Does the difference between “mine” and “thine” then absolutely cease in earthly love and friendship? There does take place in love and friendship an overturning of the selfishness which is moved by self-love and by this stubborn “mine” and “thine.” The one in love feels beside himself, outside of the ego, carried forward into that blessed confusion, so that for himself and the beloved, for him and the friend, there is no difference of “mine” and “thine”; “for,” says the lover, “everything which is mine is his… and what is his is… is mine!” How? Has then the difference between “mine” and “thine” ceased? When “mine” has become “thine,” and “thine” “mine,” then there is everywhere a “mine” and “thine,” only that the change which took place indicates and vouches for the fact that it is no longer the first, the immediate “mine” of self-love which stands stubbornly against the “thine.” With the exchange the headstrong “mine” and “thine” has become the common “thine” and “mine.” There is, consequently, fellowship, perfect fellowship in “mine” and “thine.” When “mine” and “thine” exchanged become the “our” in which the determination love and friendship has its strength, they are at least strong in that. But “our” is for fellowship exactly what “mine” is for the individual, and the “our” is formednot of the obstinate “mine” and “thine,” for there can be no union between these, but of the united, the interchanged “thine” and “mine.” Therefore we see that love and friendship as such are only improved and augmented self-love; while undeniably earthly love is life’s most beautiful happiness, and friendship the greatest temporal good! In earthly love and friendship the revolution in self-love is by no means radically deep enough; therefore the obstinate difference between “mine” and “thine” of the primitive selfishness still slumbers within it as a possibility. It is therefore regarded as an entirely significant symbol of love that the lovers exchange rings with each other; truly it is also entirely significant, but a mediocre symbol of love—that they must exchange rings. And an exchange by no means ends the difference of “mine” and “thine,” for that for which I exchange mine becomes in turn mine. When friends blend their blood with each other, it is certainly a fundamental exchange, for when the blood is blended a confusion arises: is it my blood which courses through my veins? No, it is my friend’s; but then, too, it is also my blood which flows in my friend’s veins. That is to say, an “I” is no longer itself the first, but a “you,” yet conversely, the case is the same.

How then is the difference “mine” and “thine” completely removed? The difference of “mine” and “thine” is an antithetical relation, they exist only in and with each other; therefore take one difference completely away and the other also completely disappears. Let us first attempt in the difference “mine” and “thine,” to take the distinction “thine” completely away. What do we then have? Then we have crimes and offenses against the law; for the thief, the robber, the swindler, the man of violence, in the distinction “mine” and “thine,” recognizes nothing, he will not recognize “thine” at all. But just for that reason he also absolutely loses the distinction of the “mine.” Even if he does not himself understand it, even if he hardens himself against understanding it, justice essentially understands that a criminal has really no sense of “mine”; as a criminal he is without this discriminating sense; and in another way: the richer the criminal becomes through the stolen “thine,” the less “mine” he has. Now in the difference “mine” and “thine,” take away the difference of the “mine” completely, what do we then have? Then we have the selfabnegating, the self-denying, the true love. But again if the category “thine” completely disappears, what is there then for reflection to understand, even if for a moment this seems a bewildering thought? The curse that rests on the criminal is that his “mine” disappears because he has abolished the “thine.” The blessing that rests upon true love is that the qualification “thine” is dropped, so that everything becomes the true lover’s; as Paul says: “All things are yours,” and as the true lover in a certain divine sense says: “All things are mine.” And yet, yet this happened only once in that he simply had no “mine”; hence, “All things are mine, I, who have no mine at all.” But that all things are his is a divine mystery; for, humanly speaking, the true lover is the sacrificing lover, the self-sacrificing, the absolutely self-denying lover; he is, humanly speaking, the one wronged, wronged most deeply of all, even if he is himself responsible because of his own perpetual sacrifice. He is thus quite exactly the opposite of the criminal who is the offending one.

An earthly lover is not exactly the opposite of the offender, however different he is from him; for an earthly lover still seeks in a certain, frequently unconscious sense his own, and thus he has a “mine.” Only in the self-denying love does the category of “mine” completely disappear, and the distinction of “mine” and “thine” become completely abolished. When, namely, I know nothing which is “mine,” when nothing at all is “mine,” then is everything “thine,” which it also is in a certain sense, and thus the sacrificing love thinks of it. Still, everything, unconditionally everything, cannot be “thine,” since “thine” is a contrast-relationship, and in “everything” there is no possibility of contrast. Then the miraculous takes place, which is the blessing of heaven upon the self-denying love, that in the mysterious sense of the eternal happiness, everything becomes His, His who had no “mine” at all; His who in self-denial made all “His” into “thine.” Since God is, in other words, everything, and just through having no “mine” at all, self-denying love gained God, and gained everything. For he who loses his soul shall gain it; but the discrimination “mine” and “thine,” or the “thine” and “mine” of love and of friendship is the preservation of the soul. Only spiritual love has the courage to be willing to have no “mine” at all, courage absolutely to end the difference “mine” and “thine,” therefore it gains God—through losing its soul. Here again is seen what the early Fathers understood, that the virtues of the pagans were glittering vices. The true lover does not seek his own. He does not understand the strict demands of justice and of equity, not even of fairness, regarding the “own”; nor does he understand an exchange, as earthly love does, which also understands how to guard against being fooled (hence, understands how to guard its “own”); nor does he understand fellowship, as friendship does, which also understands how to see that like is given for like, so that the friendship may be preserved (hence, understands how to guard its own). No, the true lover understands only one thing: to be fooled, to be deceived, to give everything without receiving the least reward—that is what it means not to seek his own. Oh, the poor fool, how ridiculous he is—in the eyes of the world! The true lover is absolutely the injured one——for which in a certain sense he was himself responsible because of his self-denial. Yet it was in this way that the overturning of the “mine” and “thine” reached its highest point, and thereby love also attained its highest happiness in itself. No ingratitude, no envy, no unappreciated sacrifice, no ridicule instead of thanks, nothing either present or future, can earlier or later make him understand that he has any “mine,” or make it evident that he nevertheless had forgotten the difference “mine” and “thine” for only a moment; for he has eternally forgotten this difference, and has eternally understood himself in sacrificial love, has understood himself in being sacrificed.

Love seeketh not its oun. For the true lover does not love his own characteristics; on the contrary, he loves every man according to his own characteristics; but the phrase “his own characteristics” is exactly the expression for his “own”; hence the lover does not seek his own; just the opposite, he seeks the other’s “own.”

Let us for a moment look at nature. With what infinite love nature, or God in nature, embraces all the differences there are in life and existence. Recall sometime what you have so often delighted in observing, recall the beauty of your field! There is no, oh, no difference in the love —but in the flowers, what a difference! Even the least, most insignificant, unattractive, poor little flower, overlooked even in its most immediate environment, which you hardly discover unless you are looking particularly for it, it is as if it had also said to the creating love: “Let me be something in myself, something characteristic.” And then love had helped it to become its own individuality, but far more beautiful than anything the poor little flower had ever dared to hope. What love! First, it makes no distinctions, none at all; next, which is like the first, it makes infinite differences itself in loving the difference. Wonderful love! For what is so difficult as in loving not to make any distinctions; and if one simply makes no distinction, what then is so difficult as to make distinctions! Imagine then that nature was as men are, severe, domineering, cold, partial, petty, capricious—and imagine, aye, just imagine, what might then happen to the beauty of the fields!

So, too, with respect to the love between men, only the true love loves every man according to his own characteristics. The strict, the domineering man lacks flexibility, and he lacks adaptability in understanding others; he demands his “own” from everyone, wishes that everyone might be remodeled to resemble himself, might be pruned according to his knack for training men. Or he does what he regards as manifesting a rare degree of love; for once he makes a single exception, he tries, so he says, to understand a single man, that is, he considers, in a quite definite and particular—and arbitrary manner, something definite for this man, and now demands that this other man shall carry out this idea. Whether it is consistent with the other man’s individuality or not, has nothing to do with the case, for it is what the domineering man has planned for him. If the strong, imperious man is not allowed to create, then he at least wishes to remodel, that is, he seeks his “own,” so that everywhere he points he will be able to say: “See that, that is my own idea; I thought of that, that is the way I wanted it.” Whether the arrogant and imperious man is referring to some big thing or a small one, whether he tyrannically rules over an empire, or is a domestic tyrant in an attic, makes no essential difference; his nature is the same: impeiiously not to be able to forget himself, imperiously to wish to crush the other man’s individuality, or make his life miserable for him. The nature is the same—the greatest tyrant who has ever lived, and who had a world to tyrannize over, finally became weary of it, and ended by torturing flies, but truly his nature remained the same! -:

And as the strict imperious arrogance only seeks its own, so, too, does petty-mindedness, the enviously-imperious, the cowardly-timorous pettiness. What is pettiness? Is pettiness a natural characteristic, that is, is any man originating from the hand of God, born petty? No! Petti-ness is creation’s own wretched invention, when, neither truly proud nor truly humble (for humility before God is the true pride), it creates itself, and also distorts God, as if He too were petty, as if He could not bear individuality—He, who lovingly gives everything, and yet, yet, gives everything individuality. Pettiness must therefore not be confused with humble gifts or with what we narrow-mindedly enough call the insignificant. Imagine such an insignificant man—if he has the courage to be himself before God, then he has individuality; but truly such an insignificant man, yet what am I saying, no, such a noble man, is never petty-minded. One should guard against this mistake; and so one should not confuse a simple, noble simplicity, which does not understand much, with a narrow-minded stupidity which cowardly and stubbornly only wishes to understand its “own.” The narrow-minded man never has had the courage for this divinely pleasing venture of humility and pride: being one’s self before God—ifor the emphasis rests on “before God,” since He is the origin and well-spring of all individuality.

He who dares to do this, has individuality; he has learned to know ity. what God had already given him; and he believes in entirely the same sense in the individuality of every man. To have individuality is to believe in the individuality of everyone else; for the individuality is not “mine,” it is the gift of God through which He permits me to be, and through which He permits everyone to be. This is just the unfathomable wealth of goodness in God’s goodness that He, the Almighty, still gives in such a way that the receiver is given individuality; that He who creates from nothing yet creates individuality, so that the creature, as over against Him, the Creator, does not become nothing, although he is taken from nothing and is nothing, but becomes an individuality. Pettiness, on the contrary, which is an assumed nature, has no individuality, that is, it has not believed in its “own” individuality, therefore it cannot believe in that of anyone else.

Pettiness has clung firmly to a definitely fixed shape and form which it calls its own; it seeks only that, can love only that. If the pettyminded man can find this, then he loves it. So petty-mindedness sticks with petty-mindedness, they grow into each other, which spiritually understood is just as pernicious as an ingrowing nail. This petty union is regarded then as the highest type of love, as the true friendship, as the truly loyal, sincere unanimity. The petty-minded man does not wish to understand that the more he lays hold on this pettiness, the farther away he is from true love, the greater becomes the falsity of the petty-mindedness—and it is worse, moreover, if he takes advantage of God’s name, and uses it to his own profit, presumably so that petty-mindedness will be the only object of God’s love, the only one in which He has pleasure. This petty connection is then equally petty in both directions: equally petty in idolizing some particular man who is of its “own” kind, perhaps its inventor, or yet one who from the least trial up to the least pettiness proves to have absolutely the countenance, demeanor, voice, thought-processes, manner of speech and cordiality of pettinesss and equally petty in wishing to supplant everything else. Just because pettiness is an assumed nature, and hence untruth; just because it has never fundamentally and frankly laid hold on God, but has petty-mindedly bungled its own affairs and falsified God; just because of these it has a bad conscience.

To the one who has individuality no strange individuality is a refutation, it is rather a confirmation, or a further proof; for it cannot disturb him that it appears, as he believes, that everyone has individuality. But to pettiness every individuality is a refutation; that is why the petty-minded man feels a clammy, uncomfortable uneasiness on seeing a strange individuality, and nothing else is so important as to get rid of it. Petty-mindedness demands, as it were, of God that every such individuality be destroyed, so that it may appear that petty-mindedness is right, and that God is a jealous God—pettymindedly jealous. It may sometimes serve as an excuse that pettymindedness really imagines that its wretched invention is true, consequently it is a proof of sincere friendship and true sympathy to wish to bungle everything and make everyone into a resemblance of itself. When this is so, petty-mindedness is generally free in the use of hearty words and assurances. But it really is, what is not usually mentioned, a self-defense, an instinct for self-preservation, which makes petty-mindedness eager fo do away with everything except its own. One hears it in its asthmatic breathing, which gasps for air, how it will perish if it does not get rid of this discomfort, this apprehensiveness; one sees it in its glance, how uncertain of itself it is deep within itself, and therefore how craftily and also how rapaciously it lies in wait for its prey: so that it may prove that petty-mindedness is right and is the victor. As one who in peril of life permits everything because it is a matter of life and death, so does petty-mindedness act in the same way; it is only natural that all the means it uses to defend its life and to deprive the individuality of life, should naturally be extremely petty; for although it permits everything, you may be sure that the everything it permits is everything petty.

“But do not earthly love and friendship love the beloved or the friend for his personal characteristics?” Yes, that is true, and yet it is not always absolutely true; for earthly love and friendship have their limitations, they can surrender everything to the other’s personality but not love and friendship itself to the other’s personality. Suppose now that the other’s personality demanded just this sacrifice! Suppose the lover saw, to his delight, that he was loved, but also saw that it would be very detrimental to the beloved’s individuality, would mean his ruin, however much he desired it: aye, then the earthly love, as such, is not able to make this sacrifice. Or suppose that the beloved saw that such a relationship would be the ruin of the lover, would completely upset his personality: aye, then earthly love, as such, has not the strength to make this sacrifice.

But the true love, the sacrificing love, which loves every man for his own characteristics, is willing to make every sacrifice: for it does not seek its own.

Love seeketh not its own; for it choses rather to give so that the gift looks as if the gift were the recipient’s own possession

When in our civic relationships we speak about men’s circumstances, we make a distinction between those who are their own masters and those who are dependent, and we wish for everyone that he might sometime be able to become his own, as we say. But in the world of the spirit, too, the being one’s own is highest—and affectionately to help someone to become himself free, independent, his own, to help him to stand alone: that is the greatest benefit one man can confer upon another. What consequently is the greatest benefaction? It is in truth the one we have mentioned, that is, please notice, if the lover also knows how to make himself inconspicuous, so that the one he helped does not become dependent on him—through being indebted to him for the greatest of all benefits. That is to say, the test of the greatest benefit is simply: the manner in which the only true benefit is conferred. Essentially it can be conferred in but one way, even if in another sense, there are many ways; when the benefaction is not conferred in this way, it is very far from being a benefaction. So one cannot say directly what the great est benefaction is, since the greatest benefaction, that of helping another man to be independent, cannot be done in a direct manner.

Let us try to understand this. When I say, “This man stands only through my help,” and what I say is true: have I then done the highest possible for him? Let us see! What do I mean by that? I say, “He stands only and alone by my help”—but then he does not stand alone, then he has not become his own, then it is to my help that he owes all this—and he is conscious of that fact. To help a man in this manner is really to deceive him. And yet this is the way in which the greatest benefactions in the world are, as often as not, conferred, that is, in a way in which they cannot be conferred; and yet it is the way which the world particularly appreciates—which is natural, for the true way of conferring a benefit makes itself invisible, hence is not seen, and thus, the world, as it were, exempts those concerned from all dependence. But the one who is aided in the wrong way, the meaningless way, he is inexhaustible in his praise and gratitude to me as his greatest benefactor (because he now stands alone by the aid of a dependent relation to me); he and his family and all his connections honor and praise me as his greatest benefactor, because I have affectionately made him dependent on me, or—yes, it is strange, he expresses his gratitude in an absolutely meaningless way, for instead of saying that I have made him dependent on me, he says that I have helped him to stand alone.

Hence the greatest benefit cannot be bestowed in such a way that the recipient comes to realize that he owes it to me; for if he learns to know that, then it simply is not the greatest of benefactions. If, on the other hand, someone says, “This man stands alone—through my assistance,” and what he says is true: aye, then he has done for this man the most that one man can do for another, he has made him free, independent, a self, an ego, and just through concealing his aid, has helped him to stand alone. Consequently, to stand alone—by another’s aid! You know there are many authors who use dashes on every occasion to conceal their lack of thought; and there are also others who use dashes with insight and propriety: but truly a dash is never used more significantly than in this little sentence—where it is used by one who, it is well to note, has perfected its use, if such a thing is possible; for in this little sentence the thought of the infinite is contained in the most ingenious manner, the greatest contrast is overcome. He stands alone—that is the most important thing; he stands alone—you see nothing more; you do not see the assistance or support, no awkward bungler’s hand holding him up, any more than it occurs to him that anyone has helped him; no, he stands alone—by another’s help. But this other’s help is hidden, concealed from him—from the one helped? No, from him, from the eyes of the independent man (for if he knows that he has been helped, then he is not in the most profound sense the independent one who helps and has helped himself), that other’s help is hidden behind the dash.

There is a noble wisdom which yet in a good sense is also infinitely cunning and subtle, It is well known; were I to mention the strange word by which it is called, there would hardly be anyone in these times who was not acquainted with it—by name: still, perhaps there are not so many who would recognize it if one were to describe it without menfioning its name. It and its name are often blamed in the world; and yet even this is not so strange, for the world is a very confused thinker who because of mere thoughts has neither time nor patience to think one thought. That noble, simple, wise man of old, he was the master of this wisdom, and truly this noble man was still not just a bad or evil man; he was also, if I may express myself a little whimsically, he was, and that one cannot deny him, he was a kind of thinker, even if not as profound as modern thinkers in their modes of thought and expression, even if not so worthy of admiration as being able to explain—for he was never able to explain more than what he understood.

This noble wag had profoundly understood that the most one man can do for another is to set him free, to help him to stand alone—and he had also understood himself in understanding that, that is, he had understood that if this is to be done, then the one who helps must be able to conceal himself, must magnanimously be willing to annihilate himself. He was, as he also called himself, in the spiritual sense a midwife, and he labored disinterestedly in this service, making every sacrifice—for this disinterestedness lay in the fact that it was concealed from the one helped, both the how and the fact that he was helped; the disinterestedness lay in the fact that the world could not understand, and hence could not appreciate his disinterestedness, something it is never able to do, for it simply cannot understand why one does not wish to be considered interested; on the other hand, why an interested party even more interestedly might wish to be regarded as disinterested. In this understanding about helping another man, the true lover and that noble wag are in agreement. The latter knows in himself, and it is true that he has done the other man the greatest service possible; he knows himself how he has worked for this, what time and industry and art it has cost him to inveigle the other man into an admission of the truth; how much misunderstanding he has had to endure from the one he helped by depriving him of his folly and cleverly leading him to the acquiring of the truth. For the art of divesting a man of his folly is a dangerous one to practice; that noble wise man himself says ‘“that men became so angry with him that they were sometimes ready to bite him, every time he took away a stupid idea from them” —for they regarded as love that which confirmed them in their folly. What wonder then that they were angry at anyone who wished to take that, their choicest treasure, away from them! Thus he labored; and when the work was finished he said quite softly to himself: “Now this man stands alone.” But thereby we come to the dash; and with the dash a smile comes upon the lips of this man, so noble and yet so mischievous, and he says, “Now this man stands alone—by my help”; he reserves for himself the secret of this inscrutable smile. Truly there is no trace of malice in this smile; he himself knows that what he has done is well-intentioned, that it is in truth a benefaction, and in truth the only way in which it could be done: but the smile, that is, however, the self-conscious smile of ingenuity.

It is otherwise with the lover. He too says: “Now this man stands alone.” Then comes the dash. Oh, but this dash signifies for the lover something other than a smile; for however noble and magnanimous and disinterested that wise rogue was, he still did not love the one he wished to help with a true sense of concern. While then by means of the cunning of the dash, that wag accomplishes this task with infinite ease, and this is precisely his art, that he was able to do everything for the other man, and still let it seem as if he had done nothing: so, too, for the lover, although in the thoughtful sense the dash is infinitely easy, in another sense (it is well to notice there is nothing to notice) it is like a labored breathing, almost like a deep sigh. For in this dash is concealed the sleepless anxiety, the toilsome night watches, the almost desperate exertion; in this dash is concealed a fear and trembling which, and for that reason more terribly, has never found expression. The lover has understood that in truth the greatest, the only benefit that one man can bestow upon another, is to help him to stand alone, to become himself, to be his own; but he has also understood the danger and suffering involved in the passionate labor, and above all, the terrible responsibility. Therefore in gratitude to God he says: “Now this man stands alone—by my help.” But there is no self-satisfaction in this last phrase; for the lover has understood that every man essentially stands alone—Dby the help of God, and that the lover’s self-annihilation is merely so that he may not hinder the other man’s God-relationship; so that all the lover’s help infinitely disappears in the God-relationship. He works without reward; for he makes himself into nothing, and just at the moment when some mention might be made of it, so that he could retain a proud self-consciousness as a reward of his labor, God steps in, and he is again annihilated, which nevertheless makes for his eternal happiness.

Suppose a courtier had it in his power to make himself important to someone to whom an audience with his majesty was of extreme importance. But now, if we can imagine such a situation, suppose the courtier, by putting himself to one side, were able to secure this audience at any time for the one seeking it: I wonder, then, if the suppliant, in his joy at having received an audience, would entirely forget the poor courtier; the poor courtier, who had had it in his power, unkindly, sometimes to secure an audience with his majesty for the seeker, had had the power to put him under particular obligations, to make himself loved for his love; the poor courtier, who instead of doing this had lovingly chosen to set himself to one side, and just by so doing, to pave the way for the suppliant at any time to secure an audience with his majesty, to help the seeker to the independence which at any time is permitted access to his majesty!

This is the way with all the lover’s work. Truly he does not seek his own, for he gives precisely in such a way that it looks as if the gift had been the recipient’s possession. So far as the lover may, he seeks to help a man to become himself, to become his own. But in this way there is simply nothing changed in existence, except that the lover, the concealed benefactor, is thrust outside, since it is every man’s destiny to be free, to be independent, to be himself. If the lover in this respect has been a fellow-laborer with God, everything has still become—like the fulfillment of the destiny. If it is noticed that the lover has helped, then the relationship becomes confused, or then the helper has not helped lovingly, the lover has not helped in the right way.

Wonderful memory, which the lover acquires as thanks for his labor! He can in a manner of speaking, pack his whole life into a dash. He can say: “I have labored in spite of everyone, early and late, but what have I accomplished—a dash! (If what he had accomplished could be directly seen, then he would have worked less lovingly.) 1 have suffered as severely as any man, inwardly as only love can suffer; but what have I gained—a dash! I have proclaimed the truth clearly and thoughtfully in spite of everyone; but who has appropriated it—a dash!” Had he, namely, not been the lover, then would he, certainly less thoughtfully, plainly have shouted forth the truth, and then he would have had disciples at once, who would have appropriated the truth—and hailed him as master.

Is the lover’s life then wasted, has he absolutely lived in vain, since there is nothing, nothing at all, which witnesses to his work and striving? Answer: is, then, not to seek his own, is that to waste his life? No, truly, this life is not wasted; the lover knows that in his blessed joy in himself and with God. His life is in a certain sense quite wasted on existence, on the existence of others; without wishing to waste any time or strength in asserting himself, in being something for himself, he is in his self-sacrifice willing to perish, that is, he is wholly transformed into being merely an active power in the hand of God. Therefore his work cannot be made visible. His work consists simply in helping another man or other men, to become their own, which in a certain sense they were before. But when one actually has by another’s help become his own, then it is absolutely impossible to see that it is by another’s help; for if I see the other’s help, then I see, too, that the one helped did not become his own.

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