,"
embody the deepest internaI contradictions of the spirit. Although this
chronic conflict between form and life has become acute in many
historical epochs, none but ours has revealed it so c1early as its basic
theme.
It is a philistine prejudice that conflicts and problems are dreamt
up merely for the sake of their solution. Both in fact have additional
tasks in the economy and history of life, tasks which they fulfill inde-
pendently of their own solutions. Thus they exist in their own right,
even if the future does not replace conflicts with their resolutions, but
only replaces their forms and contents with others. In short, the present
is too full of contradictions to stand still. This itself is a Inore fun da-
mental change than the reformations of times pasto The bridge between
the past and the future of cultural forms seems to be demolished; we
gaze into an abyss of unformed life beneath our feet. But perhaps this
formlessness is itself the appropria te form for contemporary life. 'l'hus
the blueprint of life is obliquely fulfilled. Life is a struggle in the
absolute sense of the term which encompasses the relative contrast
between war and peace: that absolute peace which might encompass
this contrast remains an eternal (gottlich) secret to us.
GEORG SIMMEL
Note to the Essay

1. lSince life is the antithesis of form, and since only that which is somehow
formed can be conceptual1y described, the concept of life cannot be freed
(
from logical imprecision. The essence of life would be denied if one tried
to form an exhaustive conceptual definition. In order for cons cio us life to
be fully self-conscious, it would have to do without concepts altogether, for
conceptualization inevitably brings on the reign of forms; yet concepts are
essential to self-consciousness. The fact that the possibilities of expression
are so limited by the essence of life do es not diminish its rnomenturn as an
ide~
On the Concept and the Tragedy
if Culture *
AN, UNLIKE THE ANIMALS, does not allow himself simply to be

absorbed by the naturally given order of the world. Instead, he
tears himself loose from it, places himself in opposition to it, making de-
mands of it, overpowering it, then overpowered by it. From this first great
dualism springs the never-ending contestbétween subject and object,
which finds its second round within the realm of spirit itself. The spirit
engenders innumerable structures which keep on existing with a peculiar
autonomy independently of the soul that has created them, as weIl as
of any other that accepts or rejects them. Thus, man sees himself as
confronting art as weIl as law, religion as weIl as technology, science
as weIl as custom. Now he is attracted, now repelled by their contents,
now fused with them as if they were part of himself, now estranged and
untouched by them. In the form of stability, coagulation, persistent
existence, the spirit becomes object, places itself over against the stream-
ing life, the intrinsic responsibility and the variable tensions of the soul.
Spirit, most deeply tied to spirit, for this very reason experiences in-
numerable tragedies over this radical contrast: between subjective life,
which is restless but finite in time, and its contents, which, once they
are created, are fixed but timelessly valid.
The concept of culture is lodged in the middle of this dualism. It is
based on a situation which in its totality can only be expressed opaquely,
through an analogy, as the path of the soul to itself. A soul is never
* A translation of "Der Begriff und die Tragèidie der Kultur," in Georg Sirnrnel,
Philosophie der Kultur: Gesammelte Essais (Leipzig: Werner Klinkhardt, 1911),
pp. 245-277.
GEORG SIM MEL
only what it represents at a given moment, it is always "more," a higher

and more perfect manifestation of itself, unreal, and yet somehow
eternally present. We do not here refer to an ideal mode of being which
can be named or fixed at sorne place within the intellectual world; we
mean, rather, the freeing of its self-contained forces of tension, and the
development of its innermost core which obeys the intrinsic drive
towards form. Just as life-and especially its intensification in con-
sciousness-contains its past history within itself in a more immediate
form than do es any morsel of the inorganic world. At the same time,
this historical element circumscribes its future ... in a manner which
is without analogy in the inorganic realm. The later fonn of an or-
ganism which is capable of growth and procreation is contained in every
single phase of organic life. The inner necessity of organic evolution is
far profounder than the necessity that a wound-up spring will be re-
leased. While everything inorganic con tains only the present moment,
living matter extends itself in an incomparable way over history and
future.
----spiritual movements like will, dut y, hope, the calling represent
psychic expressions of the fundamental destiny of life: to contain its
future in its present in a special form which exists only in the life
process. Thus the personality as a whole and a unit carries within itself
an image, traced as if with invisible lines. This image is it~otentiality;
to free the image in it would be to attain its full actualitY.IThe ripening
and the proving of man's spiritual powers may be accomplished through
individual tasks and interests; yet somehow, beneath or ab ove, there
stands the demand that through all of these tasks and interests a
transcendent promise should be fulfiIled, that aIl individual expressions
should appear only as a multitude of ways by which the spiritual life
cornes to itself. This demand expresses a metaphysical precondition of
our practical and emotional existence, however remote it may seem
from our reallife in the world. It symbolizes a unit y which is not simply
a formaI bond that circumscribes the unfolding of individual powers in
an always equal manner, but rather a process of unified development
which aIl individuals go through together. The goal of perfection in-
trinsicaIly guides the unified development for which aIl individual
capacities and perfections are mea~
Here we see the source of the concept of culture, which, however,
at this point foIlows only our linguistic feeling. We are not yet cul ti-
vated by having developed this or that individual bit of knowledge or
skill; we become cultivated only when aIl of them serve a psychic unit y
which depends on but does not coincide with them. Our conscious
endeavors aim towards particular interests and potentialities. The
development of every human being, when it is examined in terms of
28
identifiable items, appears as a bundle of developmental lines which

expand in different directions and quite different lengths. But man does
not cultivate himself through their isolated perfections, but only insofar
as they help to develop his indefinable personal unity. In other words:
Culture is the way that leads from the closed unit y through the
unfolded multiplicity to the unfolded unity.
This cannot refer only to a deve10pment towards something pre-
arranged in the germinating forces of personality, sketched out within
itself, as a kind of ideal plan. Linguistic usage provides secure guidance
here. W'e will calI a garden fruit cultivated which was perfected
through the work of a gardener from an inedible tree fruit. Alternate1y,
we might say that this wild tree has been cultivated into a garden fruit
tree. But if we were to manufacture a sail mast from the very same
tree, even though equalIy purposive work might be expended upon it,
we would not say that the tree had been cultivated into a mast. This
nuance of linguistic usage points out that, although the fruit could
not have developed from the indigenous powers of the tree without
human effort, it only fulfilled the potentialities which were already
sketched out in its constitution. This contrasts with the form of the
mast, which is superimposed upon the trunk of the tree by a completely
alien system of purpose and without any predisposition of its own. It
is in this sense that we will not credit a man with genuine culture on
the basis of knowledge, virtuosity, or refinements which only act as
additives which come to his personality from an external realm of value.
In such a case, then, man is the possessor of traits of culture, but he is
not cultivated. A man becomes cultivated only when cultural traits
deve10p that aspect of his soul which exists as its most indigenous
drive and as the inner predetermination of its subjective perfection.
In this context the conditions finalIy emerge through which culture
resolves the subject-object dualism. We deny the applicability of the
concept in the absence of self-development of a psychic center. Nor
does the concept apply when this self-deve1opment does not depend
upon objective and extrinsic means and stations. A multitude of move-
ments can lead the soul to itself. But where as the soul reaches this
precept purely from within-in religious ecstasies, moral self-devotion,
dominating inteIlectuality, and harmony of total life-it can still lack
the specific property of being cultivated. Not only because it may be
lacking that external perfection which in ordinary language is depre-
ciated as mere "civilization." This wouldn't matter at aIl. The state of
being cultivated, however, is not given its purest and deepest meaning
when the soul transverses the path from itself to itself, from its poten-
tiality to its realization, exc1usive1y on the strength of its subjective
powers. Admittedly, when viewed from the highest perspective these
GEORG SIMMEL
processes of perfection are perhaps the most valuable. But this only
proves that culture is not the only value for the soul. Us specifie mean-
ing, however, is fulfilled only when man includes in this development
something which is extrinsic to him, when the path of the soul leads
over values which are not themselves of psychic quality. There are
objective spiritual forms-art and morality, science and purposively
formed objects, religion and law, technology and social nomls-stations,
as it were, through which the subject has to go in order to gain that
special individual value (Eigenwert) which is called culture. It is the
paradox of culture that subjective life which we feel in its continuous
stream and which drives itself towards inner perfection cannot by itself
reach the perfection of culture. It can become truly cultivated only
through forms which have become completely alien and crystallized into
self-sufficient independence. The most decisive way of making this point
is to say that culture cornes into being by a meeting of the two elements,
neither of which contain culture by itself: the subjective soul and the
objective spiritual product.
This is the root of the metaphysical significance of historical
phenomena. A number of decisive human activities build bridges
between subject and object which cannot be completed or which, if
completed, are again and again torn down. Some of these are: cognition;
above aIl, work; and in certain of their meanings, also art and religion.
The spirit sees itself confronted with an object towards which it is
driven by the force as weIl as spontaneity of its nature. It remains
condemned, however, in its own motion, as if in a circle which only
touches the object, and which, whenever it is about to penetrate it, is
abruptly forced back into its self-contained orbit by the immanent force
of its law. The longing for resolution of this intransigent, final dualism
is already expressed by the very derivation of the concepts subject-object
as correlates, each of which gains its meaning only from the other.
W ork, art, law, religion, and so forth, transpose the dualism into special
atmospheric layers in which its radical sharpness is reduced and certain
fusions are permitted. But since these fusions are possible only under
special atmospheric conditions, they are unable to overcome the basic
estrangement of the parties, and remain finite attempts to solve an
infinite task. Our relationship, however, to those objects through which
we cultiva te ourselves is different, since they themselves are spirit
objectified in ethical and intellectual, social and aesthetic, religious and
technical forms. The dualism in which a subject restricted to its own
boundaries is confronted with an object existing only for itself takes on
an incomparable form whenever both parties are spiritual. Thus the
subjective spirit has to leave its subjectivity, but not its spirituality, in
order to experience the object as a medium for cultivation. This is the
only way by which the form of dual existence which is immediately

posited with the existence of the subject organizes itself into an inner
unified set of mutual relations. Here the subject becomes objective and
the object becomes subjective. This is the specific attribute of the
pro cess of culture. This process, however, reveals its metaphysical form
by transcending its individual contents. In order to understand this
more deeply, a further-reaching analysis is required of the objectification
of the spirit.
These pages took as their starting point the deep estrangement or
animosity which exists between the organic and creative processes of
the soul and its contents and products: the vibrating, restless life of
the creative soul, which develops toward the infinite contrasts with its
fixed and ideally unchanging product and its uncanny feedback effect,
which arrests and indeed rigidifies this liveliness. Frequently it appears
as if the creative movement of the soul was dying from its own product.
Herein lies one fundamental form of our suffering from our own past,
our own dogma, and our own fantasies. The discrepancy which exists
between the normal states of our inner life and its contents becomes
rationalized and somewhat less palpable whenever man, through his
theoretical or practical work, confronts himself with these spiritual
products, and views them as a sphere of the internaI, independent
cosmos of the objective spirit. The external or non-material work in
which the spiritual life is condensed is perceived as a value of a special
kind. Life often goes astray by streaming into it (as if in a blind alley) ,
or continues to roll in its floods and deposits a rejected item at its place.
Nevertheless, it is an illustration of the specifically human richness that
the products of objective life belong to a stable substantive order of
values which is logical or moral, religious or artistic, technical or legal.
As carriers of values, their mutual interlocking and systemization frees
them from the rigid isolation that alienated them from the rhythms of
the processes of life. Thereby this process has gained a significance in
its own right which could not have been learned from the steady
progression of its course.
Extra value is added to the objectification of the spirit which,
although derived in the subjective consciousness, implies by this con-
sciousness something which transcends itself. The value itself does not
always need to be positive, in the sense of something good. On the
contrary, the merely formaI fact that the subject has produced some-
thing objective, that its life has become embodied from itself, is per-
ceived as something significant, because the independence of the object
thus formed by the spirit can only resolve the basic tension between the
process and content of consciousness. Spatially natural ideas attenuate
the uncanny fact-that within the Rowing process of consciousness
GEORG SIMMEL
something acquîres a wholly fixed form-by legitimizing this stability

in their relation to an objectively extrinsic world. Objectivity provides
the corresponding service for the spiritual world. We feel the very life
of our thought tied to the unchangeability of logical norms, the full
spontaneity of our actions, to moral norms. The whole process of our
consciousness is filled with insights, traditions, and impressions of an
environrnent somehow formed by the spirit. AlI this rigidity points
to a problematic dualism opposed to the restless rhythm of this sub-
jective psychic pro cess within which it is generated as imagination and
as subjectively psychic content. Insofar as this contra st belongs to an
idealized world beyond the (realm of) individual consciousness, it will
be reduced to one level and law. It is certainly decisive for the cultural
meaning of the object with which we are here concerned that will and
intelligence, individuality and feelings, powers and emotions of indi-
vidual souls and also of their collectivity are gathered in it. But only
where this does go on are those spiritual rneanings brought to their
destination.
In the happiness of a creator with his work, as great or insignificant
as it may be, we find, beyond a discharge of inner tensions, the proof of
his subjective power, his satisfaction over a fulfilled challenge, a sense of
contentment that the work is completed, that the universe of valuable
items is now enriched by this individual piece. Probably there is no
higher sublime personal satisfaction for the creator than when we ap-
perceive his work in aIl its impersonality, apart from our subjectivity.
Just as the objectifications of the spirit are valuable apart from the
subjective processes of life which have produced thern, so, too, they
have value apart from the other life pro cesses which as their conse-
quences depend on thern.
As widely and deeply as we look for the influences of the organiza-
tion of society, the technical demands of natural phenomena, works of
art, and the scientific recognition of truth, custom, and rnorality, we
irnply our recognition that these phenomena exist, and that the world
also includes this formulation of the spirit. This is a directive, as it
were, for our processes of evaluation. It stops with the unique quality
of the spiritually objective without questioning spiritual consequences
beyond the definition of these items themselves.
In addition to aIl subjective enjoyrnents by which a work of art
enters into us, we recognize as a value of special kind the fact that the
spirit created this vessel for itself. Just as there is at least one line
running between the artist's will and the individual property of the
work of art, which intertwines his objective evaluation of the work
with an enjoyrnent of his own actively creative force, we find a similarly
oriented line in the attitudes of the spectator. These attitudes differ
remarkably from our responses to natural phenomena. Ocean and

flowers, alpine mountains and the stars in the sky derive what we caU
their value entire1y from their reflections in subjective souls. As soon
as we disregard the mystic and fantastic anthropomorphizing of nature,
it appears as a continuous contiguous whole, whose undifferentiated
character denies its individual parts any special emphasis, any existence
which is objectively delimited from others. It is only human categories,
that cut out individual parts, to which we ascribe meaning and value.
lronically, we then construct poetic fictions which create a natural
beauty that is holy within itself. In reality, however, nature has no
other holiness than the one whieh it evokes in us.
While the product of objective forces can only be subjective1y
valuable, the product of subjective forces aUains for us a kind of objec-
tive value. Material and non-material structures which have been in-
vested with human will, artistry, knowledge, and emotions, represent
such objective items. We recognize their significance for, and enrich-
ment of, existence, even if we completely disregard the fact that they
are being viewed, used, or consumed. Although value and importance,
meaning and significance are produced exc1usively in the human soul,
they must affirm themselves continuously by contrast with the given
na ture; but this does not harm the objective value of those structures
in which those creative human powers and values already have been
invested.
A sunrise which is not seen by any human eyes do es not increase
the value of this wodd or make it more sublime, since this objective
fact by itself is without relevance to the categories of value. As soon,
however, as a painter invests his emotion, his sense for form and color
and his power of expression, in a picture of this sunrise, then we con-
sider this work an enrichment, an increase in the value of existence as
a whole. The world seems to us somehow more deserving of its exis-
tence, closer to its ultimate meaning, whenever the human soul, the
source of an value has expressed itself in something which has become
part of the objective wodd. It does not matter now whether a later
soul will redeem the magic value from the canvas and dissolve it in the
stream of his own subjective sensations. Both the sunrise in nature
and the painting exist as realities. But where the sunrise attains value
only if it lives on in individuals, the painting has aIready absorbed such
life and made it into an object; hence our sense of value stops before it
as before something definite which has no need of subjectivization.
If we expand these arguments into a spectrum, one end will show
purely subjective life as the source and the locus of aIl meaning and
value. The other extreme will equate value with objectification. It
will insist that human life and action are valuable only insofar as they
33
GEORG SIMMEL
have something tangible to contribute to the ideaIistic, historical, ma-

teriaIistic cosmos of the spirit. According to this view, even Kant's
moral will get its value not in itseIf, not just by being psychologically
"there," but from being embodied in a form which exists in an objec-
tively ideal state. Even sentiments and the personality obtain their
significance, in a good or a bad sense, by be10nging to a realm of the
super-personaI.
The subjective and objective spirit are opposed to one another;
culture asserts its unity by interpenetrating both. It impIies a form of
personal perfection which can only be completed through the media-
tion of a super-personal form which lies outside the subject itself. The
specific value being cultivated is inaccessible to the subject unless it
is reached through a path of objectively spiritual realities. These again
represent cultural values only to the extent that they interpenetrate the
path of the soul from itself to itself, from what might be called its
natural state to its cultivated state.
Hence one can express the structure of the concept of culture in
the following terms. TIlere is no cultural value which would be an
exclusive1y cultural value. On the contrary, it must first be a value
within sorne other context, promoting sorne interest or sorne capa city
of our being. It becomes a cultural value only when this partial deve1-
opment raises our total self one step closer to its perfected unity. It is
only in this way that two corresponding situations in inteI1ectual history
become intelligible. The first is that men of low cultural interest fre-
quently show remarkable indifference to individual elements of culture,
and even reject them-insofar as they fail to discover how these ele-
ments can contribute to the fulfillment of their total personalities.
(While there is probably no human product which must contribute
to culture, on the other hand there is probably nothing human that
could not contribute.) Second, there are phenomena (such as certain
formalities and refinements of life) which appear as cultural values
only in epochs that have become overripe and tired out. For whenever
life itself has become empty and meaningless, deve10pments towards
its apex, which are based on the will or its potential, are mere1y
schematic, and not capable of deriving nourishment and promotion
from the substantive content of the things and ideas. This is analogous
to a sick body which cannot assimila te those substances from food which
a healthy body uses for growth and strength. In such a case individual
development is capable of deriving from social norms only the socially
correct form of conduct, from the arts only unproductive passive
pleasures, and from technological progress only the negative aspect of
the reduction of effort and the smoothness of daily conduct. The sort
of culture that develops is formally subjective, but devoid of inter-
34
weaving with those substantive elements so essential to culture. On

the one hand, there is such an emotionally centralized accentuation of
culture that the substantive content of objective factors becomes too
much and too diverting, since it thus neither will nor can involve itself
into cultural function. On the other hand, there is such a weakness
and emptiness of culture that it is not at aIl capable of including objec-
tive factors according to their substantive content. Both these phenom-
ena, which first appear as instances opposed to the link between personal
culture and impersonal conditions, thus on closer examination only
confirm their connection.
That the final and most decisive factors in life are united in cul-
ture becomes especially obvious insofar as the development of each of
these factors can occur completely independently, not only without
the motivation by the ideal of culture but indeed by denying it. For
the view towards one or the other direction would be diverted from the
unity of its goal if it were to be determined by a synthesis between
these two. The men who pro duce the constant contents, the objective
elements of culture would probably refuse to borrow the motives and
values of their efforts directly from the idea of culture. In their case the
following inner situation exists: a twofold force is at work in the
founder of a religion and in an artist, in a statesman and in an inventor,
in a scholar and in a legislator. On the one hand, there is the expres-
sion of his essential powers, the exuberation of his nature to such a high
level that it frees by itself the contents of cultural life. And on the
other hand, there is the passionate dedication to the cause with its
immanent laws demanding perfection, so that the creative individual
becomes indifferent to himself and is extinguished. Within genius these
two streams are unified. To the genius, the development of the sub-
jective spirit for its own sake and compelled by its own forces is indis-
tinguishable from the completely self-negating devotion to an objective
task. Culture, as we have demonstrated, is always a synthesis. A syn-
thëSis, however, is not the only and most immediate form of unity,sniëë
it always presupposes the divisibility of elements as an antecedent or
as a correlative.
Viewing synthesis as the most sublime of formaI relationships
between spirit and world could occur only during an age which is as
analytical as the modern. For insofar as the analytic elements are devel-
oped in it in ways similar to an organic germ's branching out into a
multiplicity of differentiated limbs, this stands beyond analysis and syn-
thesis. This may be so because these two develop from an interaction
where each, on every level, presupposes the other, or else because the
analytically separated elements are later transformed through synthesis
into a unity which, however, is completely different from that which
35
GEORG SIM MEL
existed prior to the separation. The creative genius possesses such an

original unity of the subjective and the objective, which has first to be
divided so that it can be resuscitated in synthetic form in the process
of cultivation. This is why man's interest in culture does not lie on the
same level with pure self-development of the subjective spirit or with
pure dedication ta a cause; instead cultural interests are attached ta a
cause, occasionaIly as something secondary, reflex-like, as an abstract
generality which reach beyond the innermost and immediate value im-
pulses of the soul. Even when the path of the soul to itself-one of
the primary factors in culture-carries the other factors along, culture
stays out of the game as long as the path of the soul transverses only
its own do main and perfects itself in the pure self-development of its
own essence.
If we consider the other factor of culture in its self-sufficient isola-
tion-those products of the spirit which have grown into an ideal exis-
tence independent of aIl psychological movements-even its most
indigenous meaning and value do es not coincide with its cultural value.
Its cultural meaning is completely independent. A work of art is sup-
posed to be perfect in terms of artistic norrns. They do not ask for
anything else but themselves, and would give or deny value to the work
even if there were nothing else in the world but this particular work.
The result of research should be truth and absolutely nothing further.
Religion exhausts its meaning with the salvation which it brings to the
soul. The economic product wishes to be economically perfect, and
does not recognize for itself any other than the economic scale of values.
AU these sequences operate within the confines of purely internaI laws.
Whether and to what extent they can be substituted in the develop-
ment of subjective souls has nothing to do with its importance, which
is measured through purely objective norms which are valid for it alone.
On the basis of this state of affairs it becomes clear why we frequently
meet with an apparent indifference and even aversion to culture among
people who are primarily directed only towards subjects as weIl as among
those who are only directed towards objects. A person who asks only
for the salvation of the soul, or for the ideal of personal power, or for
purely individual growth which will not be affected by any exterior
force, will find that his evaluations miss the single integrating factor
of culture. The other cultural factor will be absent from a person who
strives only for the purely material completion of his works, so that
they fulfill only their idea and no other that is only tangentially con-
nected. The extreme representative of the first type is the stylite, of the
other, the specialist who is entrapped by the fanaticism for his specialty.
At first sight it is somewhat startling to observe that the supporters of
such undoubted "cultural values" as religiosity, personality formation,
THE CONFLICT IN MODERN CULTURE AND OTI-IER ESSAYS
and technologies of every kind should despise or fight the concept of

culture. However, this becomes immediately explicable when we con-
sider that culture always only means the synthesis of a subjective devel-
opment with an objectively spiritual value. It fol1ows then, that the
representation of either one of these elements must en danger their
mutual interweaving.
This dependence of cultural values on other indigenous value-
scales suggests why an object may reach a different point on the scale
of cultural values than on that of the merely material. There are a
variety of works, which remain far below the artistic, technical, intellec-
tuaI Ievel of what has already been accomplish~d, yet which, never-
theless have the capacity to join most efficientIy the developmental
paths of many people as developers of their latent forces, as a bridge
to their next higher station. Just as we do not derive a completely
satisfying fulfillment from only the dynamically most forceful or aesthet-
ically most complete impressions of nature (from which we derive the
emotional feelings by which stark and unresolved elements suddenly
became clear and harmonie to us-which we often owe to a quite
simple scene or the playing of shadows on a summer afternoon), so we
cannot immediately infer from the importance of the intellectual prod-
uct, as high or low as it may be in its native dimension, what this work
will accomplish for us in the development of culture. Everything de-
pends here on the special significance of the work, which serves as a
secondary contribution to the general development of personalities.
And this contribution may even be inversely proportional to the unique
or intrinsic value of the work.
There are human products of almost ultimate perfection to which
we have no access, or they no access to us, because of their perfect
integration. Such a work stays in its place, from which it cannot be
transplanted to our street as an isolated perfect item. Maybe we can
go to it, but we cannot take it along with us in order to raise ourselves
through it to our own perfection. For the modern feeling of life this
self-contained degree of perfection is, perhaps, represented by antiquity,
which denies itself the acceptance of the pulsations and restlessness of
our developmental tempo. Many a person may, therefore, be induced
today to search for sorne other fundamental factor especially for our
culture. It is similar with certain ethical ideals. Products of the objec-
tive intellect which have been so designated are, perhaps, destined more
than any others to carry the development from the mere possibility to
the highest perfection of our totality and to give it direction.
However, there are sorne ethical imperatives which contain an ideal
of such rigid perfection that it is impossible to draw energies from them
which we could include in our development. Despite their high position
37
GEORG SIMMEL
within the sequence of ethical ideas7 as cultural e1ements they will easily
be subordinated to others which from their lower ethical position more
readily assimilate themselves into the rhythm of our deve1opment. An-
other reason for the disproportion between the substantive and cultural
values of a phenomenon may be found in the one-sided benefits they
confer on us. Various things may make us more knowledgeable or
better, happier or more adept, without actually helping to develop 11S,
but only an independently objective side or quality which is attached
to us. In this case we are naturally dealing with graduaI and infinitely
subtle differences which empirically are hard to grasp, and which are
tied to the mysterious relationship between our unified total self and
our individual energies and perfections.
The completely closed reality which we calI our subject can be
designated only by the sum of such individual phenomena, without
actually being composed by them. This peculiar relationship is not at
aIl exhausted by reference to the only logical category which is avail-
able, the parts and the whole. In isolation it could objectively exist in
any number of diverse subjects. It gains the characteristics of our own
subjectivity at its inside, where it fosters the growth of the unity of our
own being. With these characteristics, however, it somehow builds a
bridge to the value of objectivity. It is situated on our periphery by
which we are wedded to the objective, exterior, intellectual wodd. But
as soon as this function, which is directed to and nourished by the
outside, is severed from its meaning, which flows into our own center,
this discrepancy will be created. We will become instructed, we will
act more purposively, we will become richer in satisfactions and skills,
and perhaps even more educated-our process of cultivation, however,
do es not keep in step. Although we come from a lower level of having
and knowing to a higher level, we do not come from ourselves as lower
beings to ourselves as higher beings.
1 have stressed the possible discrepancy between the substantive
and cultural meaning of an object in order to bring out more emphati-
cally the fundamental duality of elements which through their inter-
weaving produce culture. This interweaving is unique because personal
development, although it pertains to the subject, can be reached only
through the mediation of objects. For this reason, to be cultivated
becomes a task of infinite dimensions, since the number of objects that
a subject can make its own is inexhaustible. Nuances of linguistic usage
describe this situation most exactly: the word "culture," when it is tied
to particular objects, as in religious culture, artistic culture, and so
forth, usually designates not the personal qualities of individuals, but
rather a general spirit. This means that in any given epoch, there is
an especially large number of impressive spiritual products available
through which individuals are cultivated. But this plenitude of cultural

possibilities may actually constitute a threat to culture, if it leads to
over-specialization. A person may acquire a remarkable degree of skill
or knowledge concerning a certain substantive content-an "artistic
culture" or a "religious culture"-without becoming truly cultivated.
On the other hand, it is still possible that substantive perfection of a
particular kind may help bring about the completion of the person as
a total being.
Within this structure of culture there now develops a cleavage
which, of course, is already prepared in its foundation. Tt makes of
the subject-object-synthesis a paradox, even a tragedy. The profound
dualism between subject and object survives their synthesis. The inner
logic by which each member develops independently does not neces-
sarily coincide with that of the other. Knowledge, for example, whose
forms are so greatly deterrnined by the a priori dimensions of our spirit,
is constantly becoming completed by items which can be only accepted
and not anticipated. But it does not seem to be guaranteed that these
items will serve the completion of the soul. It is similar with our prac-
tical and technical relationships to things; although we form them
according to our purposes, they do not yield to us completely, but have
a logic and a power of their own. And it is highly doubtful that our use
of them will always coincide with the unique direction of our central
development. Indeed, everything objective possesses its own individual
logic. Once certain themes of law, of art, of morals have been created
-even if they have been created by most individual and innermost spon-
taneity-we cannot control the directions in which they will develop.
Although we generate them, they must follow the guidelines of their
own inner necessity, which is no more concerned with our individuality
than are physical forces and their laws.
Tt is true that language rhymes and reasons for us; it collects the
fragmentary impulses of our own essence and leads them to a perfection
which we would not have reached on our own. Nevertheless, there is
no necessity in the parallel between objective and subjective develop-
ments. lndeed, we sometimes even perceive language as a strange nat-
ural force which def!ects and mutila tes not only our expressions, but
also our most intimate intentions. And religion, which originated in
the search of the soul for itself, analogous to wings that carry the
indigenous forces of the soul to their own height-it, too, has certain
formative laws, Wllich having once corne into existence, unfold with a
necessity that does not always coincide with our own. The anti-cultural
spirit with which religion is often reproached is not only its occasional
animosity toward intellectual, aesthetic, or moral values. It also refers
to the deeper issue that religion proceeds on its own course, which is
39
GEORG SIMMEL
determined by immanent logic, and into which it drags life along.

Whatever transcendental fulfillment the soul may find on this course,
religion ra rel y leads to that perfection of its totality which is cal1ed
culture.
Insofar as the logic of impersonal cultural forms is loaded with
dynamic tensions, harsh frictions develop between these fonns and the
inner drives and nonns of personality which fulfill themselves in culture.
From the moment that man began to say 'T' to himself, and became
an object beyond and in comparison with himself; from the same
moment in which the contents of the soul were formed together into
a center point-from that time and based on that central form the
ideal had to grow according to which everything connected with the cen-
ter point formed a unit, self-contained and self-sufficient. But the
contents with which the 'T' must organize itself into its own unified
world do not belong to it alone. They are given to it from sorne
spatially, temporarily idealized realm outside; they are simultaneously
the contents of different social and metaphysical, conceptual and ethical
worlds.
In these they possess fonns and relationships among one another
that do not wish to dissolve into those of the "1." Through those con-
tents the exterior worlds grasp the "1" and seek to draw it into them.
They aim to break up the centralization of cultural contents around
the 'T'and reconstitute them according to their demands. Thus, in re-
ligious conflicts between the self-sufficiency or freedom of man and his
su bordina tion under divine order, and again in social conflicts between
man as a rounded individual and man as a mere member of a social orga-
nism, we are entangled because our life ideals are inevitably subsumed
under other circles than those of our own "1."
Man often finds himself at the point of intersection of two circles
of objective forces and values, each of which would like to drag him
along. Often he feels himself to be the center who orders all life con-
tents around himself hannonically according to the logic of his per-
sonality. Thus he feels solidarity with each of these circles, insofar as
each belongs to a different circle, and is claimed by another law of
motion, his own. Thus our own essence forms an intersecting point of
itself with an alien circle of postulates. The process of culture, how-
ever, compresses the parties of this collision into extremely close contact
by making the development of the subject conditional on the assimila-
tion of objective material. Thus the metaphysical dualism of subject
and object, which seemed to have been overcome by the formation of
culture, reappears in the conflict between subjective and objective devel-
opments. It is possible, moreover, that the object can step outside its
mediating role in an even more basic manner, and break up the bridges
over which the course of cultivation has been leading. At first it isolates
and alienates itself from the working subject through the division of
labor. Objects which have been produced by many persons can be
arranged in a scale according to the extent to which their unity stems
from the unified intellectual intention of one person, or from the partial
contributions of cooperating but uncomprehending individuals. The
latter pole is occupied by a city: it may strike us now as a meaningful
self-contained and organically connected whole; in fact, however, it was
not constructed according to any pre-existing plan, but arose out of the
accidentaI needs and des ires of individuals. The former pole is exempli-
fied by the products of a manufacturing plant in which twenty workers
have cooperated without knowledge of or interest in one another's sep-
arate work processes-while the whole, neverthe1ess, has been guided by
a personal central will and intellect. An intermediary position is taken
by a newspaper, insofar as its overall appearance can somehow be traced
to a leading personality, and yet it grows because of mutually accidentaI
contributions of the most diverse form and of diverse individuals who
are complete strangers to one another. Through the cooperative effort
of different persons, then, a cultural object often cornes into existence
which as a total unit is without a producer, since it did not spring forth
from the total self of any individual. The elements are coordinated as
if by a logic and formaI intention inherent in them as objective reali-
ties; their crea tors have not endowed them with any such logic and
intention. The objectivity of the spiritual content, which makes it inde-
pendent of its acceptance or non-acceptance can be attributed here to
the production process. Regardless of whether they were or were not
intended by individuals, the finished product contains contents which
can be transmitted through the cultural process. This is different only
in degree from a little child who, in playing with letters of the alphabet,
may order them accidentally into good sense. The meaning exists objec-
tively and concrete1y, no matter how naive1y it may have been produced.
If examined more close1y, this appears as an extreme1y radical case
of an otherwise general human-spiritual fate. Most products of our
intellectual creation contain a certain quota which was not produced
by ourse1ves. l do not mean unoriginality or the inheritance of values or
dependence on traditional examples. Even despite of all these, a given
work in its total content could still be born in our own consciousness
although the consciousness would thus only hand on what it had aIready
received. On the contrary, there is always something significant in most
of our objective efforts which other people can extract even though we
were not aware of having deposited it there. In sorne sense it is valid
to say that the weaver doesn't know what he weaves. The finished
effort con tains emphases, re1ationships, values which the worker did not
GEORG SIMME1.
intend. It is mysterious but unquestionably true: a material object takes

on a spiritual meaning not put into it but integral to the object's form.
Nature does not present this sort of problem. It is not the will of any art-
ist that has given purity of style to the southern mountains, or gripping
symbolism to a storrny ocean. The realm of the purely natural is endowed
with the potential for meaning: it has or can have a part in aIl intellec-
tuaI creations. The possibility of gaining a subjectively intellectual
content is invested in them as an objective forrn. In an extreme ex-
ample, a poet may have coined a puzzle with the intention of a certain
solution. If, now, a different solution is found for it which fits as well,
as meaningfully, as the intended one, then it will be exactly as "right"
even though it was absolutely alien to his creative processes. It is con-
tained within the created product as an idealized objectivity exact1y
as is the first word for which the puzzle originally had been created.
These potentialities of the objective spirit show that it possesses
an independent validity, an independent chance of becoming re-subjec-
tivized after its successful objectification, even when it was created by a
subjective spirit. This chance, however, does not need to be realized:
in the previous example, the second solution to the puzzle rightfully
exists in its objective meaning even before it is found, indeed, even
if it is never found. This peculiarity of the contents of culture is the
metaphysical foundation for the ominous independence by which the
realm of cultural products grows and grows as if an inner necessity
were producing one member after another. Frequently this happens
almost without relation to the will and personality of the proc1ucer and
independent of the acceptance by consumers.
The "fetishism" whichMarx assigned to economic commodities rep-
resents only a special case of this general fate of contents of culture.'
\Vith the increase in culture these contents more and more stand under
a paradox: they were originally created by subjects and for subjects:
but in their intermediate form of objectivity, which they take on in
addition to the two extreme instances, they follow an immanent logic
of development. In so doing they estrange themselves from their origin
as weIl as from their purpose. They are impelled not by physical neces-
sities, but by truly cultural ones (which, however, cannot pass over the
physical conditions). What drives for th the proc1ucts of the spirit is
the cultural and not the natural scientific logic of the objects. Herein
lies the fatefully immanent drive of aIl technology, as soon as it has
moved beyond the range of immec1iate consumption. Thus the indus-
trial production of a variety of products generates a series of closely
related by-products for which, properly speaking, there is no need. It
is only the compulsion for full utilization of the created equipment
that caUs for it. The technological process demands that it be com-
pleted by links which are not required by the psychic process. Thus vast
supplies of products come into existence which calI forth an artificial
demand that is senseless from the perspective of the subjects' culture.
In several branches of the sciences it is no different. On one hand,
for example, philological techniques have developed to an unsurpassable
finesse and methodological perfection. On the other hand, the study
of subject matter which would be of genuine interest to intellectual
culture does not replenish itself as quickly. Thus, the philological effort
frequently turns into micrology, pedantic efforts, and an elaboration of
the unessential into a method that runs on for its own sake, an exten-
sion of substantive norms whose independent path no longer coincides
with that of culture as a completion of life. The same problem arises
in the development of fine arts, where technical skills have developed
to such an extent that they are emancipated from serving the cultural
total purpose of art. By obeying only the indigenous materiallogic, the
technique at this point develops refinement after refinement. However,
these refinements represent only its perfection, no longer the cultural
meaning of art. That extreme and total specialization-of which there
are complaints nowadays in aH areas of labor, but which neverthe1ess
subordinates their progress under its laws with demonical rigor-is only
a special form of this very general cultural predicament. Objects, in
their development, have a logic of their own-not a conceptual one, nor
a natural one, but pure1y as cultural works of man; bound by their
own laws, they turn away from the direction by which they could join
the personal development of human souls. This is not that old familiar
intrusion of the realm of ultimate ends, not the primacy of technique
so often lamented in advanced cultures. That is something pure1y
psychological, without any firm re1ationship to the objective order of
things. Here, however, we are dealing with the immanent logic of
cultural phenomena. Man becomes the mere carrier of the force by
which this logic dominates their development and leads them on as if
in the tangent of the course through which they would return to the
cultural deve10pment of living human beings-this is similar to the
process by which because of strict adherence to logic our thoughts
are lead into theoretical consequences which are far removed from
those originaHy intended. This is the real tragedy of culture.
In general we caU a relationship tragic-in contrast to merely
sad or extrinsically destructive-when the destructive forces directed
against sorne being spring forth from the deepest leve1s of this very
being; or when its destruction has been initiated in itself, and forms
the logical deve10pment of the very structure by which a being has
built its own positive form. It is the concept of culture that the spirit
creates an innependent objectivity by which the development of the
43
GEORG SIMMEL
subject takes its path. In this process the integrating and culturally
conditioning element is restricted to an unique evolution which con-
tinues to use up the powers of other subjects, and to pull them into
its course without thereby raising them to their own apex. The devel-
opment of subjects cannot take the sa me path which is taken by that
of the objects. By following the latter, it loses itself either in a dead
end alley or in an emptiness of its innermost and most individual life.
Cultural development places the subject even more markedly outside
of itself through the formlessness and boundlessness which it imparts
to the objective spirit, because of the infinite number of its producers.
Everybody can contribute to the supply of objectified cultural contents
without any consideration for other contributors. This supply may have
a determined color during individual cultural epochs that is, from
within there may be a qualitative but not likewise quantitative bound-
ary. There is no reason why it should not be multiplied in the direc-
tion of the infinite, why not book should be added to book, work of
art to work of art, or invention to invention. The form of objectivity
as such possesses a boundless capacity for fulfillment. This voracious
capacity for accumulation is most deeply incompatible with the forms
of personal life. The receptive capa city of the self is limited not only
by the force and length of life, but also through a certain unit y and
relative compactness of its form. Therefore, the self selects, with deter-
mined limits from among the contents which offer themselves as means
for its individual development. The individual might pass by what
his self-development cannot assimilate, but this does not always suc-
ceed so easily. The infinitely growing supply of objectified spirit places
demands before the subject, creates desires in him, hits him with
feelings of individual inadequacy and helplessness, throws him into
total relationships from whose impact he cannot withdraw, although
he cannot mas ter their particular contents. Thus, the typically prob-
lematic situation of modern man cornes into being: his sense of being
surrounded by an innumerable number of cultural elements which are
neither meaningless to him nor, in the final analysis, meaningful. In
their mass they depress him, since he is not capable of assimilating them
aIl, nor can he sim ply reject them, since after aIl, they do belong poten-
tially within the sphere of his cultural development. This could be
characterized with the exact reversaI of the words that refer to the
first Franciscan monks in their spiritual poverty, their absolute freedom
from aIl things which wanted to divert the path of their souls: Nihil
habentes, omnia possidentes (those who have nothing own every-
thing). Instead man has bec orne richer and more overloaded: Cultures
omnia habentes, nihil possidentes (cultures which have everything own
nothing) .
These experiences have already been discussed in various fOl"ms.
44
(1 have elaborated them in my Philosophy of Money for a larger num-

ber of concrete historical fields. )What we want to bring out here is
their deep roots in the concept of culture. The total wealth of this
concept consists in the fact that objective phenomena are inc1uded in
the process of development of subjects, as ways or means, without
thereby losing their objectivity. Whether this does in fact bring the
subject to the highest degree of perfection may remain an open ques-
tion. In any case, the metaphysical intention which attempts to unify
the principles of the subject and of the object finds here a guarantee of
its success: the metaphysical question finds an historical answer. In
cultural forms, the spirit reaches an objectivity which makes it at once
independent of aIl accidents of subjective reproductions, and yet usable
for the central purpose of subjective perfection. While the metaphysical
answers to this question in general tend to cut it off by somehow dem-
onstrating that the subject-object contrast is unimportant, culture
insists on the full opposition of the parties, on the super-subjective logie
of spiritually formed objects through which the subject raises itseIf
beyond itself to itself.
One of the basic capaeities of the spirit is to separate itself from
itself-to create forms, ideas and values that oppose it, and only in this
form to gain consciousness of itself. This capacity has reached its widest
extent in the pro cess of culture. Here the spirit has pressed the object
most energetically towards the subjeet, in order to lead it back into the
subject. But this liaison dissolves because of the objeet's indigenous
logic, through which the subject regains itseIf as more adequate and
perfeeted. The tendeney of creative people to think not about the cul-
tural value of their work, but about its substantive meaning whieh is
circumscribed by its unique idea, develops logically but almost imper-
ceptibility into caricature, into a form of specialization which is sec1uded
from life, into a purely teehnical (and technological) self-satisfaction
which does not find its path back to man. This objectivity makes pos-
sible the division of labor, whieh collects the energies of a whole eom-
plex of personalities in a single produet, without considering whether
individuals will be able to use it for their own development, or whether
it will satisfy only extrinsie and peripheral needs. Herein lies the deeper
rationale for the ideals of Ruskin to replace aIl faetory labor by the
artistie labor of individuals.
The division of labor separates the product as sueh from each
individual eontributor. Standing by itself, as an independent object,
it is suitable to subordinate itself into an order of phenomena, or to
serve an individual's purposes. Thereby, however, it loses that inner
animation which can only be given to a total work by a complete
human being, which carries its usefulness into the spiritual center of
other individuals. A work of art is such an immeasurable cultural value
45
GEORG SIMMEL
precise1y because it is inaccessible to any division of labor, because the

created product preserves the creator to the innermost degree.
What in Ruskin's work might appear as a hatred of culture in
reality is a passion for culture. He wants to reverse the division of
labor which, by emptying cultural content of its subject, and giving it
an inanimate objectivity, tears it from the genuine1y cultural process.
The tragic deve10pment which ties culture to the objectivity of con-
tents, but charges the contents with a logic of their own, and thus
withdraws them from cultural assimilation by subjects, is now evident
to everyone who observes the infinite potential for multiplying the con-
tents of the objective spirit at random. Since culture does not possess
a concrete unit y of form for its contents, and since each creator places
his product as if in an unbounded space next to that of the other, the
mass character of phenomena cornes into existence. Everything daims
with a certain right to be of cultural value, and crea tes in us a wish
thus to utilize it. The lack of unity in the objectified spirit perrnits
it a deve10pmental tempo behind which the subjective spirit must in-
creasingly lag. The subjective spirit, meanwhile, does not know how
it can completely protect its unity of form from the touch and the
temptation of aU these "things." The superior force of the object over
the subject, so general in the course of the world, temporarily checked
by the fortunate balance we caU culture, can once again be felt as the
objective spirit deve10ps unboundedly. The adornment and overload-
ing of our lives with a thousand superfluous items, from which, how-
ever, we cannot liberate ourselves; the continuo us "stimulation" of
civilized man who in spite of aU this is not stimulated to expressions
of individual creativity; the more acquaintance with or enjoyrnent of a
thousand things which our development cannot indude and which stay
in it only as ballast-aU these long-Iamented cultural i11s are nothing
more than reflections of the emancipation of the objectified spirit. Thus
cultural contents are bound to foUow a logic which eventually is inde-
pendent of their cultural purpose, and which continuously leads them
further away from it. The situation is tragic: even in its first moments
of existence, culture carries something within itself which, as if by an
intrinsic fate, is deterrnined to block, to burden, ta obscure and divide
its innermost purpose, the transition of the soul from its incomplete
to its complete state.
The great enterprise of the spirit succeeds innumerable times in
overcoming the object as such by making an object of itself, returning
to itself enriched by its creation. But the spirit has to pay for this self-
perfection with the tragic potential that a logic and dynamic is in-
evitably created by the unique laws of its own world which increasingly
separa tes the contents of culture from its essential meaning and value.
A Chapter ln the Philosophy cf Value*
HE FACT OF ECONOMIC EXCHANGE confers upon the value of things

something super-individual. It detaches them fronl dissolution
in the mere subjectivity of the agents, and causes him to determine
each other reciprocally, sinee each exerts its economic function in the
other. The practically effective value is conferred upon the object, not
merely by its own desirability, but by the desirability of another object.
Not merely the relationship to the receptive subjects characterizes this
value, but also the fact that it arrives at this relationship only at the
price of a sacrifice; while from the opposite point of view this sacrifice
appears as a good to be enjoyed, and the object in question, on the
contrary, as a sacrifice. Hence the objects acquire a reciprocity of coun-
terweight, which makes value appear in a quite special nlanner as an
objective quality indwelling in themselves. While the object itself is
the thing in controversy-which means that the sacrifice which it repre-
sents is being determined-its significance for both contracting parties
appears much more as something outside of these latter and self-existent
than if the individual thought of it only in its relation to himself. We
sha11 see later how also isolated industry, by placing the workman over
against the demands of nature, imposes upon him the like necessity of
sacrifice for gaining of the object, so that in this case a1so the like rela-
tionship, with the one exception that only a single party has been
changed, may endow the object with the same independent qualities,
yet with their significance dependent upon its own objective conditions.
Desire and the feeling of the agent stand, to be sure, as the motor
energy behind an this, but from this in and of itself this value form
* Reprinted from The American Journal of Sociology, V (5): 577-603, 1900.
The translation corresponds closely to Part II of Chapter l of the 1907 edition of
PhilosoPhie des Geldes.
47
GEORG SIMMEL
could not proceed. It rather cornes only from the reciprocal counter-·
balancing of the objects.
To be sure, in order that equivalence and exchange of values may
emerge, sorne material to which value can aUach must be at the basis.
For industry as such the fact that these materials are equivalent to each
other and exchangeable is the turning point. It guides the stream of
appraisal through the form of exchange, at the same time creating a
middle realm between desires, in which an human movement has its
source, and the satisfaction of enjoyment in which it culminates. The
specific character of economic activity as a special form of commerce
exists, if we may venture the paradox, not so much in the fact that it
exchanges values as that it exchanges values. To be sure, the significance
which things gain in and with exchange never rests isolated by the side
of their subjective immediate significance, that is, the one originally
decisive of the relationship. It is rather the case that the two belong
together, as form and content connote each other. But the objective
procedure makes an abstraction, so to speak, from the fact that values
constitute its material, and derives its peculiar character from the equal-
ity of the same-somewhat as geometry finds its tasks only in connection
with the magnitude-relations of things, without bringing into its con-
sideration the substances in connection with which alone these rela-
tionships actually have existence. That thus not only reflection upon
industry, but industry itself, consists, so to speak, in a real abstraction
from the surrounding actuality of the appraising pro cesses is not so
wonderful as it at first appears when we once make dear to ourselves
how extensively human practice, cognition induded, reckons with ab-
stractions. The energies, relationships, qualities of things-to which
in so far as our own proper essence also belongs-constitute objectively a
unified interrelationship, which is divided into a multiplicity of inde-
pendent series or motives only after the interposition of our interests,
and in order to be manipula ted by us. Accordingly, each science inves-
tigates phenomena which possess an exclusive unit y, and dean-cut
lines of division from the problems of other sciences, only from the
point of view which the special science proposes as its own. Reality,
on the other hand, has no regard to these boundary lines, but every sec-
tion of the world presents a conglomeration of tasks for the most numer-
ous sciences. Likewise, our practice dissects one-sided series from the
external or internaI complexity of things. Notice, for example, into how
many systems a forest is divided. These in turn become objects of
special interest to a hunter, a proprietor, a poet, a painter, a civic offi-
cial, a botanist, and a tourist. The forest is objectively always the same.
It is a real, indivisible unit y of all the determinations and relationships
out of which the interested parties each select a certain group, and
make it into a picture of the forest. The same is the case with the great
systems of interest of which a civilization is composed. We distinguish,
for instance, interests and re1ationships as the ethical, the egoistic, the
economic, the domestic, etc. The reciprocal weaving together of these
constitutes actual life. Certain of these, however, dissociated from this
concrete reality, constitute the content of the civic structure. The
state is an abstraction of energies and reciprocal actions which, in the
concrete, exist only within a unity that is not separable into its parts.
Again, in like manner, pedagogy abstracts from the web of cosmic con-
tents certain items into the totality of which the pupil is subsequently to
enter, and forms them into a wodd which is completely abstract, in
comparison with reality. In this world the pupil is to live. To what
extent an art runs a division line of its own through the conditions of
things, in addition to those that are traced out in the real structure
of the objective world, needs no elaboration. In opposition to that
naturalism which wanted to lead art away from the selective abstrac-
tion, and to open to it the whole breadth and unity of reality, in which
aIl e1ements have equally rights, in so far as they are actual-precisely
in opposition to this has criticism shown the complete impracticability
of the tendency; and that even the extremest purpose, to be satisfied
in art only with undifferentiated completeness of the object, must at
last end in an abstraction. It will merely be the product of another
selective principle. Accordingly, this is one of the formulas in which
we may express the relation of man to the wodd, viz., from the unity
and the interpenetration of things in which each bears the other and
aIl have equal rights. Gur practice, no less than our theory, constantly
abstracts isolated e1ements, and forms them into unities re1atively
complete in themselves. Except in quite general feelings, we have no
re1ationship to the totality of being. Gnly when in obedience to the
necessities of our thought and action we derive perpetuaI abstractions
from phenomena, and endow these with the relative independence of
a merely subjective coherence to which the continuity of the world-
movement as objective gives no room, do we reach a relationship to
the world that is definite in its details. lndeed, we may adopt a scale
of values for our culture systems, according to the degree in which
they combine the demands of our singular purposes with the possi-
bility of passing over without a gap from each abstraction which they
present to the other, so that a subsequent combination is possible
which approxima tes that objective coherence and unity. Accordingly,
the economic system of the wodd is assuredly founded upon an abstrac-
tion, that is, upon the relation of reciprocity and exchange, the balance
between sacrifice and gain; while in the actual process in which this
takes place it is inseparably amalgamated with its foundations and its
49
GEORG SIM MEL
results, the desires and the satisfactions. But this fonn of existence
does not distinguish it from the other territories into which, for the
purposes of our interests, we subdivide the totality of phenomena.
The objectivity of economic value which we assume as defining
the scope of economics, and which is thought as the independent char-
acteristic of the same in distinction from its subjective vehicles and
consequences, consists in its being true of many, or rather all, subjects.
The decisive factor is its extension in principle beyond the individual.
The fact that for one object another must be given shows that not
merely for me, but also for itself, that is, also for another person, the
object is of sorne value. The appraisal takes place in the form of eco-
nomic value.
The exchange of objects, moreover, in which this objectivication,
and therewith the specifie character of economic activity, realizes itself
belongs, from the standpoint of each of the contracting parties, in the
quite general category of gain and loss, purpose and means. If any
object over which we have control is to he1p us to the possession or
enjoyrnent of another, it is generally under the condition that we forego
the enjoyrnent of its own peculiar worth. As a rule the purpose con-
sumes either the substance or the force of the means, so that the value
of the same constitutes the price which must be paid for the value of
the purpose. As a rule, only within certain spiritual interests is that not
the case. The mind has been properly compared to a fire, in which
countless candIes may be lighted without loss of its own peculiar inten-
sity. For example, intellectual products sometimes (not always) retain
for purposes of instruction their own worth, which do es not lose any
of its independent energy and significance by functioning as means ta
the pedagogical end. In the case of causal series in external nature,
however, the re1ationship is usually different. Here must the object,
if it is conceived on the one hand as immediate1y valuable, and on
the other hand, as means to the attainment of another value, be sac-
rificed as a value in itself, in order to perform its office as means. This
procedure rules aIl values the enjoyrnent of which is connected with a
conscious action on our part. What we call exchange is obviously noth-
ing but a special case of this typical form in human life. We must
regard this, however, not mere1y as a placing of exchange in the universal
category of creation of value; but, converse1y, this latter as an exchange
in the wider sense of the word. This possibility, which has so many
consequences for the theory of value, will become clear by the discus-
sion of the doctrine that all economic value consists in exchange value.
To this theory the objection has been made that even the quite
isolated economic man-he who neither sells nor buys-must estimate
his products and means of production according to their value, if
THE CONFLICT IN l\IODERN CULTURE AND OTHER ESSAYS
expenditures and results are to stand in proper relation to each other.

This objection, however, is not so striking as it appears, for aIl con-
sideration wh ether a definite product is worth enough to justify a defi-
nite expenditure of labor or other goods is, for the economic agent,
precisely the same as the appraisal which takes place in connection
with exchange. In confronting the concept "exchange" there is fre-
quently the confusion of ideas which consists in speaking of a re1a-
tionship as though it were something apart from the elements between
which it plays. It means, however, only a condition or a change within
each of these elements. There is nothing between them in the sense
of a spatial object that can be distinguished in space between two other
objects. When we compose the two acts or changes of condition which
in reality take place into the notion "exchange," the conception is
attractive that something has happened in addition to or beyond that
which took place in each of the contracting parties. Considered with
reference to its immediate content, exchange is nothing but the twofold
repetition of the fact that an actor now has something which he previ-
ously did not have, and on the other hand does not have something
which he previously had. That being the case, the isolated economic
man, who surely must make a sacrifice to gain certain products, acts
precisely like the one who makes exchanges. The only difference is
that the party with whom he contracts is not a second sentient being,
but the natural order and regularity of things, which no more satisfy
our desires without a sacrifice on our part than would another person.
His appraisals of value, in accordance with which he governs his actions,
are, as a rule, precisely the same as in the case of exchange; for the eco-
nomic actor, as such, it is surely quite immaterial whether the sub-
stances or labor energies in his possession are sunk in the ground or
given to another man, if only there accrues to him the sa me result from
the sacrifice. This subjective pro cess of sacrifice and gain in the indi-
vidual soul is by no means something secondary or imitative in com-
parison with inter-individual exchange; on the contrary, the give-and-take
between sacrifice and accomplishment, within the individual, is the
basal presumption, and at the same time the persistent substance, of
every two-sided exchange. The latter is merely a sub-species of the
former; that is, the sort in which the sacrifice is occasioned by the de-
mand of another individual. At the same time, it can only be occasioned
by the same sort of result for the actor so far as objects and their quali-
ties are concerned. It is of extreme importance to make this reduction
of the economic process to that which actually takes place, that is, in
the soul of every economic agent. We must not allow ourselves to be
deceived about the essential thing by the fact that in the case of ex-
change this pro cess is reciprocal-that is, that it is conditioned by thp
GEORG SIMMEL
like procedure in another. The main thing is that the natural and
solitary economic transaction, if we may conceive of such a thing, runs
back to the same fundamental form as two-sided exchange, to the
pro cess of equalization between two subjective occurrences within the
individual. This is in its proper essence not affected by the secondary
question whether the impulse to the pro cess proceeds from the nature
of things or the nature of man, whether it is a matter of purely natural
economy or of exchange economy. AIl feelings of value, in other words,
which are set free by producible objects are in general to be gained only
by foregoing other values. At the same time, such sacrifice may consist,
not only in that mediate labor for ourse1ves which appears as labor for
others, but frequently enough in that quite immediate labor for our own
personal purposes.
Moreover, those theories of value which discover in labor the
absolute element of value accommoda te themse1ves to this form of
conception as to the higher and more abstract idea.Whoever labors
sacrifices something which he possesses-his labor-power, or his leisure,
or his pleasure mere1y in the self-satisfying play of his powers-in order
to get in exchange for these something which he does not possess.
Through the fact that labor accomplishes this, it acquires value, just as,
on the other side, the attained object is valuable for the reason that it
has cost labor. In so far there is not the slightest ground to give labor
a special position as contrasted with aIl other conditions of value. The
difference between these is only of a quantitative nature. Labor is the
most frequent object of exchange. In this assertion we forbear to enter
into the discussion whether labor or labor power, and in what form,
constitute an object of exchange. Because labor is regarded as a sacrifice,
as something painful, it is performed only when an object can be secured
by it which corresponds to the eudœmonistic or sorne other demand. If
labor were nothing but pleasure, the products that it wrings from nature
would have no value whatever, provided we disregard the difference in
abundance of objects. On the contrary, if objects that satisfy our desires
came to us of their own accord, labor would have no more value. Thus
on the whole we may say that, considered from the standpoint of value,
every economic transaction is an exchange, and every single article of
value furnishes its additional quota to the total value of life only after
deduction of a certain sacrificed quantum of value.
In aIl the foregoing it is presupposed that a definite scale of value
exists in the case of the objects, and that each of the two objects con-
cerned in the transaction signifies, for the one contracting party the
desired gain, for the other the necessary sacrifice. But this presumption
is, as a matter of fact, much too simple. If, as is necessary, we regard
economic activity as a special case of the universallife form of exchange,
as a sacrifice in return for a gain, we shan from the beginning suspect

something of what takes place within this form, namely, that the value
of the gain is not, so to speak, brought with it, ready-made, but it ac-
crues to the desired object, in part or even entirely, through the measure
of the sacrifice demanded in acquiring it. These cases, which are as
frequent as they are important for the theory of value, seem to harbor
an essential contradiction, to be sure, for they require us to make
a sacrifice of value for things which in themselves are worthless. As a
matter of course, no one would forego value without receiving for it at
least equal value; and, on the contrary, that the end should receive its
value only through the price that we must give, for it could be the case
only in a crazy world. This is now, for immediate consciousness, correct.
Indeed, it is more correct than that popular standpoint is apt to allow
in other cases. As a matter of fact, the value which an actor surrenders
for another value can never be greater for this actor himself, under the
actual circumstances of the moment, than the one for which it is given.
AlI contrary appearances rest upon confusion of the value actually
estimated by the actor with the value which the object of exchange in
question usually has. For instance, when one at the point of death
from hunger offers a jewe1 for a piece of bread, he does it only because
the latter, under the given circumstances, is of more value to him than
the former. Particular circumstances, however, are necessary in order
to attach to an object a valuation, for every such valuation is an incident
of the whole complex system of our feelings, which is in constant flux,
adaptation, and reconstruction. Whether these circumstances are ex-
ceptional or re1ative1y constant is obviously in principle a matter of
indifference. There can be no doubt, at any rate, that in the moment
of the exchange, that is, of the making of the sacrifice, the value of the
exchanged object forrns the limit which is the highest point to which
the value of the sacrificed object can rise. Quite independent of this is
the question whence that former object derives its sa necessary value,
and whether it may corne from the objects that are to be sacrificed for
it, so that the equivalence between gain and priee would be established
at once a posteriori, and by the latter. We shaH see presently how often
value cornes into existence, psychologically, in this apparently illogical
manner. If, however, it is once in existence, the psychological necessity
exists in its case, not less than in that of value constituted in any other
way, of regarding it as a positive good at least equal to the negative
good sacrificed for it. In fa ct, there is a series of cases in which the
sacrifice not mere1y raises the value of the aim, but even pro duces it.
It is the joy of exertion, of overcoming difficulties, frequently indeed
that of contradiction, which expresses itself in this process. The neces-
sary detour to the aUainment of certain things is often the occasion,
53
GEORG SIMl\'fEL
often also the cause, of regarding them as valuable. In the relationships

of men to each other, most frequently and evidently in erotic relations,
we notice how reserve, indifference, or repulse inflames the most pas-
sionate desire to conquer in spite of these obstacles, and spurs us to
efforts and sacrifices which, without these obstacles, would surely seem
to us excessive. For many people the resthetic results of ascending the
high Alps would not be considered worth further notice, if it did not
demand extraordinary effort and danger, and if it did not thereby acquire
tone, attractiveness, and consecration. The chaml of antiquities and
curiosities is frequently no other. If no sort of resthetic or historical
interest attaches to them, a substitute for it is furnished by the mere
difficulty of acquiring them. They are worth just what they cost. This,
then, appears secondarily to mean that they cost what they are worth.
Furthermore, aIl moral merit signifies that for the sake of the morally
desirable deed contrary impulses and wishes must be fought down and
sacrificed. If the act occurs without any conquest, as the matter-of-
course outflow of unrestrained impulse, it is not appraised so high in
the scale of subjective moral value, however desirable objectively its
content may be. In this latter case we are not moral in any sense other
than the flower is beautiful; we do not reckon the beauty of the flower
as an ethical merit. Only through the sacrifice of the lower and still so
seductive good is the height of moral merit attained, and a more lofty
height, the more attractive the temptation and the deeper and more
comprehensive the sacrifice. We might array illustrations, beginning
with the ordinary selfishness of the day, the overcoming of which alone
rewards us with the consciousness of being somewhat worthy, and rising
to that force of logic whose sacrifice in favor of belief in the absurd
seemed to the schoolmen an extreme religious merit. If we observe
which human achievements attain to the highest honors and appraisals,
we find it to be always those which betray a maximum of humility,
effort, persistent concentration of the whole being, or at least seem to
betray these. In other words, they seem to manifest the most self-denial,
sacrifice of aIl that is subsidiary, and devotion of the subjective to the
objective ideal. And if, in contrast with aIl this, resthetic production
and everything easy, inviting, springing from the naturalness of impulse,
unfolds an incomparable charm, this owes its special quality still to the
undefined feeling of the burdens and sacrifices which are usually the
condition of gaining such things. The mobility and inexhaustible power
of combination of our mental content frequently brings it about that
the significance of a correlation is carried over to its direct converse,
somewhat as the association between two ideas occurs equally when they
are asserted or denied of each other. The specifie value of anything
which we gain without conquered difliculty and as the gift of fortunate
54
THE CONFLICT IN IVIODERN CULTURE AND OTHER ESSAYS
accident is fe1t by us only on the ground of the significance which the

things have for us that are gained with difficulty and measured by
sacrifice. It is the same value, but with the negative sign, and this is
the primary from which the other may be derived; but the reverse is
not the case.
If we look for an occurrence of this relationship within the eco-
nomic realm, it seems to be demanded, in the first place, that we sha11
in thought separate the economic element, as a specific difference or
form, from the fact of value as the universality of the substance of the
same. If for the present we take value as a datum, and not now to be
discussed, it is at least, in accordance with aU the foregoing, not doubt-
fuI that economic value as such do es not accrue to an object in its
isolated self-existence, but only through the employment of another
object which is given for it. Wild fruit picked without effort, and not
given in exchange, but immediate1y consumed, is no economic good. It
can count as such only when its consumption saves sorne other sort of
economic expense. If, however, aIl the demands of life were to be
satisfied in this fashion, so that no sacrifice was at any point necessary,
men would simply not engage in industry, any more than do the birds
or the fishes, or the denizens of fairyland. Whatever be the way in
which the two objects, A and B, came to have value, A came to have
an economic value only through the fact that 1 must give B for it, B
only through the fact that 1 can receive A for it. In this case, as above
stated, it is in principle indifferent whether the sacrifice takes place by
means of the transfer of a thing of value to another person, that is,
through inter··individual exchange, or within the circ1e of the individual's
own interests, through a balancing of efforts and results. In the articles
of commerce there is nothing to be found but the significance which
each has, direct1y or indirectly, for our need to consume, and the give-
and-take that occurs between them. Since, now, as we have seen, the
former does not of itself suffice to make the given object an object of
economic activity, it foIlows that the latter alone can supply to it the
specific difference which we calI economic.
If thus, under the pre1iminary assumption of an existing value, the
economic character of the same coincides with the offer of another
object for it, and of it for the other object, there arises the further
question whether this separation between the value and its economic
form is necessary and possible. As a matter of fa ct, this artificially di-
viding abstraction finds in reality no counterpart. In the economic
value the economic is as little sundered from the value as in the eco-
nomic man the economist is sundered from the man. To be sure, man
is possible in times and relations in which he does not pursue economic
activity. The latter, however, is not possible without being accomplished
55
GEORG SIMMEL
by men 7 in absolute unity with them, and only in unreal conceptual

abstraction is it to he sundered from them. Thus there are enough
objects of value which are not economic7 but there are no objects of
economic value which are not also valuable in every relation in which
they are economic. What is true of the economic as such is, therefore,
true of the values of industry, as every condition or quality or function
is necessarily a condition or quality or function of that general object
to which this quality or function pertains. The economic form of the
value stands between two boundaries: on the one hand, the desire for
the object, which attaches itself to the anticipated feeling of satisfaction
from its possession and enjoyment; on the other hand, to this enjoyment
itself, which, exactly considered, is not an economic act. That is, as
soon as we concede that immediate consumption of wild fruits is not
an economic procedure, and therefore the fruits themselves have no
economic value (except in so far as they save the production of eco-
nomic values), then the consumption of values properly economic is no
longer economic, for the act of consumption, in this last case, is not to
be distinguished absolutely from that in the first case. Whether the
fruit which one eats has been found accidentally, or stolen or bought,
makes not the slightest difference in the act of eating itself and in its
direct consequences for the eater. Between desire and consumption
lies the economic realm in unnumbered interrelationships. Now, eco-
nomic activity appears to be an equalization of sacrifices and gains (of
forces or objects), a mere form in the sense that it presupposes values as
its content, in order to be able to draw them into the equalizing move-
ment. But this appearance is not invincible. It will rather appear that
the same process which constructs into an industrial system the values
given as presuppositions itself produces the economic values.
To see this we need only remind ourselves in principle of the fact
that the object is for us not a thing of value, so long as it is dissolved
in the subjective process as an immediate stimulator of feelings, and
thus at the same time is a self-evident competence of our sensibility.
The object must first be detached from this sensibility, in order to
acquire for our understanding the peculiar significance which we caU
value. For it is not only sure that des ire, in and of itself, can never
establish a value if it does not encounter obstacles. But if every desire
could find its satisfaction without struggle and without diminution, an
economic exchange of values would never come into existence. Indeed,
desire itself would never have arisen to any considerable height if it
could satisfy itself thus. It is only the postponement of the satisfaction
through obstacles, the anxiety lest the object may escape, the tension
of struggle for it, which brings into existence that aggregate of desire
elements which may be designated as intensity or passion of volition.
THE CONF'LICT IN MODERN CULTURE AND OTHER ESSAYS
If, however, even the highest energy of desire were generated wholly
from within, yet we wOllld not accord value to the object which satisfies
the desire if it carne to us in unlimited abundance. The important thing,
in that case, would be the total enjoyment, the existence of which
guarantees to us the satisfaction of our wishes, but not that particular
quantum of which we actually take possession, because this could be
replaced qui te as easily by another. Our consciousness would in this
case simply be filled with the rhythm of the subjective desires and satis-
factions, without attaching any significance to the object mediating
the satisfaction. The des ire, therefore, which on its part came into
existence only through an absence of feelings of satisfaction, a condition
of want or limitation, is the psychological expression of the distance
between the subject and the object which transmutes the subjective
This distance necessary to the consequence in question is produced
in certain cases by exchange, sacrifice, abstinence from objects; that is,
in a word, the foregoing of feelings of satisfaction. This takes place,
now, in the form of traffic cotemporaneolls between two actors, each of
whom requires of the other the abstinence in question as condition of
the feeling of satisfaction. The feeling of satisfaction, as must be re-
peatedly emphasized, would not place itself in antithesis with its object
as a value in our consciousness if the value were always near to us, so
that we should have no occasion to separate the object from that con-
sequence in us which is alone interesting. Through exchange, that is,
through the economic system, there arise at the same time the values
of industry, because exchange is the vehic1e or producer of the distance
between the subject and the object which transmutes the subjective
state of feeling into objective valuation. Kant once summarized his
Theory of Knowledge in the proposition: "The conditions of experience
are at the sa me time the conditions of the objects of experience." By
this he meant that the pro cess which we calI experience and the con-
ceptions which constitute its contents or objects are subject to the self-
same laws of the reason. The objects can come into our experience,
that is, be experienced by us, because they are conceptions in us; and
the same energy which makes and defines the experience has also mani-
fested itself in the structure of the objects. In the same sense we may
say here: The possibility of the economic system is, at the same time,
the possibility of economic objects. The very procedure between two
possessors of objects (substances, labor powers, rights, exchangeabilities
of any sort), which procedure brings them into the so-called economic
relationship, namely, reciprocal dedication, at the same time raises each
of these objects into the category of values. The difficulty which threat-
ens from the side of logic, namely, that the values must first exist, and
exist as values, in order to enter into the form and movement of in-
57
GEORG SIMMEL
dustry, is now obviated, by means of the perceived significance of

the psychical relationship which we designated as the distance between
us and the thing. This differentiates the original subjective state of
feeling into, first, the desiring subject anticipating the feelings, and
second, the object in antithesis with the subject, containing in itself
the value; while the distance, on its side, is produced by exchange, that
is, by the two-sided operation of limitations, restriction, abstinence. The
values of industry emerge, therefore, in the same reciprocity and relativ-
ity in which the economic character of values consists.
This transference of the idea of economic value from the character
of isolating substantiality into the living pro cess of relation may be
further explained on the ground of those factors which we are accus-
tomed to regard as the constituents of value, namely, availability and
rarity. Availability appears here as the first condition, based upon the
constitution of the indus trial actor, under which alone an object can
under any circumstances come into question in economics. At the sa me
time it is the presupposition of economic activity. In order that the
value may reach a given degree, rarity must be associated with availabiI-
ity, as a characteristic of the objects themselves. If we wish to fix
economic values through demand and supply, demand would correspond
with availability, supply with rarity. For the availability would decide
whether we demand the object at aIl, the rarity the price which we are
compelled to pay. The availability serves as the absolute constituent
of the economic-as that the extent of which must be determined in
order that it may come into the course of economic exchange. We rrmst
from the beginning concede rarity as a merely relative element, since it
means exclusively the quantitative relation in which the object in ques-
tion stands to the existing aggregate of its kind; the qualitative nature
of the object is not touched by its rarity. The availability, however,
seems to exist before an economic action, aIl comparison, an relation
with other objects, and as the substantial factor of economic activity,
whose movements are dependent upon itself.
The circumstance whose efficacy is herewith outlined is not cor-
rectly designated by the notion of utility or serviceableness. What we
mean in reality is the fact that the object is desired. AlI availability is,
therefore, not in a situation to occasion economic operations with the
object possessing the quality, if the availability does not at the same
time have as a consequence that the objects are desired. As a matter
of fact, this does not always occur. Any wish whatever may accord with
any conception of things useful to us; actual desire, however, which
has economic significance and which sets our acts in motion, is not
present in such wishes, in case long poverty, constitutional laziness,
diversion into other regions of interest, indifference of feeling toward the
theoretically recognized utility, perceived impossibility of attaining

the desired object, and other positive and negative elements work in
the contrary direction. On the other hand, many sorts of things are
desired by us, and also economically valued, which we cannot designate
as useful or available without arbitrary distortion of verbal usage. Since,
however, not everything that is available is also desired, if we decide to
subsume everything that is economically desired under the concept of
ttavailability," it is logically demanded that we shaH make the fact of
being desired the definitively decisive element for economic movement.
Even with this correction the criterion is not absolu te, totally separable
from the relativity of valuation. In the first place, as we saw above, the
desire itself does not come to conscious definiteness unless obstacles,
difficulties, interpose themselves between the object and the subject.
We do not desire actually until enjoyment of the object measures itself
upon intermediaries, where at least the price of patience, of resignment
of other exertion or enjoyment, places at a distance from us the object
to conquer which is the essence of desire for it. Its economic value
now, second, which rises upon the basis of its being desired, can consist
only in heightening or sublimating of that relativity which resides in
desire. For the desired object does not pass into practical value, that is,
into value that enters into the industrial movement, until its desirability
is compared with that of another object, and thereby acquires a measure.
Only when a second object is present, with reference to which 1 am
sure that 1 am willing to give it for the first object, or vice versa, has
each of the two an assignable economic value. The mere desire for an
object does not lead to this valuation, since it finds in itself alone no
measure. Only the comparison of desires, that is, the exchangeability of
their objects, fixes each of the sa me as a value defined in accordance
with its scale, that is, an economic value. The intensity of the individual
desire, in and of itself, need not have a cumulative effect upon the
economic value of the object, for since the latter cornes to expression
only in exchange, desire can determine it only insofar as it modifies
the exchange. If now 1 desire an object very intensely, its exchange value
is not thereby determined, for either 1 have the object not yet in my
possession (in which case my desire, if 1 do not manifest it, can exert
no influence upon the demand of the present possessor; he will rather
adjust his claims according to the measure of his own interest in the
object, or in accordance with his suppositions with reference to average
interest), or, 1 have the object in my possession (in which case my terms
will be either so high that the object is entirely excluded from exchange,
in which instance it is to that extent no longer an economic value, or
my demands must faH to the measure of the interest which a calculating
person takes in the object). The decisive factor is this: That the eco-
59
GEORG SIMMEL
nomic, practically effective value is never a value in the abstract, but

rather in its essence and idea a determined quantum of value; that this
quantity in general can come into existence only through Ineasurements
of two intensities of desire against each other; that the form in which
this measurement takes place within the indus trial system is that of
reciprocal gain and sacrifice; that consequently the economic object does
not, as superficially appears, possess in its desirability an absolute e1ement
of value, but rather that this fact of being desired operates to give the
object a value exc1usive1y as being the foundation or the material of an
actual or putative exchange.
Even in case we derive the valuation of objects from an absolute
motive, name1y, the labor expended upon them, and even if we assert
that the value of goods is in inverse ratio to the productive capacity of
the labor, yet we must still recognize the determination of the value of
the objects as purely reciprocal, instead of a derivative from a single
absolute standard. This being admitted, there arises the following re-
lationship: A pair of boots has at a given time the same value as twenty
meters of shirting. If now, through a new arrangement, the total labor
demanded for the boots falls to one-haH, they are worth only ten meters
of shirting. Suppose now the labor time demanded for shirting is re-
duced one-haH by improved machinery; the boots will then once more
be the equivalent to twenty meters of shirting. If, again, the correspond-
ing improvement affects aIl the laborers, and no goods are introduced
which affect the re1a tions between them, the two articles remain un-
changed in their value as expressed in terms of each other. The change
in the productive power of labor has an influence upon the value of
the products only when it affects isolated portions of the economic
organism, but not when it affects the organism as a whole. However
we may exert ourse1ves, therefore, to express the value of the object
through an absolute quantitative symbol, however qualified, it remains
still only the relation, in which the various wares participate in this
vehic1e of value, which determines the value of each. Even under that
presupposition, it is for the value of the separate objects as individuals
wholly irrelevant how much or how little labor is invested in them.
Gnly insofar as it is a quantity of labor greater or less in comparison
with the quantity of labor invested in another object does each of the
two acquire an economically effective value. But for the same reason
it is, on the other hand, also unwarranted to complain at absence of the
necessary stability of value in the daily wage of labor-by which ex-
pression it is implied that the average return of a day's labor is a value-
unity. That accusation is founded on the fact that the labor day
constantly increases in productivity and power in exchange. Assuming,
however, for the moment that labor is the one creator of value, the
60
value of the time-unit of labor for the purpose of exchange of related

goods is always the same; although, absolutely considered, it has in-
creased, and corresponds to a larger quantum of each separate product.
Since the reciprocal relation of the goods has remained the same, the
relation of the labor time to each is the same as to the others. It may,
therefore, remain, for the purpose of reckoning their relative values, a
constant term.
This relativity of value, in consequence of which the given things
stimulating feeling and desire come to be values only in the reciprocity
of the give-and-take process, appears to lead to the consequence that
value is nothing but the priee, and that between the two objects no
differences of scale can exist. Consequently, the frequent fa11ing away
of the two from each other would refute the theory. Against that un-
deniable fact of varying ratio our theory asserts, to be sure, that there
would never have been such a thing as a value if the universal phenom-
enon which we calI priee had not emerged. That a thing is worth some-
thing in a purely economic sense means that it is worth something to
me, that is, that 1 am ready to give something for it. What in the
world can move us to go beyond that naive subjective enjoyment of the
things themselves, and to credit to them that peculiar significance which
we caU their value? This certainly cannot come from their scarcity in
and of itseIf, for if this existed simply as a fact, and were not in sorne
way or other modifiable by us, we would regard it as a natural, and, on
account of the defective differentiations, a perhaps entirely unrecognized
quality of the extemal cosmos. For, since it could not be otherwise, it
would receive no emphasis beyond its inherent qualities. This valuation
arises only from the fact that something must be paid for things: the
patience of waiting, the effort of search, the application of labor power,
the abstinence from things otherwise desirable. Without priee, there-
fore-priee originally in this extensive sense-value does not come into
being. That of two objects the one is more valuable than the other
cornes to pass subjectively as weIl as objectively only where one agent
is ready to give this for that, but conversely that is not to be obtained
for this. In transactions that have not become complicated the higher
or lower value can be only the consequence or the expression of this
immediate practical will to exchange. And if we say we exchange the
things for each other because they are equaUy valuable, it is only that
frequent inversion of thought and speech by which we also say that
things pleased us because they were beautiful, whereas, in reality, they
are beautiful because they please us.
If, thus, value is at the sa me time tlle offspring of priee, it seems
to be an identical proposition that their height must be the same. 1
refer now to the above proof, that in each individual case no contracting
GEORG SIMMEL
party pays the price which is to him, under the given circumstances, too
high for the thing obtained. If in the poem of Chamisso the highway.
man at the point of the pis toI compels the victim to sen him his watch
and rings for three coppers, the fact is that under the circumstances,
sin ce the victim could not otherwise save his life, the thing obtained in
exchange was actually worth the price. No Iaborer would work for
starvation wages if, in the situation in which he actually found himself,
he did not prefer this wage to not working. The appearance of paradox
in the assertion of the equivalence of value and price in every individuaI
case arises only from the fact that certain conceptions of other kinds of
equivalence of value and price are brought into our estirnate of the case.
The relative stability of the relationships by which the majority of ex·
changes are determined, on the other hand the analogies which fix still
uncertain value relations according to the norm of others already exist-
ing, produce the conceptions: if for a definite object this and that other
definite object were exchange equivalents, these two or this group of
objects would have equality in the scale of value, and if abnormal
circumstances caused us to exchange the one object for values higher or
lower in the scale, price and value would faU away from each other,
although in each individual case, as a matter of fact, under considera·
tion of ifs circumstances, they would coincide. We should not forget
that the objective and just equivalence of value and price which we
make the norm of the actual and the specifie works only under very
definite historical and technical conditions; and, with change of these
conditions, at once vanishes. Between the norm itself and the cases
which are characterized as exceptional or as adequate, no general differ·
en ce exists, but, so to speak, only a numerical difference-somewhat as
we say of an extraordinarily eminent or degraded individual, "He is really
no longer a man." The fact is that this idea of man is only an average;
it would lose its normative character at the moment in which the
majority of men ascended or descended to that grade, which then
would pass for the generically human.
In order to reach this perception we must, to be sure, extricate
ourselves from deep-rooted conceptions of value, which also have an
assured practical justification. These conceptions, in the case of rela-
tionships that are somewhat complex, rest in two strata with reference
to each other. The one is formed from the traditions of society, from
the majority of experiences, from demands that seem to be purely
logical; the other, from individual correlations, from the demands of
the moment, from the constraint of given facts. In contrast with the
rapid changes within this latter stratum, the graduaI evolution of the
former and its construction out of elaboration of our perceptions is lost
to sight, and the former appears as alone justified as the expression of
62
THE CONFLICT IN MODERN CUL TURE AND OTHER ESSA yS
an objective ratio. Where now, in case of an exchange under the given

circumstances, the valuations of sacrifice and gain at least balance each
other-for otherwise no agent would consummate the exchange-yet
judged by those general criteria a discrepancy appears, in such a case
we speak of a divergence between value and priee. This occurs most
decisively under the two presuppositions (almost always united), viz.,
first, that a single value quality passes as economic value in general, and
two objects consequently can be recognized as equal in value, only in
so far as the like quantum of that fundamental value is present in them;
and, second, that a definite proportion between two values appears as
a something that must be, with the emphasis of a not mere1y objective,
but also a moral demand. TIle conception, for example, that the
essential value element in aIl values is the labor time objectified in them
is utilized in both these assumptions, and thus gives a direct or an
indirect standard which fixes the value independent of priee, and makes
the latter vibrate in changing plus and minus differences, as compared
with the former. Now it is evident, to be sure, that if we from the start
recognize only a single value substance, only that price corresponds to
the value so contained which contains precisely an equivalent amount
of that same value. According to this principle the values should be the
first and fixed e1ement; the price should constitute a more or less ade-
quate secondary element. But this consequence, supposing everything
e1se is conceded, does not in fact follow. The fact of that single
measure of value Ieaves entire1y unexplained how labor power cornes to
have value. It would hardly have occurred if the labor power had not,
by acting upon various materials and by creating various products,
made the possibility of exchange; or unless the exercise of the power
had been recognized as a sacrifice made for the gain of the object
achieved by the sacrifice. Thus labor power also cornes into the
value category through the possibility and reality of exchange, quite
unaffected by the circumstance that later labor power may itself
furnish a measure, within the value category, for the other contents.
If the labor power is thus also the content of that value, it re-
ceives its form as value only through the fact that it enters into the
relation of sacrifice and gain, or price and value (here in the narrower
sense). In the cases of discrepancy between price and vafue, the one
contracting party would, according to this theory, give a quantum of
immediate1y realizable labor power for a lesser quantum of the same.
Yet other circumstances, not containing labor power, are in such wise
connected with this case that the party still completes the exchange;
for example: the satisfaction of an economic need, amateurish fancy,
fraud, monopoly, and similar circumstances. In the wider and subjective
sense, therefore, the equivalence of value and counter-value remains in
GEORG SIMMEt
these cases, while the simple norm, labor power, which makes the dis-
crepancy possible, does not on its side cease to derive its genesis as a
vehicle of value from exchange.
The qualitative determination of objects, which subjectively signi-
fies their desirability, can consequently not maintain the claim of
constituting an absolute value magnitude. It is always the relation of
the des ires to each other, realized in exchange, which makes their
objects economic values. This determination appears more immediately
in connection with the other element supposed to constitute value,
namely, scarcity, or relative rarity. Exchange is, indeed, nothing else
than the inter-individual attempt to improve conditions rising out of
scarcity of goods; that is, to reduce as far as possible the amount of sub-
jective abstinence by the mode of distributing the given stock. There-
upon follows immediately a universal correlation between that which
we calI scarcity value and that which we caIl exchange value, a correla-
tion which appears, for instance, in the relation of socialism to both.
We may, perhaps, indicate the economic purposes of socialism com-
prehensively and abstractly in this way, namely, that it strives to abolish
scarcity value; that is, that modification of the value of things which
arises from their rarity or abundance; for it is abundance which reduces
the value of labor. There should be less labor, in order that labor may
be appraised according to the quality value, without depression on ac-
count of the quantity. On the other hand, the means of enjoyment
should lose that value which they now have on account of their re-
stricted quantity; that is, they should be accessible to aIl. Accordingly,
Marx held that in the capitalistic type of society, that is, the sort of
society which socialism wishes to abolish, exchange value alone is de-
cisive, whiIe use value no longer plays any rôle. While socialism despises
exchange value quite as much as scarcity value, it caIls attention to the
radical connection between the two.
For us, however, the connection is more important in the reverse
direction. 1 have already emphasized the fact that scarcity of goods
would scarcely have a valuation of them as a consequence if it were
not modifiable by us. It is, however, modifiable in two ways: either
through devotion of labor power, which increases the stock of the goods
in question, or through devotion of already possessed objects, which
as substitutes abolish the rarity of the most desired objects for the
individual. Accordingly, we may say immediately that the scarcity of
goods in proportion to the desires centering upon them objectively
determines exchange; that, however, the exchange on its side brings
scarcity into force as an element of value. It is a thoroughgoing mistake
of theories of value to assume that, when utility and rarity are given,
economic value-that is, exchange movement-is something to be
taken for granted, a conceptually necessary consequence of those prem-

ises. In this they are by no means correct. In case, for instance, there
were alongside of these presuppositions an ascetic renunciation, or if
they only instigated to conflict or robbery-which is, to be sure, often
enough the case-no economic value and no economic life would
emerge. Exchange is a sociological structure sui generis, a primary form
and function of inter-individual life, which by no means emerges as a
logical consequence from those qualitative and quantitative properties
of things which we call availability and rarity. On the contrary, it is
rather the case that these two properties derive their value-creating
significance only under the presupposition of exchange. Where ex-
change, the offering of a sacrifice for the purpose of a gain, is for any
reason excIuded, there no rarity of the desired object can confer upon
it economic value until the possibility of that relation reappears. We
may express the relation in this way: The significance of the object for
the individual always rests merely in its desirability; so far as that is
concerned which the object is to do for us, its qualitative character is
decisive, and when we have it, it is a matter of indifference in this re-
spect whether there exist besides many, few, or no specimens of the
same sort. (1 do not treat here especially the cases in which rarity itself
is a species of qualitative cha ra cter, which makes the object desirable
to us, as in the case of old postage stamps, curiosities, antiquities with-
out œsthetic or historical value, etc. 1 also disregard other cases, in-
teresting in themselves, here however in principle insignificant, namely,
those psychological subsidiary phenomena which frequently arise from
scarcity itself, where they have no effect upon acquisition of the object.)
The enjoyment of things, therefore, so soon as possession of them is
achieved, the positive practical significance of their actuality for us, is
quite independent of the scarcity question, since this affects only a
numerical relation to things, which we do not have, to be sure, but
which, according to the hypothesis, we do not desire to have. The only
question in point with reference to things, apart from enjoyment of
them, is the way to them. So soon as this way is a long and difficult
one, leading over sacrifice in the shape of strain of the patience, disap-
pointment, labor, seIf-denial, etc., we call the object scarce. Paradoxical
as it is, things are not difficult to obtain because they are scarce, but
they are scarce because they are difficult to obtain. The inflexible ex-
ternal fact that there is a deficient stock of certain goods to satisfy an
our desires for them would be in itseIf insignificant. Whether they are
scarce in the sense of economic value is decided sim ply by the circum-
stance of the measure of energy, patience, devotion to acquisition, which
is necessary in order to obtain them. Let us suppose a stock of goods
which suffices to cover an the demands centered upon it, but which
GEORG SIMMEL
is sa disposed that every portion of it is ta be obtained only with con-

siderable effort and sacrifice. Then the result for its valuation and its
practical significance would be precise1y the same which, under the
presupposition of equal availability, we have been accustomed ta derive
from its scarcity. The difficulty of attainment, that is, the magnitude
of the sacrifice involved in exchange, is thus the element that peculiarly
constitutes value. Scarcity constitutes only the external appearance of
this element, only the externalizing of it in the form of quantity. We
fail to observe that scarcity, purely as such, is only a negative property,
an existence characterized by a non-existence. The non-existent, how-
ever, cannat be operative. Every positive consequence must proceed
from a positive property and force, of which that negative property is
only the shadow. These concrete energies are, however, manifestly only
those that are put into action in the exchange, sa that the increase of
value starts from that increasing magnitude whose negative is the
scarcity of the abject.
Finally, by way of corollary, 1 will add a more conceptual deduc-
tian, namely, that the usual conception of the scarcity theory must
presuppose the value which it tries ta derive from scarcity. According
to this conception, an abject of economic des ire acquires value if no
unlimited number of specimens of its kind is at hand; that is, if the
present quantity of such objects does not caver a series of needs that
look to it for satisfaction. The failure of these needs to be covered is
felt as a painful condition which ought not ta be, as the negation of
value. The covering of these needs must be something having value.
Otherwise the failure could exert no such effect. If, however, this defect
is necessary ta establish the value of the present quantity, the value is
thereby presupposed whose establishment is in question. The existing
quantity has value because the lacking quantity has value. Otherwise
its lack could never establish a value. Let us suppose the quantity A,
which would complete1y caver the need, to be divided into two parts:
fi rs t, the portion actually present, M, and, second, the mere1y ideally
present, N. According to the theory, the value M is determined by
the fact that N is not present. N must, as we said, have a value in order
ta produce this consequence. In order tlIat it may have this value, we
must, however, think it as present, and, on the contrary, M as not
present. Otherwise the whole of A would be accessible, and therefore,
according ta the scarcity theory, no portion of it would have a value.
The value of the actual quantity is based on that of the non-existing
quantity, that of the non-existing quantity (which 1 must think in this
connection as present) on that of the existing quantity (which 1 must
consider non-existent). The scarcity element is thus ta be accounted for
only relatively, equally with that element which has its source in the
66
significance of the object for the feelings. As little as the fact of being
desired can scarcity create for the object a valuation otherwise than in
the reciprocal relation with another object existing under like condi-
tions. We may examine the one object ever so closely with reference
to its self~sufficient properties, we shaH never find the economic value;
since this consists exclusively in the reciprocal relationship, which cornes
into being between several objects on the basis of these properties, each
determining the other, and each giving to the other the significance
which each in turn receives from the other.
Sociological Aesthetics*
HE OBSERVATION OF HUMAN ACTIONS owes its continuously renewed

challenge to the infinite1y varied mixture between the steady
return of a few basic e1ements and the fullness of their individual
variations. The trends, deve10pments and contrasts of human history
can be reduced to a surprisingly small number of original themes. What
has been said about poetry-that lyric and dramatic writing consists in
changing formulations of a narrowly limited number of possibilities of
fate-is valid for every other area of human activity. The more broadly
we conceptualize these areas, the smaller becomes the number of basic
themes. Finally, when life is viewed in the most general way, they will
almost always end in a dialetic whose struggles, compromises or combi-
nations, generate aIl the continuously nove1 forms of life. Every epoch
of human history seems to derive its unlimited number of manifesta-
tions from this dualism between movements of thought and life, in
which the basic streams of huma nity find their most simple expression.
This deep, living antithesis in human affairs can be conceptualized
only through symbols and examples. During each major historical
period a different shape of this contrast appears as its basic type and
original form.
Thus, in the beginning of Greek philosophy there appeared the
important contrast between Heraclitus and the Eleatic School. To
Heraclitus, aIl being was in continuous flux; the processes of this world
were given form in the variety of unlimited contrasts which continu-
ously transformed themse1ves from one into the other. For the Eleatic
School, however, there was only a single static essence which transcended
* A translation of "Soziologische Aesthetik," Die Zukunft, 17 (1896) 204-216.
68
the deceiving appearance of the senses. It was aH inclusive and un-

divided, and it incorporated the absolute undifferentiated unity of aIl
things. This was the basic form which the division of an human
essence took in Greek thought, and provided the theme for its whole
development. With Christianity there appeared a different elaboration:
the contrast between the sacred and the secular principles. For aIl
specifically Christian life, this appeared as a final and absolute antitll-
esis between essential orientations, from which aIl differences between
willing and thinking had to be derived. By itself, however, it did not
lead to any deeper distinction. More recent perspectives of life de-
veloped these elements into the fundamental contrasts between nature
and spirit. FinaIly, the present has found for this dualism the formulae
of social versus individual, which draws its line through mankind and
even through the individual man. A typical difference between the
characters of men and institutions appears to be expressed by this
dichotomy as if it were a watershed from which they separate in differ-
ent directions only to flow together again and influence reality according
to their degree of participation. The line seems to extend through aIl
questions of life, to the most remote concerns; it appears in the most
varied subjects. In socio-political life it is expressed by the contrast
between socialistic and individualistic tendencies. It determines not
only the depths of purely materialistic interest in life, but also the
heights of aesthetic value.
The essence of aesthetic contemplation and interpretation for us
consists in the following: What is unique emphasizes what is typical,
what is accidentaI appears as normal, and the superficial and fleeting
stands for what is essential and basic. It seems to be impossible for any
phenomenon to avoid being reduced to what is important and of
eternal value. Even the lowest, intrinsically ugly phenomenon can be
dissolved into contexts of color and form, of feeling and experience,
which provide it with exciting significance. To involve ourselves deeply
and lovingly with the even most common product, which, would be
banal and repulsive in its isolated appearance, enables us to conceive
of it, too, as a ray and image of the final unit y of aIl things from which
beauty and meaning flow. Every philosophical system, every religion,
every moment of our heightened emotional experience searches for sym-
bols which are appropriate for their expression. If we pursue this
possibility of aesthetic appreciation to its final point, we find that there
are no essential differences among things. Our world view turns into
aesthetic pantheism. Every point con tains within itself the potential
of being redeemed to absolute aesthetic importance. To the adequately
trained eye the totality of beauty, the complete meaning of the world
as a whole, radiates from every single point.
GEORG SIM MEL
Thereby, however, the individual object loses the significance

which it possesses precisely as an individual and in contrast with every-
thing else. For it is impossible ta conserve individuality by saying that
aesthetic formulations and the deepening of the things are equally
possible everywhere and provide full freedom for the expression of
different qualities and contents of beauty. Nor can it be preserved by
saying that there exists only aesthetic comparability and not equality
of value, or that only differences of rank were cancelled out in this
area but not the colors and color values, the meanings and thoughts,
or the allegro and adagio. This conception, which wishes ta reconcile
the stimuli of universal aesthetic equivalence (Allgleichheit) and unique-
ness (Alleinheit) with those of aesthetic individualism, does not fully
satisfy the demands of the latter. The hierarchy of values, the rise of the
significant over the run-of-the-mill product, the organic growth and
development which permit the molding of the inspired out of the dull
and the refined out of the raw, provide a background, height and power
of light, which, under conditions of equal aesthetic value of objects
could not be reached by any other one among them. From them cornes
forth an equally sublime radiance over all things which rais es the lowest
ta that of the highest but also brings the highest to equal rank with
the lowest.
Our sensations are tied to differences, those of value no less than
the sensations of touch or temperature. We are not al ways able to
proceed at a constant level, at least not on the highest level which is
accessible to us during our best moments. Therefore we have to pay
for raising the lowest level to aesthetic heights by denying ourselves
those upswings which can occur only rarely and sporadically, and can
rise only ab ove the level of a lower undifferentiated and darker world.
It is not only this conditioning of aIl our sensations by differences,
which we may conceive of as undesirable restraints and shortcomings
of our being, that ties the values of things ta their relative distances
from one another: these very distances, too, represent bases of aesthetic
value. One of the highest aesthetic stimuli and values of this world is
based on the division of the world into light and darkness, so that its
elements do not flow into one another formlessly, but instead each
individual has its place in a hierarchy of values between a higher and
lower one, and the raw and lower fomis derive their existential meaning
from their being the support and background for the refined, bright, and
exalted. Thus, irreconcilable approaches are divided. One finds rewards
in a thousand undistinguished abysses for the sake of one height, and
deduces the value of things from this highest perfection which reflects
the value and meaning of an lower things. Someone who values things
this way will never understand another who hears the voice of God in
a worm and feels complete justice in the daim of each thing to be

valued equally with any other. Moreover, he who does not wish to
deny himself the drama of structuring, grading, and forming the world's
image according to the amount of its beauty, will never be able to share
the world intimately with another person who sees the harmony of
things in their equaliiy, so that charm and ugliness of appearance,
ridiculous chaos and meaningful form, represent only covering veils
behind which he will always see identical beauty and the soul of being
for which his mind thirsts.
If we were to search for a reconciliation here, for a conceptual
perspective which could demonstrate these value schemes to be com-
patible and resolved on a higher level on the ground that both, even
though under divided jurisdictions, rule many individuals-this would
indeed be like trying to prove that there is no contrast between day
and night because of the existence of dusk. Here we stand at the springs
of aIl human life. Depending on the areas of human experience through
which they flow, they will nourish the immense contrasts between
political socialism and individualism, or pantheistic and atomistic forms
of knowledge, or aesthetic equalization and differentiation. These
sources themse1ves, these final bases of essence, cannot be described
adequately with words. They can only be recognized in those individual
phenomena in which they are mixed. If they cannot be conceptualized,
at least one can point them out as those unknown forces which give
form to the matter of our existence. They are never reconciled, yet
each provides to the other fresh stimulation, which gives the life of our
species its restlessness, struggle, and vacillation between contrasts, so
that the appeasement of either one calls forth the strongest stimulation
for the other. In this process only lies what we might calI their recon-
ciliation: not in the dulI proof by which they might be conceptually
reduced to unit y, but in the demonstration that they continuously
confront and even fight one another within a single species of being,
even in each single soul. This is precisely the height and grandeur of
the human soul: its very live1iness, its ungrasped unity, permit during
each moment the expression of forces which flow from complete1y
irreconcilable sourches towards completely different goals.
The origin of aIl aesthetic themes is found in symmetry. Before
man can bring an idea, TIleaning, harmony into things, he must first
form them symmetricalIy. The various parts of the whole must be
balanced against one another, and arranged evenly around a center. In
this fashion man's form-giving power, in contrast to the contingent
and confused character of mere nature, becomes most quickly, visibly,
and immediate1y c1ear. Thus, the first aesthetic step leads beyond a
mere acceptance of the meaninglessness of things to a will to transform
GEORG SIMMEL
them symmetrically. As aesthetic values are refined and deepened,

however, man returns to the irregular and asymmetrical. 1t is in sym-
metrical formations that rationalism first emerges. So long as life is still
instinctive, affective and irrational, aesthetic redemption from it takes
on such a rationalistic form. Once intelligence, reckoning, balance have
penetrated it, the aesthetic need once again changes into its opposite,
seeking the irrational and its external form, the asymmetrical.
The lower level of the aesthetic drive finds expression in the build-
ing of syst.ems which arrange objects into symmetric pictures. Thus,
for example, the penance-books of the sixth century arranged sins and
punishments in systems of mathematical precision and balanced struc-
ture. Hence the first attempt to master intellectually the totality of
moral errors was cast in the form of a scheme which was as mechanical,
rational, and symmetric as possible. Once these errors were brought
under the yoke of the system, the mind could grasp them the most
quickly and with the least resistance. The system breaks down as soon
as man has intellectually mastered the proper meaning of the object
and need no longer derive it only from its relations with others; at this
point, therefore, there is a weakening of the aesthetic will to symmetry,
with which the elements were previously arranged.
It is possible to discover through an analysis of the role of symmetry
in social life how apparently purely aesthetic interests are called forth
by materialistic purposes, and how, on the other hand, aesthetic motives
affect forms which seem to obey only functional purposes. For example,
in a variety of older cultures we find the coordination of ten members
of groups into special social units-for military, taxable, juridical, and
other purposes-which in tum frequently form a higher unit, the
hundred, by the combination of ten such groups. The reason for this
symmetrical construction of groups was certainly the advantage of easier
survey, demarcation, and control. The peculiarly stylized society which
grew from this type of organization developed on account of its mere
utility. But the meaning of "the hundred" extended beyond its utiIity.
Thus ~~hundreds" frequently contained more or less than one hundred
individuals. During the Middle Ages, for example, the Sena te of Barce-
lona was called the "one hundred" even though it numbered approxi-
mately two hundred members. This deviation from the original
organizational rationality demonstrates a transition from use value to
aesthetic value, to the charm of symmetry and architectural forms in
social life, while the fiction of technical rationality is still being
maintained.
This tendency to organize all of society symmetrically and equally
structured according to general principles is shared by aIl despotic forms
of social organization. Justus Moeser wrote in 1772:
'l'HE CONFLICT IN MODERN CULTURE AND OTHER ESSAyS
The gentlemen of the Central Administrative Department would like

to reduce everything to simple rules. In this fashion we remove our-
selves from the true plan of nature, which shows its wealth in variety,
and we c1ear the way for despotism, which will coerces everything
under a few rules.
Symmetrical organizations facilitate the ruling of many from a single

point. Norms can be imposed from above with less resistance and
greater effectiveness in a symmetrical organization than in a system
whose inner structure is irregular and fluctuating. For this reason
Charles V (1519-1556) intended to level out aIl unequal and peculiar
political structures and privileges in the Netherlands and to restructure
them into an organization which would be comparable in aIl parts. A
historian of the epoch writes "that he hated the old Iicenses and stub-
born privileges, which disturbed his ideas of symmetry." Egyptian
pyramids have correctly been designated as symbols of the political
organization of great Oriental despots. They represent the completely
symmetrical structure of a society whose elements in the upward direc-
tion rapidly decline in number while their amounts of power increase
until they meet in the pinnacle which rules equally over the whole.
Even though this form of organization derived its rationality frOIn
the needs of despotism, it generates a formaI, purely aesthetic meaning.
This charm of symmetry, with its internaI equilibration, its external
unity, and its harmonie relationship of aIl parts to its unified center, is
one of the purely aesthetic forces which attracts many intelligent people
to autocracy, with its unlimited expression of the unified will of the
State. This is why genuinely liberal forms of the state tend towards
asymmetry. Macaulay, the inspired liberal, points directly to this fea-
ture as the proper strength of British constitutional life.
We do not think about its symmetry but a great deal about its utility.
We never remove an anomaly only because it is an anomaly. We
never set our norms for a wider area than is demanded by the special
case with which we are dealing at the moment. These are the rules
which taken as a whole have goverened the proceedings of our 250
parliaments from King John to Queen Victoria.
Here the ideal of symmetry and logical clos ure, which gives mean-
ing to everything from one single point, is rejected in favor of another
ideal, which permits each element to develop independently according
to its own conditions. The whole, of course, thus looks disorganized
and irregular. Nevertheless, in addition to an concrete motives, there
is an aesthetic charm even in this lack of symmetry, in this liberation
of the individual. This overtone can easily be heard in the words of
73
GEORG SIlVfMEL
Macaulay. It derives from the feeling that this form of organization

brings the inner life of the state, to its most typical expression and its
most harmonic form.
The influence of aesthetic forces upon social facts is most vivid in
modern conflicts between socialistic and individualistic tendencies.
Without any doubt, certain ideas of socialism are based on aesthetic
values. That society as a whole should become a work of art in which
every single element attains its meaning by virtue of its contribution
to the whole; that a unified plan should rationally determine aIl of
production, instead of the present rhapsodic haphazardness by which
the efforts of individuals benefit or harm society; that the wasteful com-
petition and the fight of individuals against individuals should be
replaced by the absolute harmony of work-all these ideas of socialism
no doubt meet aesthetic interests. Whatever else one may have against
it, these ideas at any rate refute the popular opinion that socialism
both begins and ends exclusively in the needs of the stomach. The
social question therefore is not only an ethical question, but also an
aesthetic one. 1
Quite apart from its consequences for the individual, the rational
organization of society has a high aesthetic attraction. It aims to make
the totality of lives in the whole organization into a work of art, which
at present can hardly be accomplished for the life of an individual. The
more we learn to appreciate composite forms, the more readily we will
extend aesthetic categories to forms of society as a whole. Consider,
for example, the aesthetic appeal of machines: the absolute purposive-
ness and reliability of motions, the extreme reduction of resistance and
friction, the hannonic integration of the most minute and the largest
parts, provides machines with a peculiar beauty. The organization of
a factory and the plan of the socialistic state only repeats this beauty
on larger scales. This peculiar interest in hannony and symmetry by
which socialism demonstrates its rationalistic character, and by which
it aims to stylize social life, is expressed purely externally by the fact
that socialistic utopias are always set up according to principles of
symmetry. Towns or buildings are arranged either in circular or qua-
dratic form. The layout of the capital is mathematically constructed in
the Sun-State of Campanella, as are the work assignments for the
citizens and the gradations of their rights and duties. This general trait
of socialistic plans attests to the deep power of attraction in the idea
of an harmonic, internally balanced organization of human activity
overcoming aIl resistance of irrational individuality. This interest, a
purely aesthetic one, independent of aIl material consequences, has
probably always been important in determining the social forms of life.
The attractiveness of beauty is sometimes described as a saving of
74
thought, an unravelling of a maximum number of images with minimum

effort. If this is so, th en the symmetrical construction of social groups,
as it is desired by socialism, will fulfill these postulates. On the other
hand, an individuated society, characterized by heterogeneous interests
and irreconcilable tendencies, embracing many series of development
which have been commenced and interrupted innumerable times (since
they were only carried on by individuals), presents to the mind a rest-
Iess, uneven image, which continously requires new nervous exertion
and effort for its understanding. But a socialistic and balanced society
through its organic unit y, its symmetrical arrangement and mutual
coordination of movements in common centers, provides for the observ-
ing mind a maximum of insight. To understand the social picture here
requires a minimum of intellectual effort. This fact in its aesthetic
significance would seem to figure decisively in the intellectual appeal
of socialism.
In aesthetics, symmetry means the dependence of individual e1e-
ments on their mutual interdependence with aIl others, but also self-
containment within the designated circ1e. Asymmetrical arrangements
permit broader individual rights, more latitude for the free and far-
reaching relations of each element. The internaI organization of social-
ism takes this into consideration; thus it is no accident that aIl historical
approximations to socialism occurred only within strictly c10sed groups
which dec1ined aIl relations to outside powers. This containment, which
is appropria te for the aesthetic character of symmetry as weIl as for the
political character of the socialistic state, suggests the general argument
that because of continuous international intercourse socialism could
never come to power in a single country but only uniformly in the
whole civilized world.
The power of aesthetic valuation is demonstrated by the fact that
it can also be applied equally weIl in support of the opposite social
ideal. Beauty, as it is actually felt today, has an almost exc1usiveIy indi-
vidualistic character. Essentially it is based on individual traits, in con-
trast to the general characteristics and conditions of life. Truly roman tic
beauty is based to a large extent on the opposition and isolation of the
individual from what is common and valid for everybody. 111is is true
even if we disavow individualism on ethical grounds. It is aesthetically
attractive to think of the individual not only as a member of a larger
whole, but as a whole in its own right, which as such no longer fits into
any symmetric organization. Even the most perfect social mechanism
is only a mechanism, and so lacks the freedom which, regardless of
one's philosophical interpretations, is the sine qua non of beauty. Thus,
of the world-views which have become prominent during recent times,
those of Rembrandt and Nietzsche are most decidedly individualistic,
75
GEORG SIMMEL
and are supported by distinctly aesthetic motives. lndeed, the indi-

vidualism of this contemporary view of beauty extends so far that even
fIowers, and especial1y modern garden flowers, are no longer bound into
bundles. On the contrary, they are arranged individual1y, or several
of them at most are bound together rather loosely. Thus every single
garden fIower is seen as an individual in itse1f; they are aIl aesthetic
individualities, which cannot be coordinated into symmetrical unity. By
contrast, wild flowers, which are less developed and somehow arrested
in their evolution, form delightful bunches.
This combination of similar stimuli with irreconcilable contrasts
points to the peculiar origin of aesthetic feelings. Even though we
know very little about it with certainty, we sense that the utility of
objects for the preservation and enhancement of the species also forms
the starting point for their aesthetic value. Perhaps something appears
to us as beautiful which the species has found useful; perhaps it pro-
vides us with enjoyment because we are part of the species, even though
as individuals we no longer enjoy the real utility of the object. This
immediate utility has been cleared away in the course of historical devel-
opment and inheritance; the materialistic motives on which our aesthetic
sensibilities are based have been effaced in time. Hence they gave to
beauty the character of "pure forrn," and a certain other-worldliness
and non-reality not unlike the purifying spirit which hovers over one's
own experiences of past times.
Utility, however, can take many forrns. What is useful may fre-
quently be of sharply contrasting content during various adaptive
periods, or in different regions during the same period of time. Major
alternatives of historical life gain prominence through widely varying
historical conditions. For social organization, for example, the indi-
vidual is only a member and an element. Likewise, from the perspec-
tive of individuals, society is only a base point. At any given moment
these emphases are mixed in changing proportions. On this basis the
pre-conditions are given towards which the aesthetic interests of a cer-
tain social form of life may turn as strongly towards one or another.
We are led to an apparent contradiction: the aesthetic charm of a
totality in which the individual disappears seems to grow with the
prominence on the individual. But this can be resolved without further
ado, if we see aIl feeling for beauty as the distillation, the idealization,
the mature form of the adaptations and feelings of utility of the species
in an individual member, who has inherited its consciousness, but in a
spiritualized and formalistic way. The great variety and contradiction
of historical developments are thus reflected in the breadth of our
aesthetic sensitivity. Hence we can connect an equally strong stimulus
to the most opposite poles of social interest.
The intrinsic significance of artistic styles can be interpreted as a

result of different distances which they pro duce between us and phe-
nomena. AU art forms change the field of vision by which we originally
and naturally react to reality. On the one hand, art brings us closer
to reality, bringing us into a more immediate relationship with its
proper and innermost meaning by revealing to us behind the cold
strangeness of the world the animated qllality of being (Sein) through
which it becomes familiar and intelligible for us. On the other hand,
every artistic medium introduces abstractions from the immediacy of
material things. It weakens con crete stimuli and introduces a veil
between them and us, analogous to the blue hue which surrounds
distant mountains. Equally strong stimuli are connected with both ends
of this antithesis. Tensions and different emphases between them ex-
press in each style its unique form. In Hnaturalistic" art, in its opposi-
tion to all proper "stylization," closeness to the natural object seems to
be dominant. Naturalistic art intends to find in each little element of
this world its inner significance. Formalistic art, on the contrary, places
between us and the objects a preconceived postulate concerning beauty
and significance.
AU art forms are nourished by immediate impressions of reality,
even though they become art only when they grow beyond this Ieve1.
In order to convince us of its truth and importance, art demands an
unconscious pro cess of reduction. This reduction is short and easy in
naturalistic art forms. For this reason naturalistic art does not require
determined and far-reaching inteUectuaI activities for its enjoyment; its
approaches are quite direct. Thus there may often be a relationship
between naturalistic art and sensuallust, though this is not at aIl neces-
sary. In any case, man can be most quickly and most directly excited
by naturalistic art, because the object and the subjective reactions to
it are here in closest proximity.
N evertheless, na turalism uses the refined charm of remote effects.
We note the careful search for its objects and motives in the daily
life, in undeveloped forms and in banal expressions. For a very sensitive
beholder, the peculiar distance between works of art and the immediacy
of experience becomes especially clear when the object is very close. For
less delicate perception, a greater distance from the object itself is
required for the enjoyment of this charm of distance, as for example
in stylized Italian landscapes or paintings of historical dramas. The
less cultivated (and childlike) aesthetic feelings are, the more fantastic,
the farther removed from reality the object must be by which the
artistic work achieves its impact. A more sensitive viewer does not
require such a materialistic prop. The artistic form of the object in
itself provides him with secret charm of distance from things, liberates
77
GEORG SIM MEL
him from their clu11 pressure, carries him from the realm of nature to
that of spirit. He will experience this even more intenseIy when art
deals with proxima te, low and relatively secular material.
It is interesting that contemporary aesthetics strongly emphasizes
the distance between subject and object, rather than the intimacy.
This special interest in items from a distance seems to be a distinctive
sign of modern times, which is common to many phenomena. The
preference for cultures and styles removed in space and time belongs
here. Things from a distance best stimulate many vividly changing
imaginations, and thus fulfill our multifarious need for excitement.
But these strange and distant things have reIativeIy weak effects on our
imagination, because they have no direct relationship to our personal
interests. Thus they impose on our weakened nerves only comfortable
excitement. This is the impact of alI the fragments, suggestions,
aphorisms, symbols, and primitive art forms which are evoking such
vivid responses now. AlI of these forms of expression, which are at
home in aIl the arts, separate us from the completeness and fullness
of the things themselves. They speak to us as if they were at a dis-
tance. They represent reality not with direct certainty, but with a kind
of retracted acuity. The literary style of the late nineteenth century,
most fully developed in Paris and Vienna, avoids the direct designa-
tion of things, describes only minor points and covers verbalIy only one
of the sides; here mode of expression and subject matter coincide only
in the most isolated details. The pathological symptom of Beruhrung-
sangst, the fear of getting into too close contact with objects, is spread
endemically in a mild degree nowadays. It grows out of a kind of hyper-
aesthetics, for which every live and immediate contact produces pain.
For this reason the aestheticism of the majority of modern men is
expressed through negative taste. Illustrations are: the easy vulnera-
bility ta disagreeable items, the determined exclusion of the unpleasant,
the repulsion of many if not most varieties of stimuli. On the other
hand, lack of balance cornes about from expressing positive taste, from
energetically saying "yes," from the happy and unrestrained acceptance
of what is liked, in short, from aIl actively appropriating energies.
Naturalism in its cruder forms was a desperate attempt to overcome
distance, to catch the closeness and immediacy of things. But as soon
as men got close, their sensitive nerves were unable even to tolerate
the contact, and they shied away as if they had touched hot coals. This
happened not only in painting, as represented by the Scottish school,
or Iiterature, which turned from Zolaism to symbolism; it happened
in science as weIl. For example, materialism, which seeks to grasp reality
immediate1y, has been swamped by neo-Kantian or subjectivistic world-
views, according to which things must be broken down or distilled
through the medium of the soul before they become true knowledge.
Again, in aIl scientific disciplines, a caU has risen for coordination and
generalization which can aUain a distance capable of viewing aIl con-
crete individual facts. In ethics, too, concrete utility has to step behind
more abstract, "spiritualized" principles, which are frequently religious
and always far from sensual immediacy.
The tendency of our culture towards distance is observable in more
than one dominant way. (1 am using the quantitative dimension of
distance only as a symbol, an approximation, since there is no other
more direct expression for what is going on.) The dissolution of the
family is connected with this development. So is the feeling of unbear-
able narrowness which is frequently awakened in modern man by his
circle of close relatives, which frequently involves him in very tragic
forms of conflict. This fear of contact is reinforced by the ease of travel
over longer distances. The wealth of intima te relations which are now
possible with spatially and temporarily remote parties seems to make
us more and more sensitive to the shocks and disturbances which come
to us from the immediate proximity and contact between man and
things.
This fear of contact seems to me to stem largely from the steadily
deeper penetration of a money economy, which more and more destroys
the natural economic relationships of earlier times (though this work
of destruction has not been fully completed). Money is placed be-
tween man and man, between man and product, as a mediator, as a
general denominator into which every other value must be translated,
so that it can be further translated into other values. Since the begin-
ning of a money economy, the objects of economic relationships are
no longer immediate to us. Our interest in them is expressed not in
their individual and functional meaning, but only through the medium
of money. What is their worth, as measured by this intermediary
value, meets the eye of economic man. Time after time his rational
consciousness will stop him at this intemlediary step, the center of his
interests, his one resting place, while aIl con crete objects drift by in
restless flight. These objects are burdened with a profound contradic-
tion: they alone are able to provide definite satisfactions, yet they obtain
their degree of value and interest only after having been evaluated by
this yardstick without character and quality. Money, by the enlarge-
ment of its role, has placed us at a wider and more basic distance from
the object. Immediacy of impression and active interests in things
becomes weakened. Our contact with them becomes interrupted, and
we sense them only through intermediaries, which can never fully
express their genuine, unique and immediate being.
Thus the most diverse features of modern art and culture seem
79
GEORG SIMMEL
to have in cornrnon a deep psychological trait. In abstract terrns it

rnay be defined as a tendency to increase the distance between man
and his objects, which find its rnost distinct form in the area of aes-
thetics. Radical breaks in this tendency, such as naturalism, which
seeks conformisrn with things and absorption in their unbroken reality,
must not lead us astray. Oscillations between both extremes in par-
ticular prove the existence of the same malaise from which each of
them independently derives. A time which simultaneously idolizes
Bocklin and Impressionism, Naturalisrn and Symbolism, Socialism and
Nietzsche-such a time apparently discovers the most developed stimuli
of its life in oscillations between the extreme poles of universal human
existence. Exhausted nerves which are drifting between hypersensi-
tivity and lack of sensitivity can be excited only by the most opaque
forms and rudely accurate details, or else by the most tender and starkest
stimuli.
Note to the Essay
1. It is an aesthetic question also because of the meaning of the immediate

sensation of pleasure and displeasure, and not only on account of the beauty
of forms. It would seem harder for a typically "educated" person to over-
come the aesthetic discomforts which he experiences during physical con-
tacts with people of the lower class, to whom the honorable sweat of work
still clings, than to overcome his aUachment to crabmeat, lawn tennis, and
easy chairs.
80
On Aesthetic Qyantities*
HE ASSUMPTION THAT THE ARTS HAVE NO LIMITS has Ied a variety

of aesthetic movements into the identical error. Abstract ideal-
ism is at one with realism in its idea of the relation between art and
existence: both believe that, in principle, art can incIude aIl subjects
within the range of its forms and equip them with equal perfection.
This is the extreme opposite of the theory which treats as vaIid only
beautiful and characteristic objects.
The opinion that art can reflect every object accurateIy, as a
mirror, fails to consider that art and artistic media have grown histori-
cally. (This artistic pantheism is a form of megalomania which denies
reIativity and the infinite developmental possibiIities of an human
affairs.) At different historical points art must have different relation-
ships to the objective being. A characteristic illustration of this will
be given here. I will consider the diversity of the aesthetic point of
view in its dependence on the diverse and varying physical dimensions
of works of art.
Let us consider a postula te which derives from the nature of physi-
cal objects: the physical objects demand certain proportions of size for
their representation in a work of art. If this postulate and the pureIy
artistic point of view now differ and now coincide, then this do es prove
that artistic formulations represent very special, accidentaI, and chang-
ing relationships to reality.
The most pronounced discrepancies exist with respect to unorganic
nature. For example, paintings of the Alps cannot exhaustiveIy represent
their quantitative significance; they appear empty and inadequate. Even
* A translation of "über aesthetische Quantitaten," Zeitschrift für padagogische

Psychologie, 5 (1903), 208-212.
GEORG SIMMEL
Segantini, the only important pain ter of Alpine scenes who exists so
far, always moved the mountains into the background or chose stylized
forms. Moreover, he detracted fully from the demands of this sense
impression, which is based primarily on quantitative dimensions, not
only by his special treatment of air and of light, but by the quantities
of those impressions which could be depicted.
In aIl organically grown phenomena we find that the circumfer-
ence always reaches as far as the inner forces are able to develop it.
Thus we may have a feeling, through complex, probably unconscious
experiences, and through empathy, for the inner forces of growth.
Usually therefore, we are in agreement with their size. For the artist,
too, the transformations of form which are required because of changes
in quantities come about without effort.
In inorganic matters, however, the form do es not express inner re1a-
tionships. There, the forms are molded by exterior forces. The inner
principles for the exterior forms, which might guide us in their trans-
formation, are missing. Thus, we can only guide ourse1ves by the given
facts of their spatial dimensions.
How can one explain, furthermore, that individuals without archi-
tectural training experience hardly any aesthetic impact from small-scale
mode1s of buildings, or at least only an impact which does not do justice
to the dimensions of their realistic execution? Psychologically speaking,
we are una ble to reconstruct imagina tively from such small-scale mode1s
relationships of gravity, of weights and supports, of resting and elevat-
ing, in short, the dynamic processes. This imaginative intuition develops
only with abjects of a certain absolute minimum size. This size might
be called the threshold of imaginative recall. Our historically given
architecture apparently has those quantitative dimensions which permit
our soul such an emphatic feeling. As soon as they become smaller
or much larger, although we still can view and intellectually consider
them, they are devoid of aesthetic effect.
In this context it becomes obvious why idealistic and intellectual
aesthetics must necessarily be formalistic. For, whenever importance
is placed not on imaginative reconstruction, but on pure1y intellectuaI
processes, then their conditioning by mere measures of size will be
without significance. For pure reason form equals form, and equal fomIs
always must have equal effects.
For some god whose senses were not circumscribed by thresholds
of stimuli, size would be complete1y unimportant. He would not, as
we must, connect the qualitative differences of reactions with quan-
titative differences.
This change of aesthetic values suggests new standards applicable
to organic but non-human subject matter. The aesthetic resistance of
82
particular abjects is often directed not only against the diminution or

enlargement of scale, but sometimes also against their representation
in natural size. In a not-too-large painting, a horse will always look
naturalistic, as if outside the sphere of the work of art. Moreover, cer-
tain objects are a priori excluded from works of art. It seems that
sorne objects are withhe1d from artistic reproduction in the same mea-
sure in which interest in their reality dominates the imagination asso··
ciative1y, as for example the concerns of routine daily life, extremely
remarkable phenomena and accidents, and more of the like.
AIl these phenomena drive the category of being into consciousness
as a question, a wish, or knowledge. Thereby, however, they remove
themse1ves from the merely idealistic sphere of art.
This series of motives can also be augmented from another direc-
tion. A rider on horseback produces a contradiction if he is rendered
in natural size, since his Iife-size representation will have realistic effects.
The inner and justified relationship of these two appears directIy re-
versed. A diminution, however, would shift the artistic re1ationship of
the parts ta favor the spiritually higher. This suggests that the indi-
vidual parts of a work of art are effective not only through their mu tuaI
relationships, but that a certain absolute size of the whole work of art
is required which alone will give the proper meaning to those relations.
The accent may be placed on the form, but the potential of being able
to decide is only reached once it appears in a certain scale.
The human figure presents an aesthetic miracle insofar as it main-
tains its aesthetic value through almost aIl possible enlargements and
diminutions of scale. The reason for this is that its aesthetic propor-
tions, with which we are in solidarity, take on such importance and
concreteness for us, and have such immediate inner necessity, that they
domina te everything else. Indeed, the human figure is perceived as a
norm for the qualities and proportions of everything e1se: man is the
measure of aIl things also in visual matters.
When we are dealing with relationships among human beings,
however, the problem of quantities, however, arises once again. For
example, in paintings of Madonnas, the child in its bodily smallness
contradicts his dominant central role. The childlike form, with its
limited potential of differentiation, is hardly suited to express spiritually
important matters. This problem has been complete1y overcome only
in the Sistine Madonna.
There are no limits to the power of the artist. By saying this, how-
ever, it is not implied that the quantitative dependence is insignificant.
It only means that size is one e1ement which may be overcome by other
elements, but which will not disappear. Each artistically usable element
seems to be composed of two thresholds of size. There is a certain
GEORG SIMMEL
quantity for their representation through which aesthetic reactions in

the final analysis are produced, and there is one through which they
disappear again. Such thresholds can also be found in other spheres
of the higher mental life as, for example, the threshold of becoming
conscious of justice 1 or of religion.
These aesthetic thresholds of objects, which determine their utili-
zation for aesthetic purposes, are moved together or apart in accordance
with the artist's potential concerning form. With a growing refinement
of aesthetic knowledge, however, the threshold values must approxi-
mate one another more and more. Finally, if we should ever attain
complete knowledge concerning artistic composition, we will develop
a definite scale for measuring the full artistic impression.
The one conclusion of aIl previous studies concerning these prob-
lems is that certain modifications of aesthetic response can be explained
by merely quantitative changes. This, however, only formula tes the
problem. The psychological connections are still missing.
To this subject 1 shaH now contribute two ideas. The first concerns
not so much the size of a work of art as the amount of emotional excite-
ment it evokes. To judge the importance of a work of art simply by
the quantity of sensation it generates is extremely dilettantish. To pro-
vide a valid standard, the emotional force with which the audience is
carried along must remain formally consistent with respect to rhythmi-
cal balance. Neither must the quantity of impressions be aHowed to
transgress a certain level, or else our emotional responses will drown
out our artistic ones.
For example, when we read a novel, the tension which is often
produced in us by an overdeveloped interest in its subject matter may
destroy its artistic effect. A certain distance and reserve are necessary.
We are dealing here with a question of quantity; even if we were already
familiar with the content, its artistic form would nevertheless generate
a tension and empathy in us, but it would compare with the previously
mentioned realistic impressions only as a tender image. The arts, so
to speak, seem to present us with the content of life without represent-
ing life itself.
Thus it seems to me that the strength of emotion also has an upper
and a lower aesthetic threshold. Beyond the one, there is apathy; be-
yond the other there is realistic participation. This displacement of
the quantitative aspect of sensations means not only that there is room
for the aesthetic feeling, but that this more abstract emotional force,
which is not short of the quality of realistic feelings, aIready by itself
represents an aesthetic quality. Under whatever circumstances we other-
wise recognize diminutions in the intensity of feelings, we seem to per-
THE CONFLICT IN MODERN CULTURE AND OTI-IER ESSA YS
ceive a lack of success, a failure. Only the arts seem to know how to
conserve without gaps the complete cosmos of feelings.
Our second consideration concerns the value of quantities in the
most external meaning of the term. It seems to us to be self-evident
that subjects which have very important inner meanings will require a
larger-size canvas, while less important subjects require a smaller one.
This relationship is not at aIl self-evident. It seems to stem from the fact
that the size of any given image requires a certain part of our visual
field. If a picture does not completely fill the visual field or fills it
almost fully, then inevitably many other objects will also be seen. A
proper relationship between the sense of content and totality of the
interests of the moment is needed. Further, complete sensuous aware-
ness should be demanded only by an aesthetically important subject.
A less important one should not be permitted to pre-empt the whole
field of vision. This would viola te an symbolism, which is the essence
of art.
The final observation concerning perfection in art is that art knmvs
how to obey the postulates of objects which develop independently
of one another with equal justice and balance; thus what is real has
the choice only of which one it should follow, as if there were only a
single law which separa tes what is real into coincidence and apathetic
alienation.
Thus we see that there are demands on the quantitative dimen-
sions of a work of art which derive, on the one hand, from purely
artistic conditions and, on the other, from our bodily and mental struc-
tures. From the intrinsic meanings of objects (associations-inner mean-
ings) flow others which, however, coincide with the former although
they are not restrained by any pre-established harmony.
Thus art shows us the unified context of its elements in the image
of being, which reality seems to keep from us. This unity, however,
cannot be foreign to our deepest understanding, since the image of
being must finally also be a part of being.
Note to the Essay
1. De minimis non curat praetor. (Roman Law: The praetor does not con-
cern himself with trifles.)
On the Third Dimension ln Art*
HE DESIRE WE FIND AMONG RECENT PAINTERS to portray the third

dimension in two-dimensional pictures is not natural or imperative
ta their art form. We can observe that both the finest nuances of sen-
suaI perception and the most extreme poles of emotional expression can
be reached without it. Consider, for example, the women of the Japa-
nese painters Harunobu and Utamaro, whose souls, like their bodies,
appear as blossoms waving in the summer wind, or, in another vein,
Aubrey Beardsley's degrading perversities and satanic expressions. Why
then should sorne painters strive so avidly for a third dimension? It can-
not be simply a IIlOre realistic reproduction of nature that they seek:
nature must inevitably be distorted in being transformed into art. More-
over, the purposes of art are fulfilled through much simpler means than
nature employs. Thus, realistic elements do not in themselves have
artistic value; they must legitimize themselves by other means.
The very special meaning which the dimension of depth has stems
from the fact that, in contrast to the other two dimensions, it is not
opticaHy evident. Only our tactile sense convinces us that bodies
embody more than their two-dimensional surface. The fuH image of
things, which results from their being visible and the possibility of
their being touched, is reproduced by its visibility. Hence, it appears to
us as if we immediately perceived the third dimension. In reality things
are being touched continuously, and the associative effects of our sense
of touch on visual perception are, or in principle could be, continu-
ously control1ed. TIms, the third dimension in painting depends much
more on visual images than the third dimension in reality, for in art
* A translation of "über die dritte Dimension in der Kunst," Zeitschrift für

Aesthetik, 1 (1906), 65-69.
86
there is absolute1y no other point of reference besides purely optical

processes. For this reason the third dimension appears as a world sep-
arated in principle from the actually given visual impression. In order
for the visual impression to convey the third dimension, it must appear
to us with much greater power. It acts like a mystic exorcism which
attempts to dominate an object with which it is denied any direct
contact. 1 see an essentially effective value in this complete exclusion
of any direct participation by the tactile sense on which the imagina-
tion of the third dimension properly rests. And yet 1 see also its
simultaneous inclusion in the visual impression.
A fact that is very simple yet fundamentally significant emerges
from this. In principle any given art form affects only one human sense,
while on the other hand every "real" object affects, or can affect, a
plurality of senses. In this way t'reality" is made. A body which we
could not only see, but penetra te without experiencing a tactile sensa-
tion could not be considered "real," but would be ghostlike. The same
consideration appHes to an object which we might touch but which
would not produce a sound when it colIides with another object, or
similarly, a sound which radiated from a source that could not be
seen or otherwise located. It is characteristic of reality that a plurality
of sensual impressions meet in it, fix it, as if by a system of coordinates.
Simultaneously, however, each sense gives an object a qualitative1y
unique world of its own which has no substantive contact with any
other object. That it is one and the sa me object which 1 see and touch
represents a synthesis of postulates or categories which are by them-
selves of an order different from sensual images. Within reality the
object is created by the equal cooperation of completely independent
and mutually alien conditions. The essence of a work of art, however,
is determined by its very opposition to this process. Aesthetic con-
templation has an integrity which can never be provided by perception
of reality, because the work of art appears exclusively as the product
of a single sense. This single sense takes over the autocratie leadership
in the mixture of flowing reproductions, which consequently become
ranked and organized beyond comparison. By this hierarchy the com-
plete determination of the senses is prevented. Thus, where a multi-
tude of sense impressions are fused in "real" man, who can be touched,
heard, and smelled, a work of art is arrested in the sphere of non-
reality by the fact that its impact derives exclusively from a single sense.
Thus, in works of art the third dimension of the tactile sense, the
domain of the proper "sense of reality," plays a role completely different
from that in impressions of reality.
In the realm of plastic art these conditions are only apparently
different. l\1arble, of course, can be touched, but it is not by itself
GEORG SIMMEL
a work of art-just as a canvas and its layers of paint which can

be touched do not make of it a painting. For the inartistic ob-
server a statue is a human figure made from marble, just as a liv-
ing human being to him represents one made of flesh and bones.
In this sense, of course, both are "real" since they can be touched.
However, a body which in truth becomes an object of art cannot
be touched. Nor can the body in a painting be touched since it is
only represented in the tactile, real material [of the canvas], just
as the body in the painting is not contained in the touchable specks of
paint. The third dimension is without relation to the work of art since
herethe tactile sense guarantees the realism of the object. It is only
related to a work of art insofar as the eye is stimulated by the mere
apperception of a plastic work to the production or reproduction of
the dimension of depth. The plastic work of art exists only to be
viewed, and not in order to be touched. Since the third dimension
can only be sensed by touch, by directly ascertaining that it is a piece
of marble, it necessarily must belong in a complete1y different area
from the artistic meaning of marble. The third dimension enters into
this area of meaning only after it is, so to speak, reborn through its
genuine tactile value as a product of visual impressions.
1 do not mean to deny the role of what Berenson called tactile
values. Neverthe1ess, it is still necessary to determine what gives the
capacity to evoke sensations of resistance and their modification, an
aesthetic significance which increases the artistic value to a painting.
Why, for example, is something added to the artistic stimulus of a
painted column, which would seem to be exhausted by the visibility
of its form and color, when its coldness and harshness is psychologically
considered? Or, what is being added to painted silk when its sheen also
reproduces the sensation of the material with its mixture of spryness
and softness? 1 do not think that this addition of concurrent perceptions
in itse1f has aesthetic significance. On the contrary, 1 believe, its aes-
thetic value cornes from the transformation of tactile impressions by
optical impressions. This is no different from music, which also caIls
forth in us innumerable reproductions from all spheres of life whose
whole and unique charm and depth consist only in the fact that they
are transformed into music. They accompany the movement of
sounds, not as their mechanical equivalents, but through specific re-
formulations and recolorations. They have to undergo an allotropic
modification in order to become the satellites of musical impressions
from which they would otherwise stand estranged, be10nging to a
different order of things.
The memories of other senses would only be dragged along as
a strange appendage by the visual impression, without enriching and
88
deepening its meaning, if they were nothing but naturalistic repetitions

of their former content. In order to enter the unit y of works of art,
they must transform their original meaning, which has nothing to do
with the present meaning, into perceptual values. Or, they must trans-
form their being, which is originally quite differently structured, so that
it will enter into an organic unit y with the optical artistic impression. It
is in the preliminary form of a mere postulate that we psychologically
describe this expatriation of the tactile senses by their inclusion into
art. At any rate, one is then able to describe this pro cess as a change
in quality of visual perception-or on a different level as a change of
tactile perceptions. It is not possible to deduce the artistic meaning of
tactile values from mere associations, insofar as the latter can only
represent mere1y unorganic and unfruitful changes in the quantity of
inner processes. When, for example, the sensations produced by one's
touching silk influence one's perception of the painted material, this
perception as such becomes deeper, more vivid, and more extensive.
This transmutation of heterogeneous sensual impressions into optical
values was known to Goethe: " ... und durchs Auge schleicht die
Kühle sanftigend ins Herz hinein." * The object thus offers more to
the eye. This does not apply so much with respect to reality, where
the diverse senses maintain their special values, since they aU contribute
equaUy to the reality of objects. It applies especially to works of art
which reduce the content of perceived phenomena to the general de-
nominator of a single sense. Similarly, it probably applies to the third
dimension, which represents everything that tactile values have in
common. The touched surfaces possess, in addition to harshness and
softness, roughness and smoothness, pointedness and balanced shape,
the general quality of resistance to touch, which adds to the very sur-
face-which is also presented to the eye-the third dimension. If the
latter is to enter into the pure visual work of art, it will not mere1y be
as another dimension, a mere numerical addition to the already present
quantum of dimensions. Instead, it will add a new note of quality to
the already present [number] which the work of art cannot transcend.
In painting and plastic art, the third dimension does not provide a
real extension in depth, but an enrichment and reinforcement of the
two-dimensional pictorial content. This is so since something which is
eternally invisible cannot have any place in the domain of sensual
perception. Here it appears as a nuance of visibility which the orga-
nizing perception of the artist has transformed by the addition of experi-
ence and associations from the worlds of other senses. Finally, this
transformation of the mere addition, which the third dimension can
contribute to the other two dimensions, subordinates itself to the mean-
* Through the eye, coolness soothingly enters the heart.
GEORG SIMMEL
ing of aIl art in its relationship to natural science. While the latter
attempts to reduce aIl qualities to quantitative expressions, that is, to
portray them according to their meaning in quantitative terms, art, on
the contrary, attempts to describe everything that exists only in quan~
titative dimensions in its appropria te meaning of quality.
The Dramatic Actor and Reality *
S UNCERTAIN AND CRITICAL as one may be of "public opinion,"

that is, the vox populi, generally there is a core of relevant
and reliable content in the dark premonitions, instincts, and evaluations
of the masses. Obviously this core is surrounded by a thick shell of
superficial triviaÜties and biased information. Nevertheless, its funda-
mentaraccuracywiIrusuany-b~ecome-appaient in the realms of religion
and poli tics, or in intellectual and ethical matters. Only in one area,
the field of the art, which appears to be even more accessible than
others, is the judgment of the masses hopelessly misguided and com-
pletely inadequate, especially with respect to fundamental issues. An
abyss without bridges cuts off the majority from insight into the essence
of art forms. Therein rests the deep social tragedy of art.
In the dramatic arts, which appeal more directly to a public audi-
ence than any other, genuine artistic values seem to be sprung not from
the intentions of the artist, but from the immediate impression he
makes on the audience. Because of this democratized mass appeal,
dramatic art would seem to be more profoundly naturalistic than any
other art form. Thus public opinion sees the essence of dramatic art
not in the written drama, but in the dramatic actor.
A dramatic play exists as a self-contained work of art. Does the
contribution of the actor now elevate this play into an art form of
greater magnitude? If this question seems inappropriate, we might re-
phrase it. Does the actor transform the work of art to a more convincing
level through his physical, live appearance? But, if this is true, why do
we demand that his performance should somehow bear the imprint
* A translation of "Der Schaus~r u~~' in Georg Simme],
Brücke und Tür, ed. ~inan 1ma lVllcnael Lanclmann (Stuttgart: K. F.
Koehler Verlag, 1957), pp. 168- 175.
0
GEORG SIMMEL
of art, and not simply that of mere realistic naturalism? AlI the prob-
lems dealing with the philosophy of the dramatic art converge on these
questions.
The role of the actor, as it is expressed in written drama, is not
a total person. The role is not a man, but a complex of things which
can be said about a person through literary devices. The poet cannot
give the actor unambiguous instructions concerning the inflection of
language, the tone of voice, or the pace of delivery. He can only project
the rate, the appearance, and the soul of a person through the one-
dimensional process of poetic imagery. The actor then translates this
image into a three-dimensional character accessible to alI the senses.
The actor's essential mistake is to identify the sensual interpreta-
tion of an artistic content with its full realization. For the ultimate
realization of drama is a metaphysical idea which cannot be embodied
through sensuous impressions. The content which the poet molds into
a dramatic script reveals completely different connotations when trans-
formed into sensuous expression. The actor gives meaning to the script,
but he does not transform its content into reality. 111is is why his acting
can become art, which, by definition, reality could never be. TIms, if
painting appears as the art of visual sensuality and music as the art of
acoustic sensuality, dramatic art appears as the art form of total sen-
suality.
In the realm of reality every single element and event is placed in
an infinitely expanding series of spatial, conceptual, and dynamic rela-
tionships. For this reason every identifiable element of reality is only
a fragment and not a totality. It is the nature of art, on the other hand,
to mold the contents of existence into self-contained unity. The actor
raises all the visual and acoustical elements of reality into a perfectly
framed unity. This is accomplished through the balance of style, the
10gic of rhythm, the movement of moods, the recognizable relationship
between character and action, and through the subordination of an
details under the apex of the whole. The actor thus stylizes an sensual
phenomena into a unity.
At this point reality seems again to penetra te the realm of the
arts in order to bridge a void. How does the actor acquire the mode
of conduct appropriate to his role when, as we have seen, this mode is
not explicit in the script and cannot be made so? It seems to me that
the actor cannot know how to perform Hamlet except through his own
experience. He will rely on external and (more important) inner experi-
ence to realize how a human being who talks Iike Hamlet and has
encountered Hamlet's fate generalIy behaves. Thus the actor sub-
merges himself in the foundations of reality from which Shakespeare
originally had derived the role. From this he recreates the dramatic
work of art, in the farm of Hamlet. The dramatic composition guides

the actor by providing a system of realistic coordina tes corresponding
to the individual's inner and outer experiences, reactions, fates, events,
and their environmental surroundings. However, regardless of how
much guidance he might get from the play, he could not understand
its cIues unless he had been empirically acquainted with them or similar
ones already. At this point the contribution of naturalism ends. Besides
the written wards of Shakespeare concerning Hamlet, the actor only
has empirical reality with which to reconstruct everything Shakespeare
did not say. Thus, he has to behave like a real Hamlet who has been
restricted by the wards and events prescribed for him by Shakespeare.
But this argument is quite erroneous. The activity of giving artistic
form and constructing the artistic imprint transcends that reality on
which the actor leans under the guidance of the script. The actor does
not content himself with empirical reality. The coordinates of reality
must become reallocated: accents become toned down, measures of time
become subjected to rhythm, and from aIl the alternatives offered by
reality, only those that can be uniformly stylized are se1ected. In short,
the actor does not transform the dramatic work of art into reality; on
the contrary, he makes use of reality, and transforms the reality which
has been assigned to him into a work of art.
There are many sophisticated people today who explain their aver-
sion towards the theater by saying that it portrays too many artificial
pretenses. This opinion may be justified, not because of a shortage of
reality, but because of a surfeit of it. The dramatic actor can be con-
vincing to us only if he stays within artistic logic, and eschews additional
elements of realism obeying a completely different logic.
It is wrong to consider it a "falsification" if the actor is different
in reality from the role he assumes on stage. After all, no one charges
a locomotive engineer with falsifying himself if he fails to run locomo-
tives around his family table. It is not a deception when the penniless
actor assumes the role of a king on stage. For he is a king in his func-
tion as an artist, an ideal king, but perhaps for this very reason, not a
real king. This impression of falsehood is generated only by a poor
actor, who either permits traces of his role in reality as a poor indi-
vidual to enter into his stage role of a king, or else acts so very realisti-
cally that he carries us into the sphere of realism. In the latter case he
creates a pain fuI competition between two realistic images which con-
tradict one another. This contradiction would never occur if the
dramatic presentation kept the audience in the sphere of art, which is
essentially estranged from reality.
We now see the total error in the idea that the actor must realize
the poe tic creation. In the dramatic presentation the actor exercises
93
GEORG SIMMEL
a special and unified form of art which is as far removed from reality
as the poetic work of art itself. Thus we can immediately understand
why a good imitator is not a good actor. TI1e gift of being able to
imita te other people has nothing to do with the artistically creative
talent of an actor. This is true because the subject matter of the imita-
tor is reality, and thus he strives to be received as a form of reality.
The actor, however, like the painter of a portrait, is not the imitator
of the real world, but the creator of a new one. This artistic world, of
course, is related to the phenomenon of reality, since both the real and
artistic worlds are built on the accumulated content of aIl being. Real-
ity, however, represents the first impression received of these contents.
This stimulates the illusion, as though reality was the true subject of art.
In order to obtain the most refined method of keeping the dramatic
arts in the sphere of reality, the dramatic writer derives his material
from his psychological integration of previous experience. The words
of the poet demand a reconstruction based on psychological experience.
The task of the actor should make us conceive of the prescribed words
and events as inevitable. Thus, his art should be applied or practical
psychology. According to this view, the task of the actor is fulfiIled
by placing before our eyes convincingly and emphatically the essence
of a human soul with its inner determination, its reaction to fate, its
drives, and its emotional anguish.
rThe proper artistic contribution of the dramatic actor cannot be
found in the apparent depth of his interpretation. Certainly it is only
through his own spiritual experiences that an actor can understand the
role of Hamlet. Moreover, the actor would only be a puppet or a
phonograph if he were not able to represent this spiritual reality to the
viewer for a chance to experience it, too. However, true art transcends
this experience of a reproduced psychic reality. It flows from an ideal
fountain, from the beginning, never towards a finished reaIity, but
towards new demands.
We see here a revival, new in aesthetics, of the old error overcome
long ago in philosophy-the idea that mental reality is something
transcendent, ideal, superior to physical reality. Art, however, demands
that the mere causality of factual processes should explicate meanings,
that aIl the threads which extend into in finit y of time and place should
be laced together into a self-satisfactory whole, and that the confusion
of reality should be rhythmically ordered. These demands do not cor-
respond to the reality that flows from the dark fountain of being, in-
accessible to our consciousness, even if this reality were of a psychic
variety.
There is no doubt that these postulates concerning art originate in
the minds of real human beings, as do ideas about the appropria te rela-
94
THE CONFLICT IN MODERN CULTURE AND OTITER ESSAYS
tion between the form and the content of reality. However, the content
and meaning of the artistic work is juxtaposed in one's mind with the
reality which the mind reconstructs from experience. The dramatic
actor must make us understand the role of Hamlet and portray the tur-
moils of his fate. Through his gestures and the pitch and rhythm of
his voice, he must also provide us with psychological insight, so that
we aIl draw the conclusion that a given character must speak these
words under the given circumstances. The genuine artistic process, how-
ever, only begins after aIl this has happened-after the role of Bamlet
is made into more than a series of resounding words and exterior events,
and has been resolved through the contribution of the actor into a
spiritual reality which contrasts with the immediacy of excitement and
empathy. Bere the spirituaIly recreated process of reality crystallizes
into an image. This is analogous to the sensually perceived impressions
of the world of physical bodies which are transformed by the pain ter
into a painting. This spiritual reality has thus become a picture for the
dramatic writer.
We can now fomlulate these ideas into an axiom: The dramatic
arts as such transcend bath paetry and reality. The dramatic actor is
neither what popular naturalism demands, an imitator of a man who
finds himself in a given situation, nor what literary idealism demands,
a marionette of his role with no artistic task besides what is alreadl
prescribed in the lines of the poetic work.
This literary point of view is particularly seductive to naturalism.
If one does not permit the dramatic actor an individual contribution,
produced according to autonomous artistic principles based on the final
foundations of all art, then the actor becomes only the realizatian of a
written role. A work of art, however, cannot be the material subject for
another work of art. On the contrary, a dramatic play is a channel
through which a stream, flowing from the very fundamentals of being,
is directed towards the specifically individual artistic contribution of the
dramatic actor. If it were otherwise, there would be no other final
principles then those of drama and reality. On such a basis, then, the
actor's task could only be considered dangerously close to naturalism,
namely, to provide the appearance of reality for the dramatic play.
The attractive notion that the dramatic actor only infuses the
dramatic play with life, and presents the life realization of a poetic
work, Ieads to the disappearance of the genuine and incomparable dra-
matic art which lives in the realm between the written play and reality.
It is just as distinctively original to represent elements of life through
the medium of dramatic acting as to represent them through painting
or poetry, or to recreate them through epistemology or religion. And
the art form of the dramatic actor is something which is genuinely
95
GEORG SIMMEL
rooted in unity, despite the great variety of sensuous impressions and

emotional reactions that it produces. It is not a composite of inde-
pendent optical stimuli, acoustic rhythms, emotional shocks, or states
of empathy. On the contrary, dramatic acting represents an inner unity
produced from the diversity of aIl those great elements of which the
dramatic impressions seem to be composed. In reality, they are only
developments from a single root, just as the multitude of different words
in a sentence represent a single pattern of thought. There simply seems
to exist an attitude of dramatie acting which man brings irito this world
as part of his manner of being and which makes him creative in this
unique way.
The decisive point is the fact that the dramatic actor crea tes within
himself a complete unity with its unique laws. His art, just as that of
the poet, has its roots in the same fundamentals as do aIl other art
forms. This is true even though it demands another art form, the poetic
work, for its medium. Only the autonomous status of the dramatic art
explains the strange fact that a poetic role, although conceived as an
unambiguous one, can be presented by a variety of dramatic actors
with complete1y different interpretations, each of which may be fully
adequate, and none of which would be more correct or more erroneous
than any other. This would be completely incomprehensible if the
dramatic actor lived entirely within the dualisIll between the poetic
work and reality. Within the frameworks of both the poetic role and
reality (which might be thought of as the poetic counter-image), there
exists only one Don Carlos or one Gregers Werle. Without a third,
genuine, independent foundation, this separation of the various branches
of the dramatic arts would lead to the destruction of the unities existing
both within poetic works and within reality.
Thus dramatic acting is not, as is commonly thought, the reconcilia-
tion between the realism of poetry and reality. Nor is it the servant of
those two lords. The accuracy with which the dramatic actor follows
the poetic role, and the truth of the given world, are not mechanical
copies of each other. Rather, the dramatic actor's personality inter-
weaves those two roles as organic elements in his creative expression of
life. He was born as a personality and not with a predetermined de-
pendence on written dramatic works, or with a reality which he is
expected to redraft.
Here we find one more example of an important historic task
which con fronts the present age: to replace mechanism with life proc-
esses. We have come to see how each individual's reality contains in
itself a condensation of life, which de termines its essence and inc1udes
in its development an those living realizations which surround it in
organic interdependence. The mechanical principle, on the other hand,
de-individualizes an these phenomena and reconstructs them, more or

less externally, as mere combinations of others. If we understand the
dramatic art as an expression of the primary artistic energy of the human
soul, which assimilates both the poetic art and reality into one living
pro cess, instead of being composed of these elements in a mechanical
fashion, then our interpretation of this art coincides with our distinc-
tively modern way of understanding the modern world.
97
Psychological and EthnologicalStudies
on Music*,l
ARWIN WRITES in The Descent of J\1an: (t'iVe must suppose that

the rhythms and cadences of oratory are derived from previ-
ously deve10ped musical powers. We can thus understand how it is
that music, dancing, song, and poetry are such very ancient arts. We
may go even further then this and believe that musical sounds afforded
one of the bases for the deve10pment of language." 2 In similar fashion
he e1aborates in his work, On the Expression of the Emotions,s, his view
that the singing of birds serves especiany the purpose of mating cans.
It expresses sexual drives and chamls the females. Man supposedly first
used his voice for this purpose, and not in verbal language, which
Darwin sees as one of the most recent products of human development.
On the other hand, the use of musical tones for the attraction of females
(or conversely of males) can be observed among animaIs of a very low
order. Jaeger likewise observes that the singing of birds is not an that
intimate1y related to articulated verbal language. 4 On the contrary, it
corresponds precisely to the unarticulated wordless yodeling of man.
It is "the expressive sound of sexual excitement, the tones of pleasure."
But the meaning of birds singing should be more broadly interpreted,
because it is also used to express pleasures derived from other sources,
such as sunshine or the discovery of food. One should keep in mind,
of course, that warmth and certain food items can also be stimulants.
* A translation of "Psychologisclle und ethnologische Studien über Musik,"
Zeitschrift für Volkerpsychologie und Sprachwissenschaft, 13 (1882), 261-305.
Human yodeling, however, is also connected with the sexual sphere,

since it is said to be the sign of communication between boy and girl.
1 should like to reply to these views that every expression of birds
is vocal in nature. Just as birds express every other emotion through
singing, so they must also express their sexual feelings. Even if these
conditions were the most powerful, aIl others could rightfully serve for
the same analogy. If this were so, it would be hard to understand
why man should have progressed to verbal language, since he could
express everything through the use of tones. Now 1 will even adopt
Darwin's point of view: if man had found this non-verbal use of the
singing voice, which he is sa id to have inherited from his ancestors,
more natural than language, would he not have maintained it on the
lowest culturalleve1 as a survival, so that contemporary man, too, would
express himself by worldless yode1ing? With the exception of our moun-
tain people, however, there is no evidence of its anywhere else in the
world, as Professor Bastian assured me and as 1 convinced myself in my
own studies. We will have occasion to examine this yode1ing, of dubious
sexual connection, later (see Section XVII of this study). For birds,
of course, singing is the na tural expression of emotions, while man is
more likely to shout. Why should man have searched for another
form of expression for such a natural emotion as the sexual drive?
The priority of vocal singing over verbal language seems to me to
be undemonstrable. Nor am 1 persuaded by the other argument that
children are more likely in this fashion to imita te singing than speech.
(A mother of five children, who later turned out to be musically
talented, told me that none of her children sang in tones before their
second or third years.) 1 believe that the reason for this is simply that
children hardly understand the meaning of presented words. If they
repeat anything, it is simply mechanical. The children must memorize
the series of phonemes in order to reproduce them. Obviously this is
difficult, and it is much easier for him to memorize and reproduce the
speech melody, which makes a more precise sensual impression than
the phonemes. If the speech melody now takes on a vocal melody, the
child will naturally be able to imitate it more easily, sin ce it will make
an even more precise impression. It is only because it is mechanically
easier to imitate the melody that it will be repeated by the child more
readily than will the words. This would prove only that a child com-
mences singing without words. But so far it has not been proven that
the child will do so without imitating. Casual singing without words
is only observed among adults, never among very small children, who
always sing words.
The role which is played by the memory in this connection can
be seen from the following: consider a child who is able to repeat a
99
GEORG SIM MEL
simple folk melody. Now, if one sings for him one of Chopin's melo-
dies, which consists of the identical selection of tones, on1y in different
sequence, he will not be able to repeat it. Obviously this is because, just
as in adults, the memory has not been able to retain this Iess natural
sequence of tones. The child's technical capacity for reproducing these
sounds is demonstrated by his repeating the folk song. The custom of
ancient peoples who usually sang their 1egal texts before the invention of
phonetic writing can probab1y be attributed to their unconscious aware-
ness of the greater security in reproduction that results from connecting
text with melody. Here we are dealing not simp1y with the facilitation
of seriaI reproductions which wou1d be the consequences of their tem-
poral sequence. On the contrary, each individual element-or at 1east
each group of elements-enters into a substantive1y founded synthesis
with the corresponding one of the other sequences. This a1so demon-
strates the basic relationship between poetry and music. As is weIl-
known, the memory retains rhythmic and rhymed material much more
easily than it does prose, and for a longer time.
II
It seems most Iikely to me that the source of vocal music is the

spoken word, which is exaggerated by emotions in the direction of
rhythm and modulation. My reasons are as follows. Language and
mind develop through mutual support and strengthening. The progress
of the one is built upon that of the other. "The essence of man is
thought, and human thought is originally language," says Steinthal.
Therefore, wherever there are psychic processes among man, there is also
language. Man's drive to express inner emotions through externa1 ac-
tion, which previously could only be satisfied by gestures and shouting,
is given a richer and more appropria te form through language. This
linguistic bridge from animal to human being cannot be retraced.
Every emotion searches for expression in more and more characteristic
linguistic form. Thinking and feeling among aborigines is expressed
through speech. "Children and primitives speak almost continuously,"
observes Lazarus. More refined and emphatic psychic processes will
search for a more exaggerated expression. Acute and intense processes
will be very strong. For this reason the linguistic ability of primitive
people will not provide an equivalent compensation for it, be it ever
so intensified and expressive. For example, sudden terror will only cause
us to scream, as will intense pain. 5 On the other hand, there are emo-
tions which will not be strong enough to overcome the drive for 1in-
guistic expression. Nevertheless, they will not be able to find an ade-
quate compensation in the usual modes and forms of language. Anger,
100
for example, finds expression in words, but with an intensified accentu-

ation of voice level that is a far louder than usual one. Depression
is expressed through words of softer and more monotonous character.
There may aIso be additional emotions which amplify the rhythmic
and modulatory elements of language. One example is the activities of
war. The intensification of energies on this occasion seems to infuse
an activities with rhythmic expression, as shown in the dancing and
rhythmic steps used by many primitive peoples. When primitive man
has progressed so far that he expresses his emotions through language
(he must already have reached this stage when he engages in organized
warfare )-so that, for example, specifie expressions have been developed
in a tribe for specifie situations (for example, cans for bravery and for
deprecating the enemy in warfare )-he then produces these sounds
rhythmicany and in keeping with the whole disposition and in step.
Through the teaching of ethnology, we know that these rhythmi-
caIly organized sounds are practiced throughout the world at the ap-
proach of the enemy. Rhythm, indeed, is the very beginning of music.
A second cause of the evolution of vocal song may have been a
diffuse feeling of pleasure and enjoyment. We observe that people are
more talkative when in happy spirits than when they are in quiet or
depressed moods. Children especially, even when they are by them-
selves, will be observed speaking continuously when they are enjoying
themselves. Primitive man, however, will employ the same words for
aIl forms of emotional expression, only he will vary the tonal pitch and
emphasis for expressions of joy. While his language ha s, as yet, not
rigidified toward stabilized speech melody, he has at his disposaI the
fullness of modulation and differentiation. 6
Even today we alter our mode of speech when we express joyful
emotions. We then defleet our speech melody and produce a more
me1odious and harmonie speech pattern, as if we wished to give evi-
dence of our inner harmony. Furthermore, one should observe that
there seems to be a tendency towards rhythmic expression whenever
we are happy. This is so, most like1y, not only because there is an
intrinsic link between rhythm and me10dy formation, but also for sub-
stantive reasons. The rhythmic motions of the dance are, among others,
reproductions of the joyful mood. 7
In this category of emotions we may also include the sexual drive.
1 believe that 1 have aIready shown that it is impossible to prove in this
manner the non-verbal origin of music. It may be possible, as Jaeger
suggests, that the sexual excitement which accompanies verbal courting
led, by its exaggeration, to vocal music (see Sections 1 and XVIII of
this study). But then, one has to disregard the most primitive means
known for satisfying the sexual drive, abduction, since it is not at aIl
101
GEORG SIM MEL
connected with courting. It is impossible to show that human singing

is anywhere used merely as an animalistic expression. To this point, as
to many others, Wilhelm Von Humboldt has added another seed of
wisdom. He says,
Words flow from the heart freely without necessity or intention.
There may not have been in a desolate area any nomadic hunting
horde which did not already own its own songs, for man, as an animal
species, is a singing creature. He does, however, connect thoughts
with sound. 8
A fourth emotion may be mentioned among the sources of vocal
music: the mystical-religious. Almost aIl incantations, magic formulas,
and prayers, as far as we can trace them in ethnographic materials, are
produced with the greatest possible pathos, which approxima tes the
tonal pattern of vocal music the most closely. Even today, speech is
produced nowhere else in a more singing fashion than from the pulpit
and during prayers. Indeed the ordinary begging tone noticeably ap-
proxima tes singing. 9 Also, the rhythmical element must be emphasized
by the well-measured and elongated forms that are germane to mysti-
cism. This is also demonstrated by the dance, which is employed in
every primitive religion to express religious emotion.
The languages of Negro tribes supposedly consist almost exclusively
of continuous recitations. The reason for this is certainly the easy
excitability of these people, their emotional devotion and dedication to
all fleeting ideas and impressions, so that the excitement at any given
moment is probably too strong to be expressed in simple words, and
therefore takes refuge in musical exaggeration. When in contrast to
our harsh sounding idioms it has been said that the language of Greeks
and Italians sound more like music, then his inclination to melody
in speech is certainly not without connection to the more excited and
simu1taneously more emotional character of these people. What is
commonly called musical talent of individuals and whole societies may,
therefore, be derivable from such more general psychological qualities.
l t seems to me tha t the first form of song stemmed from such
origins. This first form, however, was quite different from what we
today conceive of as vocal music. But one must not forget that music
in this state was not yet art, just as the huts of the primitive people
were not works of architectural art. In order for them to be developed
into a form of art, a special impetus was needed which was not wholly
conditioned by these first origins. No traveler has hesitated to recognize
the songs of primitive peoples as music despite their unbelievable mo-
notony or lack of harmony. Ammian describes the war songs of BardaI
as songs, even though he compares their sound with the noise of the
102
ocean when it beats against rocks. That the Chinese say, when they
listen to European songs, that t'the dogs are howling here," is charac-
teristic of the difference in judgment concerning what is real and proper
music. To European ears, Chinese music is equally incomprehensible.
If, then, in our own time when music by no means approximates pure
or natural sound any more, such differences in judgment occur-so that
something can now be regarded as song and soon again be rejected-
how much more must the boundaries between shouting, words and sing-
ing have vacil1ated during primeval days when the tonal material was in
a more fluid condition. The reason that singing approxima tes unarticu-
la ted shouting more c10sely than spoken words seems to lie in the fact
that whenever a larger number of untrained and uneducated individuals
congregate for singing, the result, even today, is usually closer to noise
than to musical tones. lO Moreover, whenever excitement reaches a
climax, vocal singing may not be an adequate compensation for these
emotions, so that one has to resort to shouting. ttVoluntary interjec-
tions are only employed when the suddenness or vehemence of sorne
affection or passion returns men to their natural state." 11
Concerning this transition from speaking to singing and from
singing to shouting, it is interesting to note what Freycinet tells about
the savage people of Rio de Janeiro during the period of European
contact.
They used to celebra te a religious festival every three to four years,

during which the magicians named Caraibes separated the people into
men, women, and children, and placed them in three separate build-
ings. The magicians entered the house of the men, whereupon aU
those assembled began to speak in low tones. Then they sang in a
higher tone, whereupon the woman responded to these songs with a
trembling voice. Soon they shouted with force, then they rose vio-
lently up to the point of frothing . . . .12
A similar rise is mentioned by Hochstetter concerning the love songs

of the Maori.
The refrain of each verse is formed by violently ejaculated guttural

sounds. Through this manner of presentation the intention of drawing
an adequate picture of the vehement emotions which capture the
whole man is fulfilled. 13
\Vith respect to this transition of speech to song, Martius observes that
. . . whenever a Botucotu tribesman desires or demands something

longingly, or attains an emotional state, he will raise his speech to a
GEORG SIMMEL
monotonous song. It seems as if he wanted ta replace the meagerness

of his expression with the increased volume of sound. 14
Grey observes exactly the same among the Australian aborigines. 15 The
Tehuelche people let their songs be heard only during their festivities
and while they are drunk. It resembles their speech patterns closely, and
is apparently a transition of speech into song, which is the result of
the agitation of the moment. 16
It seems to me, therefore, that vocal music must have developed
from speech. Originally it was only language which was exaggerated by
emotional states. 17 Our linguistic usage retains sorne signs of this re-
la tionship insofar as the most sophistica ted form of language, namely
poetry, is described as song. One should pay attention to how closely
the voice approaches song whenever a poem is presented with fullest
dedication to emotion and declaimed with pathos. lndeed, at sorne
distance one might be tempted to mistake it for a monotonous song. 1B
But it is just as monotonous as are the songs of almost aIl primitive
peoples of whom we have knowledge.
It follows from the nature of vocal music that the more closely
related it is with poetry, the closer it is to its origin. Bodenstedt teIIs
of the song-Ioving Caucasian soldiers.
1 had sorne of the major singers come to me and dictate sorne of

the songs which had appealed to me the most. It was, however, im-
possible ta get the Kerle (fellows) to the point where they would sing
to me a song ward for word. They hummed and saIlg on and aIl.
Usually they had already finished with the whole song before 1 had
completed the transcription of the first verse. 1 let them know that
presently 1 was Ilot interested in the melody, but that they should
tell me the texts word for word. They attempted their best ta com-
ply with my wish, but it was impossible for them ta utter one verse
in this fashion. Finally one of them said, "Sir, such things one cannot
simply say, they must be sung." 19
1 do not need to remind the reader here of the innermost fusion

of the two during classic antiquity. 1 will cite only a single passage
which seems to me especially characteristic: "The very rocks of the
wilderness give back a sympathetic echo to the voice; savage beasts have
sometimes been charmed into stillness by song; and shall we, who are
nurtured upon an that is highest, be deaf to the appeal of poetry?" 20
Cicero is referring here to Orpheus, of whom it is reported that he
tamed wild beasts by the sound of pure music. Nowhere is it said that
they understood the content or words of the poems he sang. With this
reference Cicero intends to defend Archias, who was only a poet and
needed never to have sung a note during his whole life. The concepts,
howevcr, of poetry and song are so c10sely related (the one infallibly
calls for the other) that v"ithout much reflection the essence and effects
of both become identified even though there may not be an)' direct
rclationships behveen the two.
The variety of idiomatic expressions in which the continuous repe-

tition of similar parts is compared with music indicates how very
characteristic rhythm is for music, namely, the repetition of similar
structures. See for example sayings such as: You shan be deprived,
deprived you shaH be, so goes the eternai song. The oid round. In the
same meaning: the old song. C'est toujours la même chanson. E
sempre la stessa canzone. Volver a la misma cancion. Among the
Tehuelche the songs are restricted to the mere repetition of completely
meaningless sounds. 21 The text to the dancing songs of the Akrekuna
consists in the eternal1y repeated word Heia, heia. 22
Even when melodies are completely absent, there remains a vivid
feeling for meter and rhythm. This can be observed among Negroes,
whose melodic talents have been placed rather low by several writers. 23
Bowdich is surprised by the marvelous rhythmic control of the musicians
throughout the multifarious complexity and disharmony of the
music.24 Schlagintwelt relates about the music in a Chinese Theatcr
which was straining the listener's ears: "I was never able to find the
melody. The beat, however, was kept strictly. It was communicated
by the conductor through the forceful striking of two wooden sticks
upon a board." 25 The same feeling of rhythm is mentioned of
IVlelanesian peoples.
A speculative hypothesis is submitted here concerning the reason
for the expression of emotions through rhythmic activities: When we
are excited we seem to sense the beating of the heart and pulse more
markedly because of the faster circulation of blood. Since these are
markedly rhythmic, they tend in general towards rhythmic movements.
This drive toward rhythmic expression manifests itself sometimes
in curious forms. Certain Australian tribes yield to it during songs
when they pull the ends of their beards with their hands in keeping
with the rhythms. (At least it seems to me that the passage in Browne
concerning aboriginal Australians should be so understood.) 26 Arabic
sailors mutually even hit their heads together when singing, which
obviously occurs in rhythmically cletermined intervals. 27
Therefore it is also true that we are Ieast able to sing when we
are in moods of depression or excitement, that is, whenever the heart-
1°5
GEORG SIMMEL
beat is very quiet or irregular. Then we are almost unable to stay with
a rhythm which is in contrast to our inner oscillating feeling. A piano
player who is afraid is the most likely to miss the beat. There is also a
reciprocal effect. Whenever one is very much afraid and commences
singing under great effort of wi11, the fear will be mitigated. Children
will sing in darkness in order to rid themse1ves of fear. It has been
observed that the beats of music even affect the heartbeat of man. 28
Quete1et found that his heartbeat accommodated itself to rhythmic
motions which he heard or executed. It is then quite probable that,
converse1y, acoustical manifestations will be rhythmically structured by
rhythmica11y fe1t pulses or heartbeats. 29
When we are excited, we are not in a position to continue speaking
in our usual manner. Our lungs, which work more diligently when we
are excited, exhale air in a more intermittent fashion. Thus, the panting
manner of speech is produced by certain excitements. Coughing, no
doubt, con tains an element of rhythm. BO When a rhythmica11y and
melodically formed linguistic sound has come into being, there may also
have occurred a process analogous to that which was so important in
the origin of language. There the memory of a sensation was close1y
connected with the memory of a sound which was instigated by it and
perhaps produced simultaneously. When the emotion subsequently
recurred, the repetition of the rhythmic or me10dic sounds may have
been a11 the more probable, easier and immediate.
IV
Let us now continue with questions concerning the origin of
instrumental music. Similar at least to vocal music, which originated
from mere speaking, it developed from mere noise. But it is much less
a natural product, an unconscious emotional expression. Vischer has
written extensive1y on the difference between vocal and instrumental
music after their deve10pments into art. 31 There he emphasizes that
musical instruments "present resistance already as mere material mat-
ter." Hence, instrumental music can only reflect emotions that move
man's moods, and not, as in songs, be a direct expression of the latter.
This point of view, at least, cannot be tenable for the period of the
origin of music.32
Whenever a tribesman on the war path yie1ds to his inner emotions
-which may also drive him to sing on this occasion-and clashes his
weapons together resoundingly and rhythmica11y, could this act not
be considered a direct expression of his emotion analogous to song?
There are other emotions which lead to similar noises which could be
cal1ed unintentional. Thus, the English doctor Chrichton Browne
106
describes a female me1ancholic patient who spent hours rhythmically

beating together the palms of her hands which were locked by her
fingers. Why shouldn't the emotions which are able to induce the
vocal chords to commence their special rhythmical movements which
we caB song and which lead the legs into the rhythmic movements of
the dance, also induce the hands to their rhythmic clapping, which is
the first and most natural beginning of instrumental music? And why
shouldn't these emotions also induce the hands to use the instruments
which may be at this moment in their grasp? The same considerations
can be applied to the rhythmic stamping of the feet on the fIoor, and
the noise which is thereby produced, which, in the same fashion as the
clapping of hands, is a natural expression of emotions at the beginning
of instrumental music. It is also a reason for the deep identity of
music and dance. Among several very old national dances a special and
important role is played by this stamping of the feet on the fIoor.
Poeppig did not find any musical instrument amongst the Pehueuche.
He only observed an identification of rhythm with the stamping of
their feet whenever they sang and danced.S3 The simultaneous employ-
ment of both fonns of musical expression aH over the world, even on
the lowest levels of musical development, can be explained by the
identical source of instrumental and vocal music. This phenomenon
otherwise is not at aIl intelligible. Their unification may also be based
on the fact that excitements, reemphasized through singing, led to
such rhythmical productions of noise, and thus, perhaps, to the most
primitive form of accompaniment. In general, it is generally supposed
that vocal music was the foundation of instrumental music. 1 cannot
understand the rationale of this argument unless it is in the sense
above. Among several Polynesian peoples the clapping of hands serves
as the rhythmic accompaniment of singing in the place of instruments.S4
Brugsch relates the same of the Nubians.S5 It is reported of the north-
west Caroline Islands that vocal music was accompanied there by
beating out the rhythm on the waist. 36 Salvado writes: "Wind and
stringed instruments are perfectly unknown among the natives of
Nuaova Norcia, as are also unknown to them any variety of drums.
They accompany their singing, however, by the joyous striking together
of their weapons." S7
Stringed instruments are less wide1y distributed than wind instru-
ments. The construction and principle of stringed instruments point
away from a period of musical deve10pment in which music was pri-
marily a product of simple psycho-physical causes, and not of artistic
intentions. Flutes be10ng more to the period of nature. This is because
of their origin as weIl as of their effects and technical conditions.
Stringed instruments belong more to the period of art. Even highly
GEORG SIMMEL
developed antiquity did not transcend a quite inadequate harp in the

area of string instruments.3S
This immediate effect of wind instruments accounts for their almost
exclusive use in conjunction with mere noise instruments for the pur-
poses of mystic and exciting occasions. The South African magician
(Mganga), uses a magic horn; the music of horns and flutes surrounds
the orgiastic cuIts of Cybele and Dionysus. The music for the Buddhist
service in Tibet is executed with wind instruments and drums. 39
For the same reason, primitive people have a vivid feeling for wind
instruments. Rhythms can be more sharply characterized by them and
they approximate vocal music-probably the first form of music-more
closely than string instruments. "Lartet has described two flutes, made
out of the bones and horns of the reindeer, found in caves together
with flint tools and the remains of extinct animaIs." 40
Martins relates how he did not at all impress the Indians with his
violin playing. Very soft flutes also do not seem to impress various
primitive peoples greatIy, as Seeman tells us about the Eskimo of the
Pacific Ocean. 41 Other peoples enjoy these and especially loud instru-
ments more. When the Magyars carne to Western Europe they only
knew wind instruments, since only the words which designate these are
of national origin. Those for the other instruments are taken over from
European languages. This tendency was maintained through the days
of Ladislaus VI and Ludwig II. From the rank order which existed in
their times one can see that the musicians of wind instruments had a
higher rank over others in the royal orchestras. 42 This, perhaps, cor-
responds with the more emotional and warlike character of this nation.
Even today our own military music is predominantly noise and wind
music, and certainly not only because of technical reasons. The Kam-
chatka people also developed only clarinet-like wind instruments. 43
In Lithuania and Estonia the bagpipe is the oldest and most widely
spread instrument. 44 Polynesians 45 only know the drum, flute, and
shell trumpet, as do the l\1elanesians 46 and the old Mexicans. 47
There is an approxima te analogy between the developments of
vocal and instrumental music. Mere noise, the beginning of the latter,
corresponds to the sound of the words which form the beginning of
the former. Rhythmically organized language, which is the decisive step
towards vocal music, corresponds to the rhythmic production of noise
and to those wind instruments which only produce a few monotonously
alternating notes. Finally, the melodic variation of pitch, genuine sing-
ing which follows rhythms and is not as shown by our development a
purely natural product, corresponds to those instruments which me-
lodically aIternate several tones.
108
The earliest instruments that can be found are therefore noise

instruments. Bossmann tells us that the Moors had at least ten different
drums. 48 He feH their music to be intensely barbaric. Among the most
ancient Greek instruments we find manifold forms of noise instruments:
sistron, tympanon, chrotaion, chumbalon. Among Indians, Waitz only
sees noise instruments, rarely a fIute with a maximum of six holes.
Freycinet praises the 'very melodic airs' of the music of the Timor; of
instruments, however, they only knew the little drum, the big drum,
and other noise instruments. 49 The noise instrument of the slaves of
Rio de Janeiro, which is described by Wilkes,50 is distributed around
the whole worId. It is a rattle "made of tin similar to a child's rattle."
Every ethnological museum shows the immense distribution of this
instrument which appears in a great number of variations. Frequently
it is made of dried and hollowed-out fruits which are filled with seeds
or pebbles.51
v
Monotony is predominant in the vocal as weIl as instrumental
music of primitive peoples. It is derived from the origin of music in
non-melodic noise. This is so even in areas where the means are avail-
able for more meIodic presentations and on occasions on which we
would tend to expect a more sensually appealing form of music. 52
Quaas describes the music which accompanies the most seductive
dances of the Bajaderes as being most monotonous and played on fIutes
and drums. 53 "When a Chinese expects success of his show of dedica-
tion when serenading, he will have to repeat his song for several hours.
A three-to-hour-hundred-fold repetition is not rare, since Chinese love
songs seldom contain more than four stanzas. 54 Tylor tells of Mexican
dances which he observed in Coroyotta: "A man and a woman stood
facing each other, an old man tinkled the guitar producing a strange,
end les s, monotonous tune, and the two dancers stamped their feet and
moved their arms and bodies about in time to the music, throwing
themselves into aftected and voluptuous attitudes . . . ." 55 Whoever
has attended a performance of a Tarantella near the Gulf of Naples
will have observed to what feverish extent such monotonous music
is able to stimulate the blood, and how far it can be adapted to sensual
and voluptuous dances. Monotonous music also increases mystical ex-
citement. This may be the reason for the monotony of songs that are
connected with religious exercises, no less in the litanies of Christian
and Judaic churches than in the religious ceremonies of African and
Asiastic peoples. 56
10<)
GEORG SIMMEL
As language relates to concrete thought, so music does to diffuse

emotional feelings. The first crea tes the second, because the second
crea tes the first. Similarly, in poetry, the imagination of the poet
kindles an analogous one in the listener. In the case of music, per-
ceptual imaginations are replaced by far less defined emotions. In
poetry these occur only intermediately. Among poets, the feelings
precede the imaginations, while among listeners they follow them.
The assumption that music stimulates the emotions which precede
the creative work of poets makes situations like the following easy to
understand. Before writing poetry', Alfieri usually prepared himself
mentally by listening to music. He once remarked, "almost aIl my
tragedies were sketched in my mind while 1 listened to music or within
a few hours thereafter." Milton was filled with solemn inspiration
while he listened to the sound of an organ. For the sensitive poet
Warburton, too, music was a necessity. A famous French preacher,
Massillon, drafted the outline of his sermons which he had to deliver
to the court, while he played his violin. Drawing on Streicher, Palleske
refers to the stimulation which Schiller reputedly derived from music.
The ancient eus tom of musical preludes before rhapsodies is likely
related to this. Today the custom is preserved by composers who usually
begin a song with a prelude of the accompanying instruments rather
than with the immediate singing.
In order to understand properly the specific psychological char-
acteristics of music, we cannot place enough stress on the transitional
pro cess from the affects and emotions of the performer through his
music to the feelings and sensations of the listener. This pro cess is
cognitively understood much less for music than for any other art form.
The superficial rationalistic conception of the eighteenth century's
psychological research is characteristically represented by Euler, who
writes: "The enjoyment of music derives from one's ability to guess
correctly the intentions and emotions of the composer, the execution
of which will fin one's soul with a comfortable satisfaction if one con-
siders the composition a fortunate one." 57
The enjoyment of music as art is contrasted with these relative1y
emotional patterns on the basis of only quantitative and not at aIl
qualitative dimensions. Contemporary as compared with very primitive
music produces such a myriad of feelings of great variety that an equi-
librium en sues among them through their restraining re1ationships on
one another. The result then is objectivity. Helmholtz writes:
110
It would be important to discover whether the significant and highly

varied expression of emotions which is produced by music cannot be
derived from the very same form of emotional activity which is re-
sponsible for the movement of (bodily) limbs, just as the variations
of the pitch level in song is caused by innervations of muscles. The
recurrence of the sequence of physical-psychical phenomena of which
we spoke here and earlier explains many effects of music. If, indeed,
as 1 suppose, musical expressions are influenced by the rhythm of
excited heartbeats, th en it is natural that musical expression will be
produced for the listener by the latter. This will be the result of
physiological connections as weIl as of psychic associations and repro-
duction. 58
VII
During the course of its development, music rejects its natural
characteristics more and more. 59 The further it advances, the closer
it approximates the ideal of art. Through this pro cess it approaches
objectivity, which is the highest honor for the (performing) artist. This
does not mean that aIl feelings, or only the very climatic and sanguine
ones, disappear from music, nor that they should not become excited by
it or should no longer excite themselves. It means only that music and
its manner of presentation should not be the immediate result of these
emotions, as it was originaIly; but instead, that it should become an
image of them, which is reflected in the mirror of beauty. It is in this
sense that the old explanation should be understood, according to
which music, or any other art, is supposed to be imitation. Music
imitates the tones which spring forth from the soul when elicited by a
strong emotion. Above aIl this seems to me to be the decisive point in
the explanation of music as an art form. Naturally it refers also to
instrumental music, which in a very crude and initial approximation
of art imita tes those reflex-like rhythmic noises.
Even though the first production of musical sounds is originally
accompanied by words, they can be omitted. Intense emotions produce
the tones, and it is the latter, of course, which are important. 1 have
observed singers who did not pay proper attention to the texts of their
songs, and who thus sang aIl imaginable forms of contradictory mean-
ings. Nevertheless, they performed the melodies with the truest and
deepest emot.ional expression and comprehension. This is a perfect
proof of the artistic character of music: music produces typical sensa-
tions which include completely the more individual sensations produced
by words.
With deep insight, language refers to the making of music as
"play" or "playing." Nowadays music is indeed play, and must be such
III
GEORG SIMMEL
if it is to be art. But in its inception music was serious to the same

degree as speech and exclamation and aIl other natural sounds.
Victor Renauld, the French engineer, sees it as significant that it

is almost exclusive1y the women who create new verbal expressions as
well as songs and dirges among the Botucotu peoples. In Siam music
is almost the single occupation of women: "The highest ambition of
the fair sex in Siam is to possess the faculty of performing the graceful
evoca tions and charming tunes of the Lakhon-pu-Yng. Their perception
of concord in notes is as acute as that of European musicians and they
are equally as long in tuning their instruments." 60 According to
Andree,61 women are the poets and composers among the Kamchatka.
In Estonia only women are assigned to singing. 62 With the exception
of two women, there is no mention of lyrical or sung poetry in the
Old Testament from the times of Moses to David. These are Deborah,
who sings her song of victory (even though she sings with Barak),63
and Hannah, who sings her song of praise on the occasion of Samuel's
birth. 64 De1aborde writes about the Hungarian Magyars: "One sees
again, among the peasant farmers who maintain primitive customs for
extended times, that the younger girls assemble on holidays and join
in singing together odes and ancient poetry. Never are they accom-
panied by young men." 65 On the Fiji Islands it is only the women
and children who sing. Men of the higher ranks never sing. 66
It is remarkable that the close association between dance and
music becomes reversed among sorne people as soon as the question of
prestige enters into consideration. Among the Romans, vocal music
was despised even during very early times. Dancing was even considered
a vice. However, already during the period of Gracchus, young boys of
noble descent were taught to sing. 67 For many years to come, the dance
was treated as a sign of the most reprehensible lack of good taste. Ac-
cording to Vambery, the Oesbeges consider as decent only the dance of
women. Musical instruction is given, however, to the princes of the
house of the lord. 68 Sexual differentiation of activities is also attested
by the opposite fact: among the Tehue1che, it is the men who dance,69
as they do in Turkey, where other reasons, however, may be the cause.
In Hisiuen, Gatteron found a strict separation between men and women
during their very obscene dances. 70 Chamisso reports that on Radak
the women sing an the songs which deal with war and navigation. 71
Among the Mede, music was also primarily in the hands of women. 72
According to Busch, it appears that only women played a certain horn
among the N egroes of the Mississippi. 73
112
Australian men are led to the most sensual actions by the songs of
their women. 74 The women of Madagascar even believed that their
singing and dancing at home would invigorate the daring, courage, and
energy of their husbands away at war. 75 A contradictory argument
should also be cited here: Pirschewalski observes that the women seem to
be less musical among the Mongols than their men. 76 At the same time,
he reports, their position towards men is absolutely inferior. This effect
probably corresponds to the emotional expression which we examined
above.
AnimaIs, at least, can be induced through music to engage in
sexual relations. 77 Among musical insects it is only the females who
make music.
When, during their lascivious festivities, after sorne mere singing,
the Kimbande women dance the reprehensible Kanye dance and permit
their men, who would like to stimulate them to further possible ex-
cesses, to join, they add drumming and flute playing.78 Sirens seduced
travelers through their songs. "Don't get famiIiar with the singing girl
so that she doesn't catch you through her charm." 79 It is not decent for
a single man to sing or dance among Persians despite their passionate
love for music and dancing. On1y low-caste people practiced music
which was not connected with religious services. 80 "The Iips of the
whore are sweeter than honeydew and her voice is smoother than oil."81
Relationships between music and sexual processes can be demon-
strated among aU primitive peoples who use the puberty and circum-
cision ceremonies of young men and girls as cause for festivities at
which they emp10y music in a major ro1e. 82
Since women are more actively engaged in producing music, it is
quite conceivab1e that their receptivity to music is a1so stronger. Do-
britzhofer writes that he was immediate1y able to attract a crowd of
fema1es through his vio1in p1aying, but, on1y 1ater, crowds of young
men. 83 Sa1vado relates of the songs of the Austra1ian aborigines: "Songs
of lamentation amict their facial expressions in a mask-1ike manner,
and especially so for the women who are tru1y full of tears." 84 Eth-
nographic observations show that the differentiation of the sexes Viras
recognized early by primitive peop1es and probab1y 1ed to mystica1
meanings and commands. Among the Ashanti, no woman is ever
permitted to touch any of the numerous musical instruments. She is
permitted on1y to participate in singing. 85 There is a variety of Indian
songs which may on1y be sung by men. 86 On Lukanor there are songs
which are on1y to be sung by women and others which are on1y per-
mitted to men. 87 In Loango music is performed in huts which are
inhabited by girls during their first menstrua1 period. This music is
produced on the primitive instruments which are restricted for use by
GEORG SIMMEL
females: the ntubu and the kuimbi. These have to be available in each
virgin's hUt. 88
IX
Undoubtedly the true nature of music is revealed, even more clearly
than in previous examples, in refrain singing, which at first sight could
be treated as a pure mode of artistic expression. The origin of this form
of expression, however, can only have been the excitement of an audi-
ence which resulted from the singing of a single individual. They must
have joined the singing unconsciously-at first probably not to the
same melody, but in a wild mixture of tones. TIlis style of singing is
still purely subjective. The circumstances of this first group singing
are without significance. What matters is only the emotional impact
which results from it. But this could have been caused equally weIl by
sorne other event. Only after a feeling of objectivity has been estab-
lished, and a certain sense for harmonious sound developed, can people
join in the melody of a song by which they were stimulated. Even
today, when we are excited by sorne musical composition, we will sing
along, partly or even completely unaware of it; at least we might move
our hands or feet in the appropriate rhythm. Whenever primitive
people sing simple refrains there occurs a combination of natural and
artistic elements. The mood which is created by the sông leader induces
the audience to sing. When they sing the same tones as he does, and
repeat his tones, this turns into a kind of imitation which approaches
art. Even here a purely natural force is engaged. The first song might
have stimulated related feelings in the audience. These, in turn, might
lead to a corresponding, even though not identical, song. After sorne
repetition of this pro cess, one could anticipate the climactic point of
the effects at which one would be induced most strongly to join in the
singing-at least of already familiar tunes. This means of course that
the effect would occur with certainty.
Most American Indian songs have refrains which are sung by a
chorus. 89 Freycinet tells about his experiences on the island of Timor:
the person who leads the dancers, sings the words; the refrain is re-
peated by the choir. 90 Winwood Reade states that whenever the Afri-
can Negro is excited he will start singing, another one will answer with
a song, while the rest of the company will mumur a chorus in complete
unison as if touched by a musical wave. 91 Brugsch reports, concerning a
song melody of his sailors from Nubia: "One sings a solo while the
choir accompanies his song by the clapping of hands and repeats se-
lected parts." 92 The recitation of the classical Greek Chorus was sung,
and the selected melodies were so simple and popular with the audi-
en ces that they sometimes joined in those tunes which were known to
them. 93 Pontécoulant reports that Negroes frequently sing during the
sugar cane harvest in order to overcome fatigue. They do this in the
following manner: a female Negro with a sonorous voice commences
singing a couplet, then the refrain is repeated by the chorus. 94 Pindar
writes that the people at the Olympie festivals repeated the refrain
Tenella Challiniche Huee times after the announcement of the name
of the victor. This is an ancient custom. 95
x
At the sa me point begins the development of the folk song. When
one understands, on theoretical and empirical grounds, how especially
pleasing passages of solo singers invite the audience to join and repeat
the music, then it follows that those songs will have become more
popular which contain many of such pleasing passages. They will thus
have been remembered more easily. The lyrical connection further
facilita tes the memorizing of these tunes. It is quite likeIy that the
individual members of a tribe will have progressed from the original
imitative group singing to solo singing whenever they felt like singing
in those tunes which were now familiar to them.
There seems to be a strong tendency among human beings in
general to express one's mood through already familiar melodies before
the exploration of new ones.96 These songs, which were first sung by
a single individual, and which became popular through the imitation
of refrain-like passages, probably instigated others to join in the singing,
because they corresponded most with the characteristics of the audience.
It is on this basis that they have spread. Whenever the characteristics
of a people tend toward extremes, the more emotional meIodies first
invite others to join in the singing; if they are of a more sombre nature,
the more melancholic melodies lead to the independent expressions of
these moods. Eventually, it will invite the repetition of the music for
the simple delight in doing SO.97 Just as it is likely that the expressions
of the more talented individuals have found a wider acceptance during
the developmental process of language, so it is quite likely that the
vocal songs of the more important tribesmen will be imitated more
readily. This is on account of their improved expression of sensations
and their views or perceptions of the other members of society-and
because people will have listened to them more attentively and em-
ployed their verbal practices more frequently.
Among savages whose points of view are quite restricted, he who
knows how to express a quality of the people's soul with a more de-
veIoped degree of perfection than the average tribesman will be con-
GEORG SIMMEL
sidered of importance. U sually secular or priestly powers are connected

with inspirational performances. It is likeIy that tribesmen could be
especially attentive to the expression of the individual who is dis-
tinguished in this fashion. On this basis the wide distribution of vocal
music can also be explained, because these songs represent the content
of the people's living spirit.
This very basic quality of music, the ability to represent the people's
soul, is found to an especially perfected degree within single individuals
who are supported by talent or genius. A man will have these qualities
basically because he is a product of his people, whose total self was
formed through life within the society. His personal gifts could only
reinforce the received stimuli. To speak in an analogy, it is as if these
personal qualities had been invested for higher rates of return than
they would have been by the wide mass of the people. The more
highly gifted individual's meIodies will be spread among the people and
turned into folk song in the manner which we already described. Just
as one can truthfully say about the oratory of a popular representative,
who was elected by the total society because of his ability to represent
most intenseIy and accurately the individualities of the nation, that
he only pronounces the words which the people have spoken, so,
applying the same logic in accordance with our previous discussion, we
are indeed entitled to consider these individual meIodies as emanations
of the folk sou1. 98 In this case the usually more individualized repre-
sentations of the folk soul were intensified in the focal point of the
talents of sorne individuals.
XI
In addition to the expression of general emotions in folk song,
there is another especially significant phenomenon. It is found espe-
cially on the lower levels of musical practice: music is sometimes used
for the expression of very specialized and concrete images. Dallas
writes: "It is very remarkable, that the Maroons had a particular call
upon the horn for each individual, by which he was surnmoned from
a distance as easily as he could have been addressed by na me had
he been near." 99 Bowdich observes: "The natives in Ashanti maintain
that they are able to converse amongst one another by playing the flute.
An oIder resident of Akkra assured me that he had listened to such
conversations, and that every sentence had been explained to him. AIl
Chieftains in Ashanti have special meIodies for their horns," 100 In
Tyrolean society yodeIing is frequently employed for purposes of
communication. The same can be said for the songs of Venetian gon-
doliers and the women of the Lido. American lndians have special
melodies for the designation of the seasons.101 In Persia a certain

tonality, Zer-keki, pro duces images of wealth. 102 In the Cameroons
the news is spread by the sounding of horns, and royal orders are
publicized in the same fashion on Bissaux. lo3 On Tahiti the same
phenomenon occurs, when there are certain songs for the construction
of houses, others for cutting down trees or the launching of boats in
the ocean. 104 There is a special melody which is employed for the
ancient bridaI dance between the bride and the pastor in Soedermann-
land. lo5 From Wildheufluhen near Klosters it has been reported that
the meaning of the first excited shout to be heard on St. Jacob's Day is
that the respective shepherd has taken possession of a maid. 106 On the
Fiji Island the people are called together for cannibalistic festivals by a
special drum beat which is only used for this occasion. 107 That there
exists some form of relationship between the factors of personality
and the fomls of musical expression finds its utterance in the familiar
proverb that cornes to us from the German: "Whose bread 1 eat,
whose song 1 sing."
XII
Since music is originally a natural resultant of emotional excite-
ment, and sin ce listening to it can only pro duce excitement, it would
seem to be a contradiction that, especially as emphasized by the Greeks,
music should also evoke quieting and calming responses. The resolu-
tion lies in the following argument: The effects of music are indirect.
Indeed, the only way music can act on man is in the form of stimuli.
But when the response it generates is in the direction opposite to the
previously existing emotion, it will weaken that emotion. That is why
one may put people to sleep through singing. 10S As we have shown
above, music may bring with it a rise of the life spirit through its
stimulation of joyful and mystical sensations. There is nothing more
natural than that especially painful emotions will be weakened by this
contrasting process.
Only as a fully deve10ped art, devoid of direct reciprocity between
the sensations of the performers and listeners, can music produce a
weakening of emotions in the listeners. On the same basis, however,
this force could not have originated in the performers.
Plato mentions the melancholic mood of musicians: Greek music109
had its major purpose in the mentioned weakening of emotional states.
It is possible that the nature of musicians was gradually influenced by
the effects which they aimed for and produced. It is further possible
that external equanimity may be observable even while very strong
artistic emotions are at work.110
GEORG SIMMEL
Salvado reports about the Australian aborigines: HMany times in

their undulating dancing songs 1 saw them encouraged and stimulated
in their Iabor in the fields. Not once, but many times they fell to the
ground depleted of their strength and vigor. But, th en they began ta
sing 'Machielo, Machiele,' which was one of their best known and
favorite songs." 111 Then they commenced ta sing and dance by them~
selves and then ta return with new courage and vigor ta their work.
Thus, music is used everywhere for the relief of workers. 112
Freycinet writes about Timor: "When the inhabitants work, they
sing almost without stopping, especially if the occupation they are
engaging in, needs the cooperation of many individuals and a sort of
simultaneousness of action, such as having ta paddle in a piroque (Pit-
pan), carry heavy Ioads jointIy, thresh the rice . . . and to encourage
one another to work." 113
Quintilian writes: "Nor is this function of music confined ta cases
where the efforts of a number are given union by the sound of sorne
sweet voice that sets the tune, but even solitary workers find soIace at
their toil in artless songs." 114 There are aIso sorne animaIs-for example
cameIs during their fatiguing trips across the desert-which through
music are invigorated to renewed efforts.
It is also known from passages in the writings of Plutarch, Pollux,
and Aristotle that ancient peoples whipped their slaves to the accom-
paniment of music so as to make their punishment more tolerable.
According to Waitz, the Eskimo eased over the most miserable situa-
tions by making music and dancing.115 From Egyptian reliefs we Iearn
that during the immense slave Iabor which was employed for the moving
of monoliths, a man was standing high upon a stone in arder to sing
and mark a rhythm with his hands. The same custorIl in the most
recent times is still frequently observed in this region even though, of
course, under quite different conditions. Hammer, for example, reports
this in a review of Villoteau. 116
Most unusuaI effects of music, especially upon Negroes, are known
from severaI different descriptions. 117 No doubt the fanaticism of
Shamans, of the cult of Cybele, and of simiIar phenomena is Iargely
the result of the music which is employed during those occasions. Such
orgies naturally disappear among the more advanced peoples.
Nevertheless, many exciting effects remained through cIassicaI
antiquity, as is illustrated by previously mentioned examples. The
Spartan revolution was suppressed by Terpander through the powers
of music. WeIl known is the politicaI importance which was accorded
118
music in the classical Greek state. Plato says of Damon that it would
be impossible to change his music without changing the constiutional
order of the state. The extended passage in Volume III of Plato's
Republic must be mentioned, in which he examines the influence of
tonality, rhythm, and instruments upon the emotional make-up. Ac-
cordingly he permits or prohibits forms of music in the structure of
the state. To Plato music is only an educational too1.
The cens ors in Rome disapproved of aIl musical instruments in the
year 639. An exception was made for the simple flute. The alleged
influence on maraIs of flutes and string instruments were character-
isticaIly reversed in Rome and Greece. Greek political leaders were
more dedicated ta cultivate the Greek soul in a calm manner, while the
Romans preferred characters as energetic and excited as possible, III
correspondence with the warlike tendencies of the Roman state.
XIV
To several observers it has appeared remarkable that primitive
people should prefer very monotonous music, yet depict fantastic,
adventurous, loudly colored, and abnormal figures in their pictorial
endeavors. Thus it was shawn among the Botocudo. Martius observes
of them, and of aIl other original inhabitants of America who employ
extremely monotonous musical forms: uHe (the original inhabitant of
America) is able ta exaggerate the unusual, the grotesque and the un-
tamed into colossal forms, and to depict the scarce item in immense
and horrible expressions." The people of the Fiji Islands similarly love
most the cruel, exciting and fantastic horror stories while their music
is abominably monotonous. First, these people are much closer to the
origin of music in language. Since music originated and developed
only through the graduaI exaggeration of modulation and rhythm, it
must have been quite monotonous initially. The original organic con-
nection between music and linguistic usage was a limiting factor, which
can still be observed in the modern recitative.
Sorne monotony is nevertheless dominant in the pictorial art of
primitive people. Humboldt writes that primitive people are driven
by their spiritual talents to the simplification and generalization of
contours, and to the rhythmic repetition and serialization of pictures.
Hence a tendency to monotonous1y rhythmica1 expression can be con-
trasted with a tendency to fantastic expressions. A distinct aspect of
this imitative drive of uncÏvilized peop1es can a1so be observed today
in the tendency of lower-class people ta copy identical emb1ems or
signs on a rock or tree which has previously been so marked by a
passerby.118 We have evidence for this from petroglyphs from aIl over
GEORG SIMMEL
the world. The best description can be found in Andree. For the sake
of analogy, however, compare also page 121 (of the original essay).
Despite the monotony of primitive songs, there is nevertheless a
stark disharmonie concord of many voices and a similarity of structure
of the individual tonal sequences. Baker main tains that since the
Arabs' stomaehs prefer raw meat and the still smoking liver instantane-
ously extracted from a killed animal, so their ears pre fer, in similar
fashion, rough and disharmonie music.1 19 On this basis we can con-
struct an analogy, even though 1 do not wish to pretend that it is a
perfect one: to the same extent to which monotonously repetitive pic-
tures consist in individually and fantastically formed wild images, so
monotonous songs consist in the repetition of disharmonicalIy shrill
individual tones or sounds.
We know that Indians and Arabs possess, in contrast to their
apparently un musical development, a sharp unbelievably developed
sense of hearing. They are able to hear over distances which would
silence aIl noises for European ears. There is a relevant passage in
Steinthal's Der Ursprung der Sprache: "1 derived the advancement of
man over the animaIs almost completely from his erect posture." In
addition there are to be considered the other senses, except for the
tactile sense. One is here reminded of Herder. AlI these senses are
weaker in their extensive effects, but stronger intensively, that is, they
are able to receive more impressions which are spread over shorter
distances. Consequently, a greater variety of individual qualities is dis-
covered in things and similar appearances of various phenomena are
more exactly differentiated. 120
1 would like to point out that the sharpness of hearing of the more
primitive peoples is formed only because of the necessities of life. These
people are dependent upon this sense for the discovery both of food
and of their enemies. It may also stem from the continuous quietude
which surrounds most primitive peoples. Their acute sense of vision
may be derived from the limitless horizon. People who live within
narrow walls tend to become short-sighted. On account of these condi-
tions one may advance the hypothesis that the development of their
senses is quite one-sided, since it is aimed at the perception of very soft
sounds or vibrations of extremely low intensity. The ability to analyze
complex vibrations, which occur during the simultaneous sounding of
different tones, into their acoustical components, does not necessarily
go with this. If this were so, then it would be a most interesting obser-
vation with relevance to Fechner and especially to Erhard's Otiatrik
which is cited there. 121 That the development of the acoustical sense
is a partial pro cess which is not necessarily connected with musical
growth, is attested by G. Carus, who describes Wilhelm von Humboldt
l49
as an "acoustical man," though he obviously was scarcely receptive to

musÎc.122
The invention of musical themes for Greek me10dies was restricted

by the limited number of tones available on the stringed instruments.
The charm and stimulation of this music could not, therefore, be based
on the thematic constructions and novelty, but had rather to be found
in the refinement and nuances of their performances. This is similar
to Greek dramatic productions, which strove for perfect execution and
variety within a frequently repeated dramatic plot and content. Schop-
enhauer remarks that the greater an artistic creation is, the less it owes
its greatness to plot and content.
Polyphonic music marks the conclusion of the development of
music towards art. Now it was in need of complicated rules. As was
already noted, there were beginnings in this direction over extended
periods of time. Nothing originated, however, which would resemble
our own music. Hucbald (who died in 930 A.D.) made the first known
attempt ta connect several voices harmonically. He found it aesthetically
pleasing to have parallel sixths and fourths proceed in musical sequences!
Rousseau also desired to return to the simplicity of pure nature in
music. Thus he devalued aIl polyphonie music. In an erroneous man-
ner he frequently found the means for the fulfillment of his ideals in
extrinsic or superficial aspects. 123 In consideration of the Greeks, he
composed an air of only four tones. Tartini entertained similar ideas.
In the more highly educated social circles, interest in music was
created which had previously not been present. At the same time, the
music of lower social strata lost more and more. Here I remind the
reader of the phenomenon of the Meistersinger, who attempted to raise
folk music to higher and more artistic perfection. But they succeeded
only in creating confused artificial calculations similar to Gothic struc-
tures. The warmth of life was missing in their art, which lacked the
sunshine of personal genius.
Nevertheless, it is erroneous to believe that the nation is with-
out influence upon musical developments. Probably nobody has any
doubt concerning the developments in the other arts which have ta
be national if they are to reach and maintain the blossom of perfection.
This does not at aIl mean that they have to be patriotic. Indeed, history
even shows that the arts could pro duce the most beautiful examples
in the most politically disorganized states-analogous to blooming
flowers on the top of a rubbish heap. 1 wish simply to convey this:
whatever great and well-developed talents an individual may bring into
12.1
GEORG SIMMEL
his life, only the life of his home country, which surrounds him from
his very first day, will make him into what he is. It will form his charac-
ter in him. It gives him his ends, and his means to them. The greater his
talents are, the more he will accept from the material which is available
to him in the national cultural heritage. This will take place without
his specific action, without his becoming conscious of it during the
years of his growth.
If an artist is to maintain a uniform style of work-without which
it is impossible to become a great artist-he will not change the char-
acter of his drives as he receives them through the nature and culture
of hissociety. He will have to guard his style, not because it is patriotic,
not because it would be unpatriotic for a German to work in French
mannerisllls, but for the simple reason that his psycho-tendencies and
the moral nature which he gained by his upbringing in his society form
the best fonndation for his form of art or style of creation. If he were to
imitate models which are different from the national style, he would
fracture his essence, and his art would decline. In this sense, then, he
has to work on the basis of his national background and historical
foundation. He does not necessarily have to be conscious of this, nor
do es he have to have nationalistic feelings.
It is not yet possible to state verbally the national differences in
music, since the psychological dimension of music has not been ade-
quately examined. If one considers the total development of the last
150 years of German music and compares it with the French and
Italian, there can be no doubt that each is quite different, and not
interchangeable with the others, either in character or in individual
compositions. Obviously we cannot prove conclusively why a particular
form of music necessarily had to be created by the particular charac-
teristics of a people. The differentiation of music into national forms
nevertheless demonstrates that such effects must take place. Further,
just as even the most subjective and individualistic poetic product is,
to a large extent, indebted to the linguistic usage of the national lan-
guage in which it is written-there is a saying that it "imagines and
thinks for everybody"-so there is an historically developed folk music
present for everybody else. By folk music, of course, 1 do not mean
only folk songs, that is, the type of music which the folk crea tes for
its own consumption, but 1 include in the term aIl forms of the national
musical literature.
The history of music shows in almost every case that a composer
bases his creations on the precepts of his precursors. This implies that
the sum of the historical musical development of a society forms the
foundation of his musical culture. The composer, therefore, owes so
much to the chain of his precursors that he would never have become
122
what he is without them. 124 Of course, his musical taste is formed

from his earlieset clay by continuous listening to the previously created
national musical heritage. The frequent chance to listen to a given
music would not be available-and in modern times one is almost con-
tinuously surrounded by it-if this music did not correspond completely
with the culture of a people, and if it were not full Y accepted by them.
Thus the composer receives through tradition the music which directs
his work. 125 This is similar to the poet who transforms through his
own works the language of his people which is given to hiIn.
In accordance with this line of argument, the foundations on which
every composer has to build are of national character. We may further
consider the influence which is exercised upon an artist who notices
that a certain composition of an earlier composer is enthusiastically
received by his people while another is neglected. Thus, if one con-
siders the complete historical development of music, it is impossible
to assume that musical history occurs independently of other national
events as a sort of state within astate. We maintain this even though
we have not yet discovered the formaI relationship between the musical
and other contents of the people's sou1.
XVI
In the early state of natural man, when nationalistic feelings are
not yet developed, we find the same musical phenomena aIl over the
world. We find similar musical instruments and melodies, the same
emotional creation of music, and a dedication to the production of
nerve-shattering effects. Later on, however, nationalistic elements be-
come more and more observable. We see, for example, that Asiastic
instruments were abhorred during the period of Greece's highest devel-
opment. The same fate was accorded the Greek instruments during the
time of Rome's strongest national consciousness. We observe also the
characteristic contrast between the French and German manner of
violin playing which is maintained in a way which could almost be
described as being governed by jealousy. Moreover, a certain style of
international music, in which several composers worked during the
nineteenth century (Liszt, Berlioz), cloes not seem to prosper. This
happens because their music is not properly rooted in any soil. How
vehement national contrasts can become in music is illustrated, for
example, by occurrences in Paris which are reported in the article on
Lully in the Biographie Universelle.
Jean Jacques Rousseau placed himself on the front line (of the par-
tisans of Italian music). His letter "On French Music" became the
GEORG SlMMEL
signal for a war of opinions which was responsible for a considerable

number of brochures. In the parterre of the Opera House the public
was divided in two camps which ranged from the one side of the loge
of the king ta the side of the queen's loge. The corner of the king
contained the defenders of French music; the admirers of Italian music
were in the queen's corner. The parties abused one another ta the
point that they almost turned ta fist fighting.
This is reminiscent of the Circus Parties in c1assical Rome. There,

the same interesting process can be observed in which the initial objec-
tive of the fight becomes fully unimportant. The significance of the
initial objective then turns into an excuse for the excesses of the fighters.
In music, however, this phenomenon occurs much more frequently
than in other arts and sciences, since more believe themselves to be com-
petent to participa te here. Every fight which involves greater numbers
also increases in violence. The Iess one can reasonably fight verbally
about music, the more frequent these fights become. One can observe
frequently how deaf mutes and other sick people, who for sorne other
reason cannot speak, turn into a state of exaggeration which is frighten-
ing and out of aIl proportion whenever one do es not understand their
hand signs. Without comparing these phenomena any further, 1 would
suggest that their psychological causes are quite related. It is impos-
sible to express adequately through words the concrete bases of one's
opinions concerning music. Our language do es not have expressions
for such sensations. Thus individuals cannot understand one another.
U nderstanding is even less likely when one man has always had an
opinion which the other cannot understand. This failure of communica-
tion feeds the violence which occurs frequently over aesthetic and espe-
cially musical controversies.
Amiot played for sorne Chinese, who themselves were completely
enraptured by their own music, "the most beautiful sonatas, the most
melodious and brilliant fIute melodies." The only effect was that he
tortured and bored them with his playing. They told him that "these
melodies were not for our ears and that our ears were not for these
melodies." The miraculous power of the national elements in music
is also attested to by the following account which 1 borrow from a
journal:
When Bonaparte was in Egypt he attempted by aU means at his dis-

posaI, by aIl miracles of occidental science, ta influence the Moslems
and ta gain their sympathy. On the advice of Monge he also experi-
mented with music. One evening a large orchestra of the most highly
skilled musicians was assembled on the Esbekieh Place in Cairo. Now,
in the presence of the country's most noble people and a large audi-
ence a whole series of musical compositions was performed. There

were serious compositions, learned music, sorne simple, sorne soft
melodies, military marches and rousing fanfares. AlI efforts were in
vain! The Moslems remained unmoved and full of composure during
the whole procedure, just like the mummies in their catacombs.
Monge was beside himself. "Those blockheads don't deserve that
you exercise yourself anymore," he shouted to the musicians. "Play
them Marlbrough. Perhaps that will suit them!"
Marlbrough s'en va-t-en guerre,
Mirliton, Mirliton ton taine,
Marlbrough s'en va-t-en guerre,
Ne sait quand reviendra!
The orchestra began to play and a sort of miracle happened. Aiready
with the first ton es, thousands of the mummified faces showed signs
of life. There was a happy motion which spread through the crowd
of Iisteners. For a moment one couid believe that all the serious
lVIoslems, old and young, would rush into the open streets and com-
mence to dance. This little song made them so happy. From now
on Marlbrough was played every evening, and every night the result
was the same.
How can one possibly explain this remarkable occurrence? Gretry,

Haydn, Mozart do not leave any impression, while the Marlbrough
song happily excites aIl the people. Chateaubriand be1ieved that he
could explain this strange phenomenon. For he mentions that the
origin of the me10dy of the Marlbrough song is Arabie. The song
itself be10ngs in the Middle Ages and was most probably brought to
Spain by the Knights of the Cross during the reign of Don Jayme 1
(1213-1276) of Aragon, and brought to France during the reign of
Louis IX (1226-1270). The song tells the story of the knight Mam-
bron, a participant in the holy war of whom nothing e1se is known. This
story in music and word formed the little song which was used by
]\!ladame Poitrine in order to bring to sleep her royal suckling who was
the son of Louis XVI. Queen Marie Antoinette accidentally overheard
the little song. She liked it, imitated it, and through her it became so
fashionable that it soon was heard aIl over Europe. Through a ridicu-
lous accident, the name of the Duke of Marlborough, or Marlbrough
(John Churchill), the victor of Malplaquet, replaced that of the Knight
of the Cross, Sire Mambron. Thus, the Moslems in Egypt heard in this
melody the sound of an oId national tune and were moved thereby.
Bodenstedt describes the national music of Persia as ear-shattering.
He tells of young Asiatics who were raised and educated in St. Peters-
burg, but who enjoyed the small and big drum beats of their native
Asiastie musicians on their occasional visits to their home country
much more than aIl the musical highlights that were presented to them
GEORG SIMMEL
at the St. Petersburg Concerts. 126 The very same observation is made
by Polak. 127
One should finally consider that music is not only expressive of
the character of a population, but that it is also influenced by the cycli-
cal movements of the people's history which raises and lowers it.
Ambros points out in the preface to the Geschichte der Musik, Vol. 2,
that every rise in the culturallife also provides a new impetus for musi-
cal developments. 128
XVII
Because of its characteristics, yodeling seems to be10ng among
the most primitive forms of musical expression. Essentially it is, how-
ever, so different from song that the discussion of the origin of vocal
music does not cover it properly. Since it is impossible for an individual
to gather by himself the necessary experience for the explanation of
this phenomenon, 1 published in the Jahrbuch des Schweizer Alpenclub,
Jahrgang 1879, a series of questions concerning the nature of yodeling
which were also inc1uded in other journals. The result was a number
of answers from authorities on Alpine living.1 29 Unfortunate1y they
contained so many contradictions that one must conc1ude that yodeling
is characteristically different in various Alpine regions.
The following inductive results were drawn together by me from
the common elements of these reports and my own observations: Yodel-
ing consists in a rather short series of tones, which are produced without
verbal connection, on the bases of only single letters which are almost
exc1usive1y vowels. Characteristically there is a continuous interchange
between the chest and head register while omitting the falsetto. Each
so-called breaking of the speaking voice, which may be the result of
emotional strain or other strenuous exertions, illustrates the protoplasm
of yode1ing. If now one considers that a re1ative1y loud speaking or
shouting voice is almost continuously required for the purposes of
communication in mountainous regions, then yode1ing might originally
have been nothing more than a shout which is shifted into the head
register. In particular the exertion of the lungs from the continuous
rise in altitude seems to dispose the voice to this abrupt shift. Both
conditions are found together exc1usive1y in higher mountain regions
where yodeling, too, is almost exc1usively observed. The frequent recur-
rence of yodeling may have been the cause for its deve10pment into an
artistic style. Additional support for the hypothesis concerning the
analogous relationship between yode1ing and shouting is to be found
in the fact that frequently yodeling is added at the conc1usion of a
song where other people add more or less articula ted shouts.
'THE CONFLICT IN MODERN CULTURE AND OTHER ESSAYS
We wish now to turn our attention to the view of Jaeger, aIready

mentioned in Section l of this essay. According to him, yodeling is
the origin of song; it is stimulated by the sexual drive, and becomes
the vehicle for its fulfillment. 1 do not wish to deny that his shifting
of the vocal registers might possibly occur when the sexual drive is
expressed through shouting. However, there is no founda tion for a
causal nexus between the latter and the former. Moreover, yodeling is
observed only among Alpine populations, and is employed with prefer-
ence in the age group of eight to fourteen years, when one can hardly
speak of sexual fulfillment. 13o A final observation should be added.
Yodeling indeed is not the characteristic means of communication be-
tween boys and girls. The majority of the replies to my questions
emphatically deny any such relationship. Only a single one from St.
Gailen mentions that yodeling is employed as a means of communica-
tion between an Alpine male and his girl. It is added, however, that
this form of yodeling is not differentiated from that used for other
purposes. Even though it is employed as means of communication
between the two, it has many more general characteristics than would
be found in a form which is only dictated by the sexual drive.
Even though aIl these observations would seem to render Jaeger's
views rather improbable, it must further be considered that yodeling
would have to include other important elements for the progression to
song if it were to be its origin. However, this is not the case. Among
the primitive stages of development there is no vocal music without
words. But the exclusion of words is precisely the characteristic mark
of yodeling.
It is mentioned in one of the replies that "the more lonely the
inhabitants of Alpine regions are, the less artistic is their yodeling and
the less does it approxima te the vocal song." '\Te also have ta add that
several of the emotions which we discovered as important empirical
sources of music, such as the mystic-religious emotion, do not permit
their expression through yodeling.
Notes to the Essay
1. This es say had been submitted by Simmel as his doctoral dissertation

to the Philosophical Faculty of the Humboldt University of Berlin. But his
examining committee, composed of Professors Zupitza (chairman), Zeller,
and Helmholtz, refused to accept it as submitted. Instead, they granted
the degree for the previously written distinguished study on Kant's mona-
dology. While Zupitza would have been willing to accept this study on
music, if it were first "cleared of the numerous misspellings and stylistic
errors," Helmholtz was more skeptical. "Regardless of my other reserva-
tions, Simmel is entirely too confident in his conclusions. And the manner
GEORG SIMMEL
in which he presented the faculty with this piece which is so fun of misspell-
ings and stylistic superficialities, which evidently was not proofread, in which
sentences which are cited from foreign languages can hardly be deciphered,
does not attest to a great deal of re1iability. Insofar, however, as he has quite
a few illustrious predecessors for what he evidently takes to be the method or
lack of method of scientific study, he may let them serve as some kind of per-
sonal excuse. l, however, believe that we wi1l be doing him a greater service
if we do not encourage him further in this direction." [Michael Landmann,
"Bausteine zur Biographie," in Kurt Cassen and Michael Landmann, Buch
des Dankes an Georg Simmel, Berlin: Duncker and Humblot, 1958, p. 17.]
As becomes evident from our tex t, Simme1 must have published his study
without paying heed to his professors, since footnotes and textual quota-
tions reflect the shortcomings already criticized. Where it was possible to
discern Simmel's like1y source, fuller bibliographic information was supplied.
We also compiled a bibliography of the works which Simmel might have
used for his study (Appendix B). Hence, as chaotic as the documentation
may still appear, it is already "improved" over Simmel's original.
2. The Descent of Man, 1874, p. 595. The identical thought already oc-
curred to Leibnitz. He observes, however: "One must also consider that man
could speak, that is, make himself understood by the sounds of the mouth
without forming articulate sounds, if one were to use musical tones for this
effect. But it would need more art to invent a language of tones instead
of that of words formed and perfected by degrees, by persons living in the
natural simplicity." [Leibnitz, Nouveaux Essais sur l'entendement humain,
III, 1.]
3. Über den Ausdruck der Gemütsbewegungen, 1872, 88.
4. Cited by Steinthal from Ausland, 1867, No. 42.
5. The more the linguistic capacity increases, the more will automatic re-
flexes of this variety be drawn into the realm of language. This goes so far,
if one is very strongly habituated to the use of language, that one wi1l ex-
daim words even in situations which almost incapacitate us, and which in a
natural state would produce only inarticulate shouts. When there is a
sudden feeling of fear, we caU out "Heaven!" or "Jesus!" and the like.
6. One might wish to compare here tonal modulations which are much
more frequently employed for the significance of meaning in lower lan-
guages than in our own.
7. Lazarus, Leben der Seele, II, 136.
8. Humboldt, Einleitung zur Kawisprache, Paragraph 9.
9. Cicero, De oratore: "Accentuation is employed in learning indistinct
melodies." And during the Middle Ages it was said: "The accent is the
mother of music."
10. Mere noise can be produced from musically pure tones by, for example,
128
the simultaneous pressing of an the keys of a piano within several octaves.

Compare Helmholtz, TonemPfindungen, 14.
Il. TooIe, The Diversions of Purley, 62.
12. Freycinet, Voyage autour du Monde, l, 153.
13. Hochstetter, Neu-Seeland, 509.
14. Martius, Ethnographie Brasiliens, l, 330.
15. Grey, II, 301 ft.
16. Compare Poeppig, ReÎse in Chile, l, 332.
17. As is already exemplified ab ove, Brahmans say that music is given to
them by Sarasvati, the goddess of speech. Plato considers aIl music without
text worthless (Polities, II), as does Augustine (Confessiones, K. 50). Like-
wise, Herder (Ideen :wr Gesehiehte und Kritik der Poesie, No. 33). Kant,
however, includes only music without words among the "free beauties"
(Urteilskraft, Paragraph 16).
18. When Lully used to compose his beautiful recitatives he would some-
times request the "Chamesse" to declaim to him the work, take the ton es
rapidly, and then reduce them to the rules of Art. (Batteux, Les Beaux
Arts, 258).
19. Bodenstedt, Gesammelte Sehriften, III, 121.
20. Cicero, Pro Arehia, 19.
21. Musters, Unter den Patagonern, 185.
22. Appun, Tropen, II, 298.
23. Smith-Hamilton, Natural History of the Human Species, l, 156;
Schweinfurth, Quer dureh Afrika, l, 450. Compare, however, Soyaux, Aus
West-Afrika, II, 176-179.
24. Bowdich, Mission naeh Ashanti, p. 465.
25. Schlagintwelt, Californien, p. 338.
26. See Petermanns, Mitteilungen, 1856.
27. Graul, Reise naeh Ostindien, II, 72.
28. Krieger, as cited by Bastian, Menseh in der Gesehiehte, II.
29. Aristides in De Musiea Libri, l, 31, mentions that rhythm is observed
through three senses, the visual sense by way of the dance, hearing by way
of music, and tactile sense by pulse beats. Aristoxenus compares the various
forms of rhythmic music with corresponding forms of pulse beats.
30. 1 know an elderly gentleman who continuously hummed to himself sorne
little songs. He never produced them clearly and rhythmically, however,
GEORG SIMMEL
as if he had been excited or angry. Excitement only produces an exaggera-

tion of rhythmic faculties, whieh are always found in inhaling and exhaling.
31. Vischer, Aesthetik, Vol. 4, p. 980.
32. It is not at aIl precise. Whatever subjectively appears as the expression
of moods, appears to the objective observer as their reflection. However,
these reflections cannot be treated here in the narrow sense of the term.
33. It is not at aIl impossible that this rhythmic stamping is the origin of
dance. Very likely, however, the dance is related to ordinary walking as vocal
music is related to language. The very same forces which here led to
rhythmic expression may have also done the same there.
34. Gerland-Waitz, VI, 78.
35. Brugsch, Reiseberichte aus Aegypten, 254.
36. Le Gobien, Histoire des Isles Marianes, 406. Adelbert von Chamisso,
who travelled there one hundred years la ter, still does not find any form of
instruments there. Entdeckungoereise, l, 133.
37. Salvado, Memorie storiche dell' Australia, 306.
38. "Vestphal, Geschichte der alten Musik, l, 95.
39. Schlagintweit, Reisen in Indien, II, 92.
40. Cited in Darwin, The Descent of Man, 1874, p. 593. Such bone flutes
belonging to the earliest cultural period are also found in South America.
Examples can be found in the South America section of the Ethnographie
Museum, Copenhagen. In the Italian language, ossa is the translation of
PiPe (Boccaccio, Decamerone, III, 10). The human tibia is used in Tibet
as a musical instrument (Turner, Gesandtschaftsreise nach Tibet, 349). In
Angela, Hamilton heard a curious double c1arinet which was formed of the
leg bones of the eagle or vulture (Hamilton, Wanderung in Nord-Afrika,
213. )
41. Seeman, II, 67.
42. Delaborde, l, 157.
43. Andree, 197.
44. Hupel, Topographische Nachrichten, II, 133.
45. Gerland-Waitz, VI, 77.
46. Ibid., p. 604
47. Sartorius, "Zustand der Musik in Mexiko," Caecilia, VII.
48. Bossmann, Reise nach Guinea, 170.
49. Freycinet, l, 663.
50. Wilkes, ExPloring Expedition.

51. In New Guinea even captured human skulls are filled with stones, hard
kernels of food, and pumice stone, and used as rattles. Exhibits are in the
Museum of Godeffroy as reported by Andree, Enthographische Parallelen,
140. Rattles were also found in very ancient German tombs. One exhibit
is in the Sammlung der Deutschen Gessellschaft in Leipzig. Concerning
others and the relevant literature, see Ploss, Das Kind, II, 219.
52. Schweinfurth, The Heart of Africa, II, 34, found the most monotonous
music among Niamniamier. These people have even a highly deve10ped
music aptitude which is expressed by their invention of instruments with
properly constructed resonance bodies.
53. Quaas, Beschreibung von Sansibar.
54. Bibliothek der Unterhaltung und des Wissens, 1877, Vol. 10.
55. Tylor, Anahuac: or Mexico, 207.
56. Compare, for example, Krapf, Reisen in Ost-Afrika, II, 116.
57. Euler, Briefe der Physik, German Edition, Vol. 8.
58. Helmholtz, Die Thatsachen in der Wahrnehmung, Appendix F.
59. How very early distortions of music's natural state occur is shown by a
fragment of Democritus (Philodemus de mus. IV, in Vol. Hercules l, page
135, col. 36). This view has been maintained until Burney expressed his
erroneous point of view in the 1789 Preface to his History of Music: "Music
is an innocent luxury unnecessary indeed to our existence, but a great im-
provement and gratification of the sense of hearing."
60. Bowring, Siam, 150.
61. Andree, Das Amurgebiet, 197.
62. Werder, Zu den esthnischen Liedern.
63. Judges, 5.
64. Samuel l, 2.
65. Essay 1, 158.
66. D'Urville, IV, 707.
67. Scipio apud Macrobium, II, 10.
68. Vambery, Sizzen aus Mittelasien, 78 ff.
69. Musters, op. cit., 67.
70. Gatteron, Queer durch Afrika, l, 163.
71. Chamisso, Entdeckungsreise, III.
GEORG SIM MEL
72. Brisson, De Regna Persarum.

73. Busch, Wanderungen zwischen Hudson und Mississippi, l, 266.
74. Grey, II, 313; Gedand-Waitz, VI, 747 and 775.
75. Rochow, Reise nach Madagaskar, Forster, tr., 1792, 24.
76. Pirschewalski, Reisen in die Mongolei, 58.
77. An example is to be found in Schneider, System einer medizinischen
Musik, l, 74.
78. Magyar, Reisen in Südafrika, l, 314.
79. Sirach, 9, 3.
80. Polak, Persien, 389; Buch des Kawus, 732; Brugsch, Reise nach Persien,
389.
81. Sprüche, Salomon, 5, 3.
82. See examples in Ploss, op. cit.
83. Dobritzhofer, Geschichte der Abigonen, II, 170.
84. Salvado, 306.
85. Bowdich, 468.
86. Jones, XII.
87. Mertens, Recueil des Actes, 146.
88. Pechuel-Losche, (in) Zeitschrift für Ethnologie, 10 (1).
89. Waitz, III, 231.
90. Freycinet, l, 663.
91. Reade, The Martyrdom of Man, p. 441, and African Sketch Book,
Vol. II, p. 313, as cited in Darwin, op. cit., p. 595.
92. Brugsch, Reiseberichte aus Aegypten, 254 .
93. Weitzmann, Geschichte der Griechischen Musik, 23.
94. Pontecoulant, Phenomenes, 130.
95. Pindar, Scholiast, 9, 1.
96. A similar observation was already recorded by Aristotle who observes in
Politics, XIX, 5, that we prefer to listen to familiar rather than unfamiliar
music. Goethe observes, in similar fashion: "In its truest essence, music
requires much less novelty. To the contrary, the older it is the more will one
be accustomed to it, and the more effective will music then be."
97. Whether there are physical factors, such as differences between the
form of the larynx and acoustical properties of hearing among various races
and people, which might be responsible for the preferred performance of

certain songs and the avoidance of others, is unfortunately still a mystery for
an thropologists.
98. Without any involvement of mystic elements.
99. Dallas, History of the Maroons.
100. Bowdich, 404 and 464.
101. Jones, 28.
102. Jourdain, V, 304.
103. Waitz, l, 157.
104. Ibid., VI, 85. It seems to me that the observation seems to refer to
the melody. That specialized linguistic formulas are employed on such occa-
sions would seem to be self-evident.
105. Jonas, Schweden, Z17.
106. Christ, Pflanzenleben in der Schweiz, 310-11.
107. Compare Waitz, op. cit., VI, 651 as quoted from Erskine, Z91.
108. Volkmann, Znd edition, l, Paragraph 68, especially Addendum 1. Also
compare Spinoza, Ethics, Pars. IV, Proposition VII.
109. Especially the one acknowledged by Plato.
110. During the Christian Middle Ages the calming effects of music were
emphasized. See for example Thomas Aquinas in his Declarations Concern-
ing the Canticus Canticorum and the example of the fresco in the Capella
degli Spagnoli. It is possible that the reason was partly the ascetic charac-
teristics of these times which turned aIl naturalistic events into their direct
opposite.
Ill. Salvado, 306.
11Z. It is the natural equilibration for the energy demanded by work.
Music's connection with energy-demanding activities can become so firm
that, conversely, it may also calI forth energy.
113. Freycinet, 665.
114. M. Fabii Quintilian, Institutionis Oratoriae, l, X, 16.
115. Waitz, II, 67.
116. Review of Villoteau, by Hammer in vol. 56, Wiener Jahrbücher, 1831.
117. See for example, Freycinet, op. cit.; l, Waitz, op. cit., II; Pontécoulant;
Durand, Voyage au Senegal, and others.
118. Humboldt, Ansichten der Natur, l, Anmerkung, 51.
119. Baker, The Nile Tributaries of Abyssinia, 203.
133
GEORG SIMMEL
120. Steinthal, Der Ursprung der Sprache, 3rd ed., 306. In a general sense
these observations are probably correct even though Steinthal later consid·
ered the complete text from which his quotation is ta ken as antiquated.
121. Fechner, Psychophysik, II, 293.
122. Compare also Kant, Urteilskraft, Paragraph 51, 3.
123. "It is quite difficult not to surmise that our harmonies are nothing but
Gothic and barbarian inventions of which we might never have become
aware if it had not been for the truer and more artistic beauties of more
truly natural music." Rousseau, Dictionnaire de musique, article on "Har-
monie."
124. This can be most clearly illustrated by references to musical techniques
and theory.
125. We can always see how important composers follow in the footsteps
of their precursors before they develop their own styles. Goethe says that
aIl true art will have to begin with "the tradition."
126. Bodenstedt, op. cit., II, 104.
127. Polak, 292
128. Ambros, Geschichte der Musik, II, Preface, XXII ff.
129. l believe l am entitled to think that relevant literature does not exist.
The exception is a small, valueless report by von Sieber, "Das Jodeln der
Bergbewohner," in Echo, No. 43, 1853. (For Simmel's questionnaire see
Appendix A, following.)
130. There is a single contradictory fact which ,vas reported to me. Genuine
yodeling was observed once among the natives of Hasserode in the Hartz
mountains. Since this is a single case it may have to be re1ated to sorne
accidentaI causes such as, perhaps, historical migrations of south German
Alpine peoples to these regions.
Appendix A to the Essa.y
Questionna.ire on Yodeling by Georg Simmel *
To the S. A. C.:
In the interest of anthropological research, which aims at assigning
an appropria te place to the curious phenomenon of yodeling within the his-
tory of human forms of expression, l request answers to the foIlowing ques-
tions. Moreover, l request information concerning possible existing litera-
ture on this subject. l would also like to request that attention be paid
* Translated from Jcthrbuch des Schweizer AIPenclub, 14:552-554, 1878-9.

ta it, and that it be observed if the occasion should present itself. If from
previous experience and recollections, it should aIready be possible to pro-
vide exact answers to these questions, 1 request that they be answered not
with a simple "yes"-if the answer should be positive-but instead so as to
provide as precise information as possible concerning the situation under
which the observations occurred, as only then can a psychologicaUy valuable
conclusion be drawn, in particular with respect to questions numbered 5, 8,
11, 14, and 15. In addition, 1 request correspondence on aU other observa-
tions concerning yodeling which are not anticipated in my subsequent ques-
tions; 1 would also greatly appreciate any transcriptions of yodelers in musical
notation.
1. Between what ages do inhabitants of the mountains engage in yodeling?

2. Are there specifically different types of yodeling found in one and the
same region?
3. Do different types of yodeling exist in different mountain areas, and how
do they differ?
4. Are there any observations which indicate that perhaps the altitude of
the places of residence is related to differences in yodeling, and if so,
how?
5. What is the relationship between the spoken language and yodeling?
6. What are the surrounding circumstances under which yodeling is gen-
eraUy practiced?
7. In which cases is it employed for special, practical purposes of commu-
nication?
8. Can it be established that yodeling is a purely acoustical reflect of emo-
tions, i.e., are there certain emotions for which the inhabitants of the
mountain regions seek an expression through yodeling irrespective of
whether they are being listened to or even of Iistening to themselves,
comparable to one's crying and groaning in response to pain?
9. What kinds of emotions are these? Are they, for example, those of
sexual excitement?
10. Can it be established that yodeling serves as a medium of communica-
tion between boys and girls, similar to sorne Schnadehüpfeln, even if
not directly comparable to the purposes of the mating caU among ani-
maIs, though, nevertheless, a sign of mutual inclination and agreement?
Or does it serve related purposes if only from one side?
Il. How important for the exercise of yodeling are the factors of habitua-
tion, of its enjoyment and of the ambition to be able to yodel with
greater perfection than the others? Also with respect to the opposite
sex?
12. Do women also engage in yodeling? From which ages on? And, is it
distinguished from the yodeling of men?
13. Is the enjoyment of playing with the echo, perhaps, a factor in the per-
fection of yodeling?
14. During the course of time is there a general decline in yodeling, per-
haps, observable?
GEORG SIMMEL
15. Has anything been observed in the regions outside of the Alps or in the
fiat terrain which is identical or only analogous to yodeling?
For relevant information, in complete subservience, asks
Georg Simmel
Berlin, W., Magdeburgerstrasse 31
Appendix B to the Essay
Bibliography of Tifles Mentioned in the Text
Ambros, August Wilhelm, Die Geschichte der Musik (Breslau: Leuckart,

1882), 5 vols.
Andree, Richard, Ethnographische Parallelen und Vergleiche (Stuttgart:
J. Maier, 1878).
Andree, Richard, Das Amurgebiet und seine Bedeutung (Leipzig: O.
Spamer, 1867), 268 pp.
Appun, Karl Ferdinand, Unter den Tropen (Jena: H. Costenoble, 1871),
2 vols.
Ausland, Berlin Universitat, Seminar für orientalische SPrachen (Berlin
and Stuttgart: W. Speman, 1878).
Baker, Sir Samuel White, Exploration of the NUe Tributaries of Abyssinia
(Hartford: D. D. Case and Company, 1864), 624 pp.
Bastian, Adolf, Der Mensch in der Geschichte (Leipzig: O. Wigand, 1860),
8 vols.
Batteux, Charles, Les Beaux Arts Reduits a un Même Principe (Paris:
Durand, 1746), 291 pp.
Bodenstedt, Friedrich Martin von, Gesammelte Schriften (Berlin: K.
Geheime Oberhofbuchhandlung, 1869), 12 vols.
Bowdich, Thomas Edward, Mission nach Ashanti (London: J. Murray,
1819), 512 pp.
Bowring, Sir John, The Kingdom and PeoPle of Siam (London: J. W.
Parker and Son, 1851), 2 vols.
Brisson, Barnabe, De regno Persarum princiPatu libri tres: Ex adversariis
(Paris: Apud Bartholomaeum Macaeum, 1606), 356 pp.
Brugsch, Heinrich Karl, Reise der K. Preussischen Gesandtschaft nach
Persien (Leipzig: J. C. Hinrichs'sche Buchhandlung, 1863), 2 vols.
Brugsch, Heinrich Karl, Reiseberichte aus Aegypten (Leipzig: F. A. Brock·
haus, 1855), 351 pp.
Burney, Charles, A General History of Music (London: Printed for the
author, 1789), 4 vols.
Busch, Moritz, Wanderungen zwischen Hudson und Mississippi, 1851-2
(Stuttgart und Tubingen: J. C. Cotta, 1854), 2 vols.
Cacilia (Luxemburg: H. Oberhoffen, 1862).
Chamisso, Adelbert von, Adelbert von Chamisso's Werke (Leipzig: Weid·
mann, 1842), 6 vols.
'J'HE CONFLICT IN MODERN CULTURE AND O'fHER ESSAYS
Christ, Johann Ludwig, Pflanzenleben in der Schweiz (Leipzig: Vass,

1797) .
Dallas, Robert Charles, The History of the Maroons (London: T. N. Long-
man and O. Rees, 1803),2 vols.
Dallas, Robert Charles, Geschichte der Maronenneger auf Jamaika
(Weimar: lm Verlag des F. S. priv. Landes-lndustrie-Comptoirs,
1805), 356 pp.
Darwin, Charles, The Descent of Man (New York: Hearst and Company,
1874, revised and annotated edition).
Darwin, Charles, Über den Ausdruck der Gemütsbewegungen (Leipzig:
F. A. Brockhaus, 1872).
Dobritchofer, Martin, An Account of the Abipones (London: J. Murray,
1822), 3 vols.
Dobritchofer, Martin, Geschichte der AbiPoner (Wien: Joseph Edler von
Kurzbeck, 1884), 3 vols.
Dumont D'Urville, Jules Sebastien Cesae, Malerische Reise um die Welt
(Leipzig: lm Industrie-Comtoir [Baumgartner], 1837), 2 vols.
Durand, Jean Baptiste Leonard, "Voyage de Durand au Sénégal, fait dans
les Années 1785 and 1786," Collection de Voyages de L'Afrique (Paris:
Wa1cknaer, 1842), pp. 231-246.
Durand, Jean Baptiste Leonard, A Voyage to Senegal (London: Printed for
R. Phil1ips, 1806), 181 pp.
Erskine, John Elphinstone, Journal of a Cruise in the Pacific (London:
J. Murray, 1853), 488 pp.
Euler, Leonhard, Letters Addressed to a German Princess on Natural Phi-
losophy (New York: Harper and Brothers, 1840),2 vols.
Fechner, Gustav Theodor, Elemente der Psychophysik (Leipzig: Breitkopf
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© 1968 BY TEACHERS COLLEGE PRESS

LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOG CARD

MANUFACTURED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

The patience of those who assisted me in bringing this book into

Georg Simmel: An Introduction

1 The Conflict in Modern Culture 11

2 On the Concept and Tragedy of Culture 27

3 A Chapter in the Philosophy of Value 47

6 On the Third Dimension in Art 86

7 TIle Dramatic Actor and Reality 91

8 PsychologicaI and Ethnological Studies on Music 98

NE TEST OF THE IMPORTANCE of ideas and contributions of

and frequently narrowly defined academic departments. Thus he fasb-

Georg Simmel, the youngest of seven children, was born in Berlin

on individuals and on social groups. He conceives of culture as the

Through the use of numerous examples, Simme1 he1ps the reader to

ceived and mentally interpreted according to expectations identical with

tionship to the body of traditional subjects of the various contemporary

function of several variables rather than as a function of one. Since

A Note on the Translations

In translating Simmel one is faced with the problem of how to

lent. AlI essays but Chapter in the Philosophy of Value" are

14. Weingartner, op. cit., and Coser, op. cit.

HENEVER LIFE PROGRESSES beyond the animal level to that of

however, that what is happening is not only a negative, passive dying

determination of itseH and the sole substance of an its contents, finds

the meaning of Expressionism is that the inner emotions of the artist

life for seIf-identity.Whenever life expresses itseIf, it desires to express

an object which it can completely penetra te since it is equal in its

feeling are felt to be inadeqnate for contemporary life. On the other

The Saint when he is drinking

He is not concerned, however, with the so~called "secular religion." The

to a purely intransitive ('I believe." In the long run, perhaps, this

Note to the Essay

AN, UNLIKE THE ANIMALS, does not allow himself simply to be

only what it represents at a given moment, it is always "more," a higher

identifiable items, appears as a bundle of developmental lines which

only way by which the form of dual existence which is immediately

something acquîres a wholly fixed form-by legitimizing this stability

remarkably from our responses to natural phenomena. Ocean and

have something tangible to contribute to the ideaIistic, historical, ma-

weaving with those substantive elements so essential to culture. On

existed prior to the separation. The creative genius possesses such an

and technologies of every kind should despise or fight the concept of

through which individuals are cultivated. But this plenitude of cultural

determined by immanent logic, and into which it drags life along.

intend. It is mysterious but unquestionably true: a material object takes

(1 have elaborated them in my Philosophy of Money for a larger num-

precise1y because it is inaccessible to any division of labor, because the

HE FACT OF ECONOMIC EXCHANGE confers upon the value of things

expenditures and results are to stand in proper relation to each other.

as a sacrifice in return for a gain, we shan from the beginning suspect

often also the cause, of regarding them as valuable. In the relationships

accident is fe1t by us only on the ground of the significance which the

by men 7 in absolute unity with them, and only in unreal conceptual