Humility is a humble virtue, so much so that it even doubts its own virtuousness: to pride oneself on one’s own humility is to lack it.
Which proves nothing, however: virtue is nothing to be proud of, and that is what humility teaches us. Humility makes the virtues discreet, unself-conscious, almost self-effacing. Humility is not, however, a lack of awareness; it is the extreme awareness of the limits of all virtue and of one’s own limits as well. This discretion is the mark—a discreet mark—of perfect lucidity and unwavering standards. Humility is not contempt for oneself, or if it is, it is informed contempt, deriving not from ignorance of what we are but from the knowledge, or rather the acknowledgment, of all that we are not. This acknowledgment is its limit, since humility is concerned with a kind of nothingness. But that is also what makes humility human. “However much of a sage he may be, after all, he is a man; what is there more unable to support itself, more miserable, more nearly nothing?”1 The wisdom of Montaigne, the wisdom of humility. It is absurd to want to surpass our humanity; we cannot and must not.2 Humility is a lucid virtue, always unsatisfied with itself; if it were not, it would be more unsatisfied still. Humility is the virtue of the man who knows he is not God.
And so it is the virtue of saints, a virtue that the wise, apart from Montaigne, sometimes seem utterly without. Pascal criticized philosophers for their arrogance, and not without reason: some have taken the idea of their own divinity quite seriously. Saints are not so easily deluded and invariably reject any suggestion that they are divine. Indeed, anyone who truly believes he is divine either knows nothing about God or else does not know himself. At the very least, humility refuses this second type of ignorance, and it is essentially in this refusal that humility is a virtue. Being humble means loving the truth and submitting to it. Humility means loving truth more than oneself.
Hence all thought that deserves to be so described presupposes humility; humble thought, which is to say, real thought, is the opposite of vanity, which is not thought at all but a form of belief—a belief in the self. Humility, on the other hand, doubts everything, particularly itself. Human, all too human. Could it be that humility itself masks a very subtle form of pride?
But let me first try to define it.“Humility is a sadness born of the fact that a man considers his own lack of power, or weakness,” writes Spinoza.3 This kind of humility is less a virtue than a feeling: it is an emotion, Spinoza says, and therefore a state of mind. Whoever contemplates his own lack of power finds his spirit “saddened.”4 We have all had this experience, and it would be wrong to claim it as a strength. Now, for Spinoza, strength is precisely what virtue is—strength of mind and always joyous. Thus humility, from his perspective, is not a virtue,5 and the wise man has no need of it.
The problem, however, may simply be one of nomenclature. For although Spinoza does not consider humility a virtue, he does allow that it “brings more advantage than disadvantage”6 (it can help the person who practices it to come to the point where he can “live from the dictate of reason,” and the prophets were right to commend it).7 But more important, Spinoza expressly envisions another affect, this one positive, which corresponds precisely to a humility I would call virtuous. “If we suppose,” he writes, “that the man conceives his lack of power because he understands something more powerful than himself, by the knowledge of which he determines his power of acting, then we conceive nothing but that the man understands himself distinctly or that his power of acting is aided.”8 Such humility is indeed a virtue, for great strength can come from the mind’s having adequate knowledge of itself (the opposite of humility is pride, and all pride is ignorance), from its knowing that there exists something greater than itself. Can this knowledge come without sadness? Why not, if one ceases to love oneself only?
Let us not confuse humility with Aristotle’s micropsuchia, which, certain translations notwithstanding, is better rendered by the term lowliness. What is involved here? Recall that, for Aristotle, all virtue is a mean between two vices. So it is with magnanimity or nobility of soul: to exceed this mean is to succumb to vanity; to fall short of it is to succumb to servility, to lowliness. Being lowly means forsaking one’s true worth, underestimating one’s true value, to the point of not allowing oneself to undertake any higher action, which one assumes to be beyond one’s capabilities.9 Lowliness corresponds rather well to what Spinoza calls abjectio, which he distinguishes from humility (humilitas). Lowliness, he writes, means “thinking less highly of oneself than is just, out of sadness.”10 Obviously, lowliness can be born of humility, which is why humility can take on the qualities of a vice.11 But it need not: we can be sad about our powerlessness without thereby exaggerating it—this is what I call virtuous humility—and we can even find in this sadness an added measure of strength with which to fight our powerlessness. It may be said that I am departing from Spinozism here. I am not sure that I am, nor do I care, of course.12 We know from experience, it seems to me, that sadness can sometimes be a source of inner strength or can help us to muster the strength we already have within us; this is something Spinoza himself recognizes and it counts for more than any philosophical system.13 There is a courage that comes from despair and a courage, too, that comes from humility. Besides, we do not choose the source of our courage. Better a true sadness than a false joy.
Humility, as a virtue, is this truthful sadness of being merely oneself. And how could one be anything else? We must be merciful toward ourselves: mercy, which tempers humility with a bit of gentleness, teaches us to be content with what we are, which we could not otherwise be without also being vain. Mercy and humility go hand in hand and complement each other. Self-acceptance—but without illusions.
“Self-esteem,” says Spinoza, “is really the highest thing we can hope for.”14 Let us say in turn that humility is the highest thing we can despair of, then all will have been said.
Well, maybe not quite, and not yet, for we have still to consider the most important question: what is the value of humility? I have said it is a virtue, but how important a virtue is it? What is its status? What is it worth?
The problem is obvious: if humility deserves respect or admiration, isn’t it groundlessly humble? And if it is rightly humble, how could we rightly admire it? It seems humility is a contradictory virtue, whose value comes only at its own expense.
“I am very humble” is a performative self-contradiction.
“I lack humility” is a first step toward humility itself.
But how can a subject’s value arise from self-depreciation?
Which brings us, basically, to the two perhaps most important critiques of humility, those of Kant and Nietzsche. Let us look at what they wrote. In The Metaphysical Principles of Virtue, Kant legitimately opposes what he calls “false humility” (or servility) to the duty of respecting in oneself the innate dignity of man as a moral being: servility is the opposite of honor, he explains, and the former is a vice as surely as the latter is a virtue.15 Of course, Kant hastens to add that there does exist a true humility (humilitas moralis), which he defines beautifully as “the consciousness and feeling of the insignificance of one’s moral worth in comparison with the law.”16 Far from violating the dignity of the subject, this latter form of humility presupposes dignity (there would be no reason to subject to the law an individual incapable of such internal legislation: humility implies a certain moral elevation); it also attests to that dignity (to submit to the law is to fulfill a moral duty, here the duty of humility).
Nevertheless, Kant holds humility to very narrow bounds, far narrower, I might add, than those prescribed by Christian (or perhaps only Catholic?) custom. In doing so, he excludes a spiritual disposition that, at least for those who take seriously what mystics, Western as well as non-Western, have to say, is valued. “Kneeling down or groveling on the ground, even to express your reverence for heavenly things, is contrary to human dignity,” writes Kant.17 Well put, but is it true? Clearly one should be neither servile nor sycophantic. But must one therefore—and in opposition to the highest and most recognized spiritual traditions—also condemn begging, for instance? Did Saint Francis of Assisi or the Buddha compromise their own—or our—humanity?18 One might allow that “bowing or scraping before another seems in any case unworthy of man.”19 But aside from the fact that humility differs from humiliation and has no need of it (only the proud or the perverse find good in it), should we take entirely seriously the sublimity—to use the Kantian term—of our moral constitution, when it comes to ourselves? Wouldn’t we thereby in fact be demonstrating a lack of humility, of lucidity—and of humor? Man in the system of nature (homo phaenomenon, animal rationale) is a being of little importance, Kant explains, but man as a person, as a moral being (homo noumenon), possesses absolute dignity. “His insignificance as a human animal,” he writes, “cannot injure the consciousness of his dignity as a rational man.”20 Perhaps. But what if the two are really one? The materialists are more humble and never forget the animal within them. Human beings are children of the earth (humus, whence the word humility) and forever unworthy of the heaven they invent for themselves. And as for “comparing oneself with other men,” is it really reprehensible or lowly to bow before Mozart?21 “Whoever makes himself a worm cannot complain when he is then trampled underfoot,” writes Kant, proudly.22 But whoever would make of himself a statue—be it for the glory of man or the sake of the law—cannot complain when he is suspected of being hard-hearted or assuming a pose. Better the sublime beggar who washes the sinner’s feet.
As for Nietzsche, he is, as always, right about everything and wrong about everything, and what he says about humility is part of this maelstrom. Who can take issue with the idea that humility often involves a fair amount of nihilism and resentment? How many people reproach themselves solely in order to better reproach the world or life—and thereby excuse themselves? How many negate themselves only because of their inability to affirm—or to do—anything? Or as Spinoza puts it, “those, who are believed to be most despondent [abjectio] and humble are usually most ambitious and envious.”23 All that is true. But is it true of everyone? There is a humility in Cavaillès, Simone Weil, Etty Hillesum—and even in Pascal and Montaigne—in comparison with which Nietzschean greatness rings of empty hyperbole. Nietzsche takes up the same image as Kant, the image of the worm: “The trodden worm curls up. This testifies to its caution. It thus reduces its chances of being trodden upon again. In the language of morality: Humility.”24 But is this all there is to humility? Is it what is essential? Do we really believe that this sort of psychologism can account for the humility of Saint Francis of Assisi or Saint John of the Cross? “The most generous people are usually also the most humble,” writes Descartes, who was anything but a worm.25
One would also be wrong to treat humility as merely the flip side of a kind of self-hatred or confuse it with bad conscience, remorse, or shame. The point is to pass judgment not on what we have done but on what we are. And we are so insignificant. Is there even anything within us to judge? Remorse, bad conscience, or shame presupposes that we might have done things differently and better. “Could do better”: this stock phrase, so dear to teachers, accuses rather than encourages. Remorse says the same. Humility says, “Is what he can be.” Too humble to accuse or excuse, too lucid to blame unequivocally. Again, humility and mercy go hand in hand. Remorse is an error—because it assumes free wilt—rather than a failing; the Stoics and Spinoza challenge it on that ground. Is humility more a science—a form of knowledge—than a virtue? A sad science? Perhaps, but it is more useful to man than blissful ignorance. Better to look down on oneself than to misjudge oneself.
Without confusing shame and humility, one might apply to the latter what Spinoza says of the former: “Though a man who is ashamed of some deed is really sad, he is still more perfect than one who is shameless, who has no desire to live honourably.”26 Even sad, the humble man is more perfect than the impudent braggart. Better the decent man’s humility than the bastard’s self-satisfied arrogance: this everyone knows, and it proves Nietzsche wrong. Humility is the virtue of slaves, he says; the masters, “noble and brave,” have no use for it: to them, all humility is worthy of contempt.27 Granted. But isn’t contempt more contemptible than humility? And is “self-glorification,” that mark of the aristocrat, compatible with the lucidity that elsewhere Nietzsche correctly takes to be the philosophical virtue par excellence?28 “I know myself too well to pride myself on anything,” the humble man protests; “I need all the mercy I am capable of just in order to put up with myself.” What could be more ridiculous than playing at being a superman? Why bother to stop believing in God if it is only to be so utterly self-deceived? Humility is atheism in the first person: the humble man is an atheist with respect to himself, just as the nonbeliever is an atheist with regard to God. Why destroy all idols if it is only to glorify this one last effigy (the self) and worship it? “Humility equals truth,” said Jankélévitch: how much truer, and more humble, a notion than Nietzschean glorification!29 Honesty and humility are sisters: “Pitiless, lucid honesty, an honesty without illusions, is for those who are honest a continual lesson in modesty; and, conversely, modesty, for the modest, is an aid to honest self-regard.”30 Psychoanalysis operates in this same spirit (in psychoanalysis, Freud says, “his majesty the self” loses his throne), wherein lies its principal merit. Love the truth or love thyself. All knowledge is a narcissistic wound, a blow to our self-esteem.
Is it therefore necessary to hate ourselves, as Pascal would have us do? Certainly not. To do so would be to lack charity, to which everyone (including oneself) has a right, or rather which gives everyone, above and beyond all questions of right and deserts, the love that illuminates him, like a grace, gratuitous and necessary, unjustified but nevertheless due—the small measure of true love, even for ourselves, of which we are sometimes capable!
Love thy neighbor as thyself, and thyself as thy neighbor; “Wherever there is humility,” says Augustine, “there is also charity.”31 This is because humility leads to love, as Jankélévitch reminds us,32 and all true love presupposes humility; without humility, the self comes to occupy all the available space and sees the other person as an object—not of love but of concupiscence!—or as an enemy. Humility is the effort through which the self attempts to free itself of its illusions about itself and—since these illusions are what constitute it—through which it dissolves. Therein lies the greatness of the humble, who penetrate the depths of their pettiness, misery, and insignificance—until they reach that place where there is only nothingness, a nothingness that is everything. Behold, they are as we all are: alone, naked, and revealed, exposed to love and to the light.
Love without illusions, love without lust—are we even capable of such a thing? Which is to say, are we capable of charity?
I shall not try to answer that question just yet. But even supposing that charity were beyond our capabilities, there is always compassion, its humblest face and common approximation.
In speaking of humility, Jankélévitch rightly observes that “the Greeks hardly knew this virtue.”33 Could it be that they did not give themselves a God so great that man might appear as small as he really is? One cannot be sure, however, that they were mistaken as to their own greatness. (Jankélévitch, in my opinion, misunderstands “Stoic pride,” just as Pascal does: there is in Epictetus a form of humility through which the self knows it is not God and knows it is nothing.)34 It could be that they had less narcissism to fight against or at least fewer illusions about themselves to dispel. Whatever the case, our God (the God of the Jews, the Christians, and the Muslims), whether we believe in him or not, offers all of us, in his difference, an invaluable lesson in humility. The ancients defined themselves as mortal; death alone, they believed, set them apart from the gods. Ours is a different perspective, and we now know that even immortality could not, alas, make us different from what we are (and would for that reason probably be an unbearable prospect). Who is there that does not sometimes long for death in order to be freed from the self? Humility, in this respect, may well be the most religious of virtues. How one yearns to kneel down in churches! Why deny oneself? Speaking only for myself, I would say it is because I would have to believe that God created me—and that pretension, at least, is one of which I have freed myself. What little things we are, how weak and how wretched! Humanity makes for such a pathetic creation: how can we believe a God could have wanted this? So it is that humility, born of religion, can lead to atheism.To believe in God would be a sin of pride.
1
Michel de Montaigne, The Essays of Montaigne, trans. George B. Ives, Harvard University Press, 1925, vol. 2, book 2, ch. 2 , p. 59.2
Ibid., book 2, ch. 12, p. 403; see also book 3, ch. 13. (These are the concluding remarks of, respectively, Montaigne’s longest essay and last essay. Montaigne’s last words are of an appeased and joyful humility.)3
Benedict de Spinoza, The Ethics, in A Spinoza Reader: The Ethics and Other Works, ed. and trans. Edwin Curley, Princeton University Press, 1994, III, def. 26 of the affects, p. 192.4
Ibid., III, P55 and schol., p. 182.5
Ibid., IV, P53, p. 227.6
Ibid., IV, P54, schol., p. 228.7
Ibid.8
Ibid., IV, P53, dem., p. 228. On the difference between “humility as a virtue” and “humility as a vice,” see Descartes as well: René Descartes, The Passions of the Soul, III, arts. 155 and 159, in The Philosophical Writings of Descartes, trans. J. Cottingham, R. Stoothoff, and D. Murdoch, Cambridge University Press, 1985-91.9
Aristotle, Nicomachean Ethics, IV, 9.10
Spinoza, The Ethics, III, def. 29 of the affects, p. 193.11
Ibid., exp. of def. 28 of the affects.12
We might say about humility, mutatis mutandis, what Alexandre Matheron writes about repentance: “This true knowledge of evil makes us sensitive to liberating truth” (Alexandre Matheron, Le Christ et le salut des ignorants chez Spinoza, Aubier-Montaigne, 1971, p. 113). Humility, even as a sadness, can help a person lose his fondness for himself; it is an antidote to narcissism. In fact, it is at least as much a part of the prophetic (Spinoza, The Ethics, IV, P54, schol.) and evangelical (Christ’s “gentle and humble of heart,” Matthew 11:29) message as repentance; and, as we know, Spinoza sees himself as the express heir to this message.13
“The greater the sadness, the greater is the part of the man’s power of acting to which it is necessarily opposed. Therefore, the greater the sadness, the greater the power of acting with which the man will strive to remove the sadness” (Spinoza, The Ethics, III, P37, schol., p. 173). There is material here for a “dynamic of resistance”; see Laurent Bove, “Spinoza et la question dc la résistance,” L‘enseignement philosophique, no. 5 (May-June 1993).14
Spinoza, The Ethics, IV, P52, schol., p. 227.15
Immanuel Kant, The Metaphysical Principles of Virtue, trans. James W. Ellington, Library of Liberal Arts, Bobbs-Merrill, 1964, Introduction to the First Part of the Elements of Ethics, p. 81.16
Ibid., ch. 2,§ 11, pp. 97-98.17
Ibid., § 12, p. 99.18
Ibid.19
Ibid., Casuistical Questions, p. 99.20
Ibid., 11, p. 97.21
And no longer with the law: bid., § 11, p. 98.22
Ibid., Casuistical Questions, p. 100.23
Spinoza, The Ethics, III, def. 29 of the affects, exp., p. 193. See also IV, XXII (as well as Descartes’s The Passions of the Soul, art. 159).24
Friedrich Nietzsche, The Twilight of the Idols, trans. Anthony M. Ludovici, Maxims and Missiles, aph. 31, in The Complete Works of Friedrich Nietzsche, ed. Oscar Levy, Russell & Russell, 1964, vol. 16, pp. 5-6.25
René Descartes, Passions of the Soul, III, art. 155, vol. 1, p. 385; see also the condemnation of pride in art. 157. On humility in the Christian tradition, see Jean-Louis Chrétien’s essay L’humilité in the journal Autrement, no. 8 (1992), pp. 37-52.26
Spinoza, The Ethics, IV, P58, schol., p. 230.27
Friedrich Nietzsche, Beyond Good and Evil, trans. Helen Zimmern, aph. 260, Complete Works of Friedrich Nietzsche, vol. 12, p. 229.28
Ibid., p. 228.29
Vladimir Jankélévitch, Traité des vertus, Champs-Flammarion, 1986, vol. 2, ch. 4 (“L’humilité et la modestie”), p. 286.30
Ibid., p. 285.31
Cited in Vocabulaire de théologie biblique, Editions du Cerf, 1971, s.v. “Humilité.”32
Jankélévitch, Traité des vertus, vol. 2, pp. 287 and 401, for example.33
Ibid., p. 289.34
Ibid., pp. 308-09.
André Comte-Sponville
A Small Treatise on the Great Virtues
