Let us reverse the conclusion we drew about “truth and falsehood unconditionally stretching equally far; consequently it may be possible that what even appears to be the basest conduct might be pure love.” Oh, well, that is possible, and it will be possible: ergo the lover chooses to believe everything, that is, he manifests his love. A man whose thinking is confused certainly thinks that existence is a fairly muddy element: oh, not even the sea is so transparent! If someone, therefore, can prove that one ought to believe nothing at all because of the possibility of deception, then I can prove that one ought to believe everything—because of the possibility of deception. If anyone thinks that one ought not to believe even the best of men because of the possibility that he might prove a deceiver, then this is also true of the converse, that you can expect good in even the worst of men, for it would be possible that his baseness was only an appearance of evil. Love is the exact opposite of mistrust and yet it is based on the same knowledge; as far as knowledge goes, we may say that they are indistinguishable from one another (in the infinite sense knowledge is objective); only in the conclusion and in the decision, in the faith

(which believes everything, and believes nothing) are they exactly opposed to each other. When love, for instance, believes everything, it is by no means in the same sense as thoughtlessness, inexperience and credulity believe everything, which believe everything through ignorance and naiveté. No, love is just as well aware as anyone of everything which mistrust knows, yet without being mistrustful; aware of what experience knows, but also aware that what we call experience is really that mixture of mistrust and love.

“How much secrecy may not dwell in a man, or how much can still not be hidden! How ingenious is not that hidden inwardness in concealing itself, and in deceiving or avoiding others; that inwardness which preferably wished that one should not even suspect its existence, shame-facedly fearing to be seen, and fearing like death to be completely manifest! Is it not true that one man never completely understands another? But if he does not completely understand him, then it is always possible that the most uncertain might still have a quite different explanation, and, as it is well to note, if this is true, such an assumption might very well explain a great many cases, and thereby confirm its own truth, and yet later appear to be untrue as soon as something happens it cannot explain. And it would be possible that this case or this little further definition might even come at the last moment.

“It is because of this that all calm and intellectually dispassionate observers, who prefer to understand the inner man by a searching and illuminating study, that just these are so infinitely cautious in their judgment, or would rather abandon it altogether, because enriched by their observations they have developed an understanding of that mysterious world of the hidden things of the spirit, and because as observers they have learned to rule over their own passions. Only superficial, hasty, passionate men who have not learned to know themselves, and naturally for that reason do not know others, are given to such offhand judgments. The well-informed, the intelligent, never do this. A young, inexperienced man, who perhaps has never been on a horse before, casually springs up on the first one offered; but the very strong and experienced rider—notice how carefully he scrutinizes a strange horse before he will mount it, how doubtfully and cautiously he goes about it, how he scarcely ventures to mount it until he has let it run on a line in order to learn its disposition. And then, on the other hand, he continues to test it, long, long after the inexperienced rider has given up, For the inexperienced rider, who knows nothing about horses, believes that one horse is just like all the others—ergo I know them all.” Only an experienced rider thoroughly understands how great a difference there is, how one may be mistaken about a horse in very different and contradictory ways, and how unreliable every criterion is because each horse has its own peculiarities. And, now, the differences between man and man! How infinite! If this were not true, then would mankind be debased; for man’s superiority over the brutes is not only the one which is most often mentioned, the universally human, but also that which one most often forgets, that every individual within the species has essential diversities and characteristics. And this superiority is really the proper human superiority; the first superiority is the racial superiority over the animal species. Moreover, if it were not a fact that one man, honest, sincere, respectable and God-fearing, can under the same circumstances do exactly the opposite of what another man does, who is also honest, sincere, respectable and God-fearing: then the God-relationship would not essentially exist, not in its most profound significance. If one man were able with absolute truth to judge every man according to a common pattern, then would the God-relationship be essentially abolished; then would everything face outward, heathenishly finding its complete expression in the state and community life; then living would become far too easy, but also very empty; then would neither personal exertion nor deepening of the self be possible or necessary, which, in the most difficult collisior of the infinite misunderstanding, is exactly that which develops the God-relationship in a man.”

Can you tell me who has said this? No, that is impossible; it is entirely uncertain; the most suspicious and the most kindly man could, as far as knowledge is concerned, equally well have said it. No man has said it; it is superhumanly uttered; it is a sound which first becomes articulate through the inspiration of diversified personalities, who pronounce it by adding voice to it. It is knowledge, and knowledge as such is impersonal, and must be communicated impersonally. Knowledge posits everything in possibility, and is to that extent outside the reality of existence in the possibility. The individual first begins his life with ergo, with faith. But most people simply do not notice that, in one way or another, every moment they live they live by virtue of an ergo, of a faith—so heedless are their lives. There is no decision in knowledge; decision, the determination of the personality, and determination are first in ergo, in faith.

Knowledge is the infinite art of ambiguity, or the infinite ambiguity; at its highest it consists in bringing opposing possibilities into equilibrium. To be able to do this is to have knowledge, and only the one who knows how to describe the balancing of these opposing possibilities, only he communicates knowledge. To expect to impart a decision by means of knowledge or knowledge by means of a decision is preposterous, as it has certainly become in these times—aye, preposterous it is and remains, but in these times it has become the truly profound, the true profundity of profound thought. Knowledge is not suspicion, for knowledge is infinitely objective; it is the infinite indifference in equilibrium. Nor is knowledge love, for knowledge is infinitely objective, it is the infinite indifference in equilibrium. Nor is knowledge defilement, since it is the infinite indifference. The suspicious man and the lover have knowledge in common, and the suspicious man does not become suspicious because of his knowledge, nor does the lover become the lover through that knowledge. But when a man’s knowledge has balanced the opposing possibilities, and he is about to or wishes to pronounce a judgment, then it appears in what he then thinks next, who he is, whether he is suspicious or loving. Only extremely confused and ordinary men believe that they are able to judge another man by virtue of knowledge. From this it is evident that they do not even know what knowledge is; that they have never taken the time and pains to develop the infinite, objective sense for possibilities; or by means of the art of infinite ambiguity to understand the possibilities and bring them into equilibrium; or to understand them clearly. In a kind of nebulous condition, they have a stolid or a passionate preference for a certain kind of possibility; they judge that a little of it is enough, and they call that judging by virtue of knowledge; and they think, self-satisfied in thus—believing—by virtue of knowledge (a sheer contradiction), that they are assured against mistakes—which would be restricted faith (a new contradiction).

It is quite common to hear men express a great fear of making a mistake in judging. When you listen more closely to what is said, then, alas, there is so often a distressing misunderstanding in this—serious fear. Behold that noble, simple, wise man of old; he became what he was—moreover it was not something great—he did not become a great capitalist, nor an ambitious statesman in this best of all possible worlds. Impoverished, laughed at, ridiculed, accused, condemned, he remained the noble, simple, wise man, still so rarely seen; almost the only one who really made a distinction between what he understood and what he did not understand; and he remained so, because he “feared most of all to be in error.”

I wonder if this elevation of thought, this sublime equipoise, is what men are really thinking about when they are afraid of making a mistake in judging. Possibly. But then it would also be possible that the fear is sometimes somewhat one-sided. All men have a natural fear of making a mistake—through believing too well of a man. The mistake, on the other hand, of believing too badly of another man, is perhaps less feared, at least not in comparison with the first. But then if we did not fear most of all being in error, then we are, on the contrary, in error through our one-sided fear of a certain kind of error. It mortifies qur vanity and our pride to have thought too well of a swindler, to have been foolish enough to believe him—for it is a contest between brain and brain. One is vexed at oneself, or one finds that it is (yes, we speak in this way, and it does not help much, or rather it is a deception, to use more ceremonious and unusual expressions in an edifying discourse) “so stupid” to have been a fool. But ought it not to seem equally stupid to us, to say the least, to have believed evil, or suspiciously to have believed nothing, where there was good! I wonder if sometime in eternity it will not prove to have been more—than “stupid”; for let us use the word that is constantly used in the world; it does just as well applied to the eternal! But here in the world it is not “stupid” to believe evil of a good man; it is a superciliousness by which one adroitly gets rid of the good; but it is “stupid” to think well of an evil man, that is why one protects himself—since one fears so much being in error. The lover, on the other hand, truly fears being in error, therefore he believes everything.

The world tempts in many ways, among others also by making it appear that it would be so restricting, so foolish: lovingly to believe everything, But this is a misunderstanding. One draws a line through “lovingly” (alas, instead of underscoring it!), and so lays the emphasis on “foolish: to believe everything’; instead, the entire emphasis lies on the fact that it is “love” which believes everything. Truly it is not knowledge that defiles a man, far from it; knowledge is like sheer transparency, precisely then the most perfect and clearest; just as the most perfect water is tasteless, The servant of justice is not defiled because he has better information than the criminal about all intrigues. No, knowledge does not defile a man; it is suspicion which defiles a man’s knowledge, just as love purifies it.

In relation to the fact of judging another man, knowledge leads at most to the balancing of opposing possibilities—on that fact the difference becomes apparent by what is now decided. For the Scriptures warn against judging, and they add “that you be not judged’; so that it looks as if one might sometimes judge without being judged in turn. But this is not the case. At the very moment you judge another man, or condemn another man, you judge yourself; for the act of judging another man is, in the last analysis, merely to judge yourself, or to reveal what you are. You perhaps do not notice it, it escapes your attention, how earnest existence is, how by showing you all these many men, it, as it were, gives you occasion to judge, so that you even deem yourself lucky that you are among those—undeservedly happily favored who are nothing, and therefore in all heedlessness have the comfortable task of judging others: and then it is existence who is courteous or strict eriough not to regard you as nothing; then it is existence which judges you. How eager a man is to judge—if he knew what it means to judge: how hesitant he would be! How easily he seizes upon the least

LOVE BELIEVETH ALL THINGS 18g crumb in order to get the opportunity to judge—it is an opportunity to ensnare himself! Through knowledge you merely arrive at equilibrium, just when the art is perfectly practiced; but the conclusion returns in the person of the judge, and makes it manifest—that he is the lover, for he decides: ergo I believe everything.

Suspicion, on the other hand, has (naturally not through its knowledge which is infinitely indifferent, but through, itself, through its disbelief) a preference for evil. The fact of believing nothing at all is exactly the boundary which begins by believing evil. The good is of course the object of faith, and therefore the one who believes nothing at all started by believing evil. The fact of believing nothing at all is the beginning of being evil, for it shows that one has nothing good in one’s self, since faith is precisely the good in a man, which does not come with much knowledge, nor need he lack it because his knowledge is insignificant. Suspicion cannot hold knowledge in equilibrium; it defiles its knowledge, and therefore is nearer to envy, spite, corruption, which believe everything evil.

But now what about the one who was so zealous to judge, to pour out his indignation, his powerful or impotent indignation upon another, yet without really knowing whereof he judged? What if in eternity he discovers and is forced to confess that the one he judged was not only innocent, but that he was the noblest, the most disinterested and the most high-minded of men! Someone has said that sometime in eternity (assuming that we are not ourselves excluded) we shall note with wonder one or another missing whom we had so definitely expected to find there. But I wonder if we shall not also see with wonder one or another there whom we would have excluded without ceremony, and see that he was far better than one’s self, not as if he had later become so, but just in connection with the very thing which determined the one judging to exclude him. Nevertheless, the lover believes all things. With the blessed joy of wonder he will sometime see that he was right; and if he made a mistake in believing the good—the fact of believing the good is in itself a blessing. Charitably to believe the good is certainly not a mistake, but one makes a mistake by not doing so.

The fact of suspiciously believing nothing at all (which is quite a different thing from knowledge about the equilibrium of opposing possibilities) and the fact of lovingly believing everything, is thus not an understanding, or the inference of an understanding, but a choice which must be made just when knowledge has balanced the opposing possibilities; and in this choice, which certainly takes the form of a judgment upon others, the one who judges is revealed. The fact that thoughtlessness, inexperience, simplicity, believe everything, is an understanding, a foolish understanding; the fact of lovingly believing everything is a choice by virtue of love. Instead of doing as suspicion does, which uses its shrewdness to secure itself by believing nothing, love uses its acuteness to discover the same thing, that deception and truth unconditionally stretch equally far, and it then decides by virtue of the faith it has in itself: ergo I believe everything.

Love believes everything—and is never deceived. Wonderful! To believe nothing at all for fear of being deceived seems reasonable; for how could anyone deceive someone who believes nothing! But to believe everything, and in that way throw himself away, a prey to all deception and to all deceivers, and nevertheless just by so doing assure himself everlastingly against every deception: that is strange. And yet I wonder if the one, even if he is not deceived by others, is still not deceived, most terribly deceived, certainly by himself, through believing nothing at all; defrauded of the highest, of the resignation, of the blessedness of love! No, there is but one way to assure one’s self against ever being deceived, that is charitably to believe everything.

Let us speak about it in this way: Can a man deceive God? No, in his relation to God a man can only deceive himself; for the God-relationship is the supreme good, so that whoever defrauds God defrauds himself most terribly. Or, for purposes of comparison, let us consider thé relation between man and man. Can a child deceive its parents? No, the child deceives itself; it is merely an appearance (hence, an illusion), a short-sighted deception, that makes it look to the child, and to anyone who has no more understanding than the child, as if it were the child who deceived its parents, while, alas! the poor child really deceives itself. One may reasonably assume that as far as the child is concerned, the parents are superior to it in wisdom and insight, and therefore are superior in their true love for the child, who only foolishly understands loving himself, so that to deceive the parents would be the greatest misfortune which could befall the child, the greatest misfortune, if it were not his own fault. But then it is—truly—not the parents who are deceived; on the contrary, it is the child, and it only looks (an illusion) as if the child deceived its parents; in a childish and foolish sense it is true that the child deceived its parents, but consequently it is not true, since it is true only in a “childish and foolish sense.” On the other hand, would it not be a pitiful and disgusting sight to see a father or mother who, in relation to the child, did not have the true earnest, concerned idea of their own superiority, based on the eternal responsibility of being truly desirous of the child’s best interest? Would it not be pitiful and disgusting to see a father or mother, who might therefore degrade themselves by indecent quarrels with the child, become irritated and indignant on their own account, because they childishly had the foolish idea that it was the child who deceived them? Such a relationship between parents and a child is indeed indecent, moreover, almost crazy, as if to slap the child were to indicate being slapped by the child, and thus, by setting aside all dignity, superiority and legitimate authority, were to prove merely that the father or the mother was physically stronger.

Consequently the true superiority can never be deceived if it remains true to itself. But true love, in comparison with everything which is not love, hence compared with every illusion, is unconditionally superior: as a result it can never be deceived if, through believing all things, it remains true itself, or continues to be true love.

This is certainly very easy to understand; the difficulty must therefore lie elsewhere, in that there must be a lower range of ideas which does not even suspect what true love is, what love is in itself, and what this blessedness is in itself. The trouble is that there is a great multitude of illusions which tend to hold a man down in the lower range of ideas where the deception and the fact of being deceived signify exactly the opposite of what they signify in the infinite conception of love. This conception signifies that the only possibility of deception lies in refraining from loving, in submitting to giving up love itself and thereby losing its blessedness. For in the infinite sense the only deception possible is self-deception; infinitely speaking, one need not fear him who merely kills the body; to be killed is, from the infinite standpoint, not a danger, nor is the kind of deception the world talks about, any danger. And again this is not difficult to understand. The difficulty consists in carrying the task to completion, in acquiring the true conception of love, or, more correctly, in becoming the true lover; for just through believing all things, he guards against illusion, and fights to preserve himself in the true love. But the illusion will constantly obtrude itself, about like that illusion which believes that the sun moves around the earth, although we know that it is the earth that moves.

There is a lower conception of love, hence a lower love, which has no conception about love itself. This conception regards loving as a claim (the requital of love is what is demanded), and the fact of being loved (the requital) as an earthly good, as temporal-—alas! and yet as the highest happiness. Moreover, if it is true, the deception may certainly play the master, just as in the capitalistic world. One pays out his money to buy one or another convenience; if one has paid his money but has not received the convenience, then one is defrauded. A man makes love a transaction: he sacrifices his love in bartering, but if he does not get requited love in exchange, then he feels defrauded. The deception may also consist in the deceiver’s having gained the love of the deceived in such a way that perhaps the one deceived could not keep from loving him, because he loved in such a way—that he could only love one single man, and this man was the deceiver. It is not the intention of this reflection to deny that the lover was deceived, nor that the deceiver was, yes, that he was a wretched deceiver; but it does deny that this lover was the true lover. For the one who is—loving, in such an extraordinary way that he can love but one single man, he is not the true lover, but he is in love with love, and he who is in love with love is a self-lover, as was earlier demonstrated. But that one may deceive a self-lover, the discourse has never wished to deny.

There is here as everywhere, something very profound in existence. We sometimes hear the most vociferous complaints about being deceived in love. The accuser wishes to prove exactly what a rare lover he himself is, and in turn how unusually paltry the deceiver is, and he proves this by protesting that he can and could love only one man. He does not notice that the more violent this complaint becomes, the more it becomes a self-accusation, which indicates that he himself has been and is a self-lover, of whom it is certainly true that he can love but one (for the true lover loves everyone, and that without demanding requital), and therefore he might really be deceived, which the true lover cannot be. That is to say: everyone who essentially and decisively admits that he has been thus deceived in love, so that he has lost the best, to say nothing of everything, he thereby denounces himself as a self-lover; for the best is love in itself, and one can always retain that if one wills to be the true lover. Everyone, therefore, who only wills to have the lower, the illusory idea of what love is, he certainly takes pains not to be deceived; he learns from the capitalists or from those who carry on trade, what precautions they use against swindlers. Alas! and in spite of all these precautions, moreover even if he succeeds by means of these precautions in insuring himself against every deception: he and all like-minded are still essentially deceived through leading their lives in that world of illusion, in that world where all are essentially victims, whether the one now groans about the other’s having deceived him, or the other brags of not having been deceived. The difference between them is no greater than it would be in an insane asylum if one of the patients were to imagine himself something through not being insane in the same way as another, while all of them were essentially insane.

The lower conception and illusion of love to which men resort in this interest and service, is temptation; the difficulty consists precisely in acting to defend one’s self against it; for it is easy enough in a quiet moment to perceive that the true lover who believes everything, cannot be deceived. “But still it is so stupid to be deceived.” If you yourself were the true lover, who believes everything, then you would indeed see that it is an impossibility, would see that you were not deceived. But is there anything stupid in knowing within yourself that you are not deceived? No. “But it is, nevertheless, so stupid that it should seem so to others.” See, here is the deception. To know in yourself and in truth that you are not deceived, and still find it stupid that you should seem to be deceived. What do you call that? We call it vanity, or, what here amounts to the same thing, we call it: not being absolutely the true lover. Alas, and if vanity could get power over the true lover, then he would certainly be deceived, for it drags him out of love down into the low, the world of pettiness and wrangling, where one fools and is fooled, vain of being able to dupe others, stupid in being duped, and therefore vain of being able to avoid it.

When we see the true lover deceived by the cunning, the artful and the hypocrite, we are revolted, and yet why? Sometimes because we do not see punishment and retribution follow in the external world; hence because we ask to see the meaning of the imperfection and the externality presented as a satisfying drama where there is external retribution; then again because we sink down to the lower level of ideas; again because we sluggishly and thoughtlessly forget that the true lover cannot be deceived. We have a right to cry woe to the one who leads a blind man astray; here it is quite proper to demand external punishment, for one can deceive a blind man; the fact of being blind does not assure against every deception. But the true lover who believes everything cannot be deceived. In a certain sense the lover knows very well if someone deceives him, but by not wishing to believe it, or by believing everything, he preserves himself in love, and thus is not deceived—consequently, here, too, one has an illustration of how foolish it is, how injudicious the busyness, which thinks that knowing is higher than believing; for that which precisely assures the lover, who in a certain sense knows that he has been deceived, is to believe everything.

One cannot deceive the true lover who believes everything, for fo deceive him is to deceive one’s self. What really does constitute the highest good and the greatest happiness? In truth it is certainly loving; next to this is being truly loved. But then it is impossible to deceive the lover, who just by believing everything abides in love. If it were possible to defraud anyone of money in this way, so that the so-called victim retained his money: then would he have been defrauded? But that is exactly the case here. The deceiver becomes contemptible through his attempt, and the lover preserves himself in his love, abides in love and hence is in possession of the highest good and the greatest happiness; consequently, he certainly is not deceived! The deceiver, on the contrary, deceives himself. He does not love, and thereby he has already defrauded himself of the supreme good and the greatest happiness. Next to this comes the being loved by one who loves in truth—otherwise being loved might become a source of great unhappiness to one. Again it is this which the deceiver is about to swindle himself out of, insofar as he prevents himself from having the true benefit of this love, and insofar as he might succeed, if his deception were presumably discovered, in forfeiting the other man’s love, in making the lover unhappy through truly having ceased to love—instead of through believing all things abiding in love, assured against all deception.

Let it sometime take place before our eyes, so that it can really become clear how pitiful the deceiver looks in comparison with the true lover—for there is much said about seducing and seducers, about deception and deceivers, but one rarely talks about or describes the true lover. Hence, I imagine a cunning man, an artful one, a hypocrite; I take pleasure in equipping him who is initiated into all the secrets of deception, with all seductive gifts. Now what will he do? He wishes to deceive the lover; he wishes (for he has that much sense in spite of his depravity, so that he perceives how great a good it is to be loved) by means of his cunning, to see himself beloved. But why all this fuss, this wholly superfluous expenditure of cunning and artfulness? It is the true lover he wishes to deceive, but the true lover loves everyone, so the deceiver can attain love in a far simpler way. Moreover, if we were speaking about earthly love (self-love) then there would at least be some meaning in the deception; for if the beloved can only love one single person, then, if it were possible, it would be suitable by means of the deceptive art of cunning and artifice, to become that one. But as regards the true lover, the deception is from its very inception exactly meaningless, the deceiver from the very beginning is shown in the most pitiful light. Now furthermore. The deceiver naturally succeeds in being loved, naturally—moreover, the deceiver thinks and must naturally think that this result is due to his cunning and artfulness and skill; poor, deceived deceiver! He does not notice that he is dealing with the true lover, who loves him because the true lover loves everyone. In what an absurdity is not the wretched deceiver now involved! Not as if the deception had failed; no, that punishment is far too insignificant; no, the deception is successful, and the deceiver is proud of his deception! But wherein lies the deception, what kind of a deception is it he talks about? Naturally the deception must lie in the fact that although the lover loves him, in addition to enjoying this good of being loved, he coldly and proudly and mockingly also enjoys the self-satisfaction of not loving in return, It quite naturally escapes him (for how could a deceiver realize that true love exists!) that he was dealing with the true lover, who loves without asking for any requital, who justly estimates the love and its eternal happiness by not asking any requital. Consequently, by the use of cunning the deceiver has led the lover to love him—but that is what the lover is so infinitely willing to do. The deceiver has presumably fooled him by not loving in return—but the true lover regards asking for a requital as a pollution, a debasement of love, and considers that loving without the reward of requited love, is the highest happiness. Who then is the victim of deception? What is there to say about the deception? The deceiver talks at random and does not even understand what he is saying, like that man at whom we all laugh, that man who lay in the ditch and still believed he was riding. To deceive in this way, is it not as if one were to call it stealing to put money into a man’s pocket! The true lover has become richer; for each more that he gives in loving, and for each new time that he gives his love, relinquishing all thought of requital, the richer he becomes. Or is the true lover deceived if it is not revealed what an unworthy object of love the deceiver is? The act of loving is the supreme good, but then only the love which asks requital, hence the false love, can be deceived through remaining ignorant of the fact that its object was unworthy.

Or is the true lover deceived if it becomes evident how unworthy an object of love the deceiver is and was? The fact of loving is the supreme good and the greatest happiness. You know that one who is in need of money, in order to get money approaches a man he had depended on, and who he believes has money: he is fooled then if the man is insolvent and has no money. But the one who wishes to give his money away, and does not in the most remote way wish or demand repayment, he is certainly not deceived—because the recipient has no money. But the cunning deceiver, who is prompted by the smoothest and most insinuating motives of cunning, does not notice how clumsily he behaves. He believes himself to be superior, he smiles in self-satisfaction (alas, as if you saw the self-satisfied smile of the insane, which is something both to laugh at and to weep over!); he does not suspect that the lover is infinitely superior. The deceiver is blinded, he does not even notice his terrible impotence: his deception is successful—and he confers a benefaction; his deception is successful—and he makes the true lover still richer; his deception is successful, he succeeds—and yet it is just himself who is deceived. Poor victim! Even this way to salvation is cut off from him, so that his deception fails! If an insane man wished to convince a rational man of the correctness of his insane thoughts, and to a certain degree succeeded, would this not be the most terrible thing of all, would it not be almost like the act of an unmerciful existence, for if he had failed, then the deranged man might realize from this that he was insane; but now it is hidden from him, and his madness is indeed incurable. So with the deceiver; but it is not an unmerciful but a just punishment upon him, that his deception succeeded—and just therein is his perdition.

What, then, in truth is the quarrel between the deceiver and the lover? The deceiver wishes to trick his love from the lover. This cannot be done; the true lover has, simply by not requiring the least requital, assumed an impregnable position. To cheat him out of his love is no more possible than to cheat a man out of the money which he as donor stands ready to give and does give to one. The quarrel is therefore really about something else—whether it might be possible for the deceiver (something he by no means intends or considers) to become the occasion of the lover’s fall, so that the lover fell away from love and sank down in the world of illusion, in a childish wrangling with the deceiver, because the lover gave up the love which loves without asking requital. However, the true lover guards against the possibility of this just by believing all things, hence by loving the deceiver. If the deceiver could understand this, he would lose his reason. An earthly lover (the self-lover) believes that he is deceived when the deceiver has fooled him into loving him, without the deceiver’s loving in return—and the true lover believes that he himself is saved when by believing all things, he succeeds in loving the deceiver. The earthly lover regards it as a misfortune to continue to love the deceiver; the true lover regards it as a victory if he is successful in continuing to love the deceiver. Wonderful! The deceiver must become more and more conceited about his own wisdom because his deception succeeds so extraordinarily; at last it even ends by his regarding the lover as a poor, incompetent, stupid devil. And yet it is just by means of this very same fact that the true lover is everlastingly and infinitely assured against deception! Do you, my hearer, know any stronger expression for superiority than the fact that the superior one looks as if he were the weaker? For the stronger, who looks as if he were stronger, establishes a standard of superiority; but the one who, although superior, looks as if he were the weaker, negates the standard and the comparison, that is, he is infinitely superior. Have you never in life seen this relation of infinite superiority, which certainly is not plainly seen, for the infinite is never seen directly? Take it in the matter of the infinite superiority of another, and you will see that he looks like a plain, ordinary man; only a man who thinks that he has more sense than others, but is not quite certain about it, or is weak and foolish enough to boast of a comparative relation of superiority, strives to give an appearance of superiority of understanding. So, too, with the lover who believes everything, This credulity can so easily be confused with incapacity, and yet there is the profundity of wisdom in this simplicity. It can so easily be confused with weakness, and yet the strength of eternity is in this impotence. The lover can so easily look like a poor, friendless man whom anyone can deceive, and yet he is the only one who is eternally and infinitely assured against deception. But we simply do not see it; humanly speaking the confusion lies near enough, especially in these clever times which have become too clever to believe in wisdom. The confusion lies near enough. For the lover who believes everything is not immediately manifest; he is like those plants whose propagation is in secret: he breathes in God, he draws the nourishment for his love from God, he is strengthened through God. That humanly speaking he is deceived, he sees in a certain sense himself; but he knows that deception and truth stretch equally far, and for that reason it might still be possible that the deceiver was not a deceiver, and therefore he believes everything. For this end the lover has courage, courage to believe everything (in truth the highest courage!); courage to endure the world’s contempt and insults (truly the greatest victory, greater than anything which is gained in the world, for it overcomes the world!); courage to endure the world’s finding it so indescribably foolish, while it still excellently understands that from which he draws his conclusion, but not his conclusion, any more than a suspicious world can understand the everlasting happiness which the true lover has in himself.

Still, suppose that sometime in eternity it appeared that the lover really had been deceived! How—if it actually is necessary to repeat it once more? When loving is the highest good and the greatest happiness; when the lover just by believing everything, abides in the happiness of love: how then could he, in time or eternity, be deceived! Nono, there is in time and eternity only one deception possible with respect to true love, the self-deception, or the renouncing of love. The true lover therefore will not even understand the objection. Alas, but the rest of us unfortunately understand it only too easily; for the lower range of ideas and the covenant of worldly passions with illusions are so difficult to free one’s self from. At the very moment when one has best understood the truth, the old ideas suddenly come upon one again. The infinite, the eternal, consequently the true, are so alien to the natural man that it is with him as it is with a dog, which can indeed learn to walk upright for a moment, but still is constantly wanting to walk on all fours. One can almost force a man’s thought to have to admit that since deception unconditionally stretches equally as far as truth, one man cannot really judge the other, but the judge reveals only himself—about as when someone with all his might strikes down on a dynamometer, and does not know that it is a dynamometer, hence he believes that he really is striking something, while it is really only his strength which is being tested. And when one has understood this in this way, then one may still seek one more evasion; one can lay hold on eternity in a curious way, counting on eternity to reveal whether he really was a deceiver. But what does this prove? It proves that one is not the true lover who has the eternal happiness of love in himself, or who has the true conception of earnestness about eternity. If a man yields to this impulse, it immediately drags him down to its low level of pettiness, where the last and the highest aim is not the happiness of love itself, but the wrangling of sophistry.—But the true lover believes everything—and yet is never deceived.

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