Schopenhauer’s Entire System in One Readable Essay

By Dr Neel Burton — Psychiatrist, philosopher, and wine writer; Fellow of Green Templeton College, University of Oxford; author of over twenty books.

Essay substantially revised on 8 September 2026.

The World as Will and Representation opens with a line that pulls the reader straight into its frame:

Die Welt ist meine Vorstellung.

The world is my representation.

From this starting point, Arthur Schopenhauer constructs one of the most audacious systems in Western philosophy. The world that we see and know, he argues, is not the world as it is in itself, but only as it appears to a perceiving mind. Beneath this world of appearances lies a deeper reality: a blind, ceaseless, insatiable force that Schopenhauer calls Will.

Everything in the universe, from gravity and organic growth to human ambition and sexual desire, is a manifestation of this Will. Because Will can never finally be satisfied, life is condemned to striving, conflict, and suffering. Yet there are moments—in art, compassion, and ultimately renunciation—when we can loosen its grip and glimpse a way out.

The World as Representation

Schopenhauer begins by drawing a distinction between the world of appearances, or ‘representation’ [Vorstellung], and the world as it is in itself.

The world of representation is the world that we perceive through our senses. It is governed by certain structures, namely, space, time, and causality—or what Schopenhauer calls the principle of sufficient reason. The experiencing subject imposes these structures upon the world, and it is by means of them that we apprehend the individual material things that make up the world as we know it.

Thus, the world as it appears to us is partly a product of the kind of organism that we are. Space, time, causality, and multiplicity do not belong to things as they are in themselves, but to our mode of perceiving and understanding them.

Individual things depend upon us for their form and existence. Without a perceiving subject, they would not exist as individual things. They are as the material of a dream, which vanishes as soon as the dreamer awakes.

Although our bodies are objects in the world of representation, we ourselves, as knowing subjects, cannot be found within that world. The experiencing subject knows all things and yet is known by none. It is like the eye that sees everything but cannot see itself.

But if the world of representation is merely appearance, what lies beneath or beyond it?

The World as Will

Here things take a distinctly Schopenhauerian turn.

For Immanuel Kant, the nature of the thing-in-itself is unknowable. Schopenhauer agrees that we cannot know it through ordinary perception, but argues that we have another point of access: our own body.

From the outside, I experience my body as an object among objects. But from the inside, I experience it as impulse, appetite, effort, desire—as Will. Bodily action and willing are not two separate events connected by causation, but one and the same event known in two different ways.

Schopenhauer takes this insight and extends it to the whole of nature. The world-in-itself is Will: a fundamentally blind process of striving, manifesting at every level of existence. Gravity, magnetism, organic growth, animal instinct, and human desire are all expressions of the same underlying force.

The whole world is an objectification of Will, including the human body. The genitals are objectified sexual impulse, the mouth and digestive tract are objectified hunger, and so on. Everything about us, including even our higher cognitive faculties, has evolved to help us meet the demands and dictates of Will.

Although able to perceive and reason, our intellect is not designed to pierce through the veil of mâyâ [illusion] and apprehend the one, true nature of reality. Instead, it and we are driven by blind Will into a life of desiring, striving, and suffering.

Life is a ‘war of all against all’, a ‘horror scene’ in which Will ‘feasts nightmarishly upon itself’, like a bulldog ant which, when cut in half, enters into a battle to the death between its own head and tail.

Awakened to life out of the night of unconsciousness, the will finds itself an individual, in an endless and boundless world, among innumerable individuals, all striving, suffering, erring; and as if through a troubled dream it hurries back to its old unconsciousness. Yet till then its desires are limitless, its claims inexhaustible, and every satisfied desire gives rise to a new one.

The Intellect as Servant

Our intellect is like a lame man who can see, riding upon the shoulders of a blind giant.

Schopenhauer anticipates Freud by identifying this blind giant of Will with the unconscious drives and fears of which our conscious intellect may not be entirely—or even mostly—cognisant.

We imagine that reason governs our behaviour. More often, Will determines what we want and what we do, while the intellect is employed, if at all, to implement and rationalise its dictates.

We often do not know what we desire or fear. For years, we can harbour a desire without admitting it to ourselves or even allowing it to come to clear consciousness, because the intellect is not to know anything about it: the good opinion that we have of ourselves would inevitably suffer. But if the wish is fulfilled, we discover from our joy—not without a feeling of shame—that this is what we desired all along.

With Schopenhauer, for the first time in Western philosophy, mind is no longer supreme. To Descartes’ ‘I think, therefore I am’, Schopenhauer in effect replies:

I want, therefore I think.

Love and the Will-to-Life

The most powerful manifestation of Will is the sexual impulse.

In romantic love, people imagine that they are pursuing their own happiness. In reality, they are serving the will-to-life of the species. The will-to-life of the yet-to-be-conceived offspring draws man and woman together in a cloud of lust and idealisation. But once the task has been accomplished, their shared delusion fades away, returning the pair to their ‘original narrowness and neediness’.

The lover believes that no happiness could be greater than possessing this one particular person. But nature is concerned neither with his happiness nor with hers. It is concerned only with the constitution of the next generation.

If lovers are so abashed, furtive, and conspiratorial, says Schopenhauer, it is because they are on some level aware of the atrocity that they are about to commit by bringing new life into the world—when the suffering could simply have stopped.

The Pendulum of Suffering

Will is the cause of constant suffering because it continually creates deficiencies and desires for us to satisfy.

On this account, satisfaction or happiness is not a positive state but merely the temporary removal of striving and suffering. As soon as one deficiency is remedied, another desire arises and, with it, more striving and more suffering.

Even if satisfaction can be sustained for a little while, it leads only to boredom. Thus, ‘life swings like a pendulum backward and forward between pain and boredom’.

This is the life of almost all men; they will, they know what they will, and they strive after this with enough success to protect them from despair, and enough failure to preserve them from boredom and its consequences.

So long as we are in thrall to Will, we can have neither peace nor lasting happiness. ‘The subject of willing,’ writes Schopenhauer, flaunting his encyclopaedic knowledge of Greek mythology, ‘is constantly stretched on the revolving wheel of Ixion, pours water into the sieve of the Danaids, is the ever-longing, ever-thirsting Tantalus.’

The only time the wheel of Ixion came to a standstill was when Orpheus descended into Hades in search of Eurydice and played upon his lyre.

This points to the first means of escaping from Will: art.

Art and Aesthetic Contemplation

In ordinary life, we perceive things in relation to our needs and desires. A building offers shelter, a river provides water, a person attracts or threatens us. Everything is subordinated to Will.

But in aesthetic contemplation, we adopt a disinterested attitude that enables us to consider things free from their relation to ourselves and our purposes. For a moment, we cease to ask what they can do for us and simply contemplate what they are.

Freed from willing, we can glimpse the timeless reality of things, not as the particular material objects that they are, but as the Platonic Ideas that they embody.

For Schopenhauer, Platonic Ideas are not merely mental concepts or constructs. They are the highest objectifications of Will, existing outside the constraints of space, time, and causality. They are apprehended not by conceptual thought but by intuitive or imaginative perception.

Schopenhauer dismissed mathematics as a form of mental activity so base that it could be performed by a machine. Mathematics might provide conviction—knowing that—but cannot lead to true understanding—knowing why. Moreover, an excessive focus on mathematics can parch the mind and inhibit imaginative perception.

Genius is the ability to disengage from Will and merge, as it were, with the object of perception, becoming a ‘pure, will-less, painless subject of knowledge’:

The gift of genius is nothing but the most complete objectivity…the capacity to remain in a state of pure perception.

Unlike the person of mere talent, the genius is able to transcend the strictures of space and time, and marries insight with imagination to create works of art that embody and reveal higher knowledge. Thus, aesthetic contemplation is not only liberating but enlightening: ‘the single thing becomes at one stroke the Idea of its species, and the perceiving individual the pure subject of knowing.’

The Hierarchy of the Arts

Schopenhauer ranks the arts according to their ability to bypass the principle of sufficient reason and reveal the deeper nature of reality.

Architecture stands near the bottom of the hierarchy. It expresses the simplest grades of Will: gravity, rigidity, cohesion, and the struggle between load and support.

Above architecture are sculpture, painting, and poetry, which reveal increasingly complex manifestations of Will. Poetry is ‘the art of bringing into play the power of imagination through words’, while tragedy is the ‘summit of the poetic art’.

Through its enactment of suffering, futility, and resignation, tragedy brings out both the problem of life and its solution. It teaches us that, in the game of life, the only winning move is not to play.

At the summit of the arts stands music.

Unlike the other arts, music does not represent the Platonic Ideas or any particular object in the world. It is ‘a copy of the Will itself’. The progression of musical notes, especially the melody, mirrors the movement of our inner strivings: desire, struggle, satisfaction, and renewed desire. The bass, meanwhile, mimics the lowest grade of Will’s objectification—‘inorganic nature, the mass of the planet’.

Music reproduces the structure of emotion without furnishing its particular contents. It enables us to feel sorrow without having suffered a loss, triumph without having overcome an enemy, and longing without having anything in particular to long for.

For a few moments, music releases us from the pains of our own willing and permits us to contemplate Will from the outside.

But art offers only a temporary respite. Once the performance has ended or the painting has been left behind, we fall back into desire. A more lasting escape depends upon seeing through the illusion of our separateness from others.

Character, Freedom, and Compassion

We have the freedom to do what we will, but not the freedom to will what we will. Our actions arise necessarily from the interaction between our character and our circumstances.

Character, for Schopenhauer, is inborn and immutable, and revealed through our actions over time. We do not decide who we are and then act accordingly. Rather, we discover who we are by seeing what we do.

Yet we somehow feel responsible for our actions. This sense of responsibility suggests that there is some aspect of us that lies beyond the causal necessity of the world of representation.

Three fundamental forces drive human conduct: egoism, malice, and compassion, with egoism most commonly in the driving seat. The egoist treats the division between himself and others as absolute. The malicious person goes further, seeking the suffering of others even at some cost to himself.

But there are also people who are moved by compassion. Instead of treating others as alien beings, they recognise themselves in them. The suffering of another becomes, in some measure, their own.

Compassion is not merely a sentiment but a metaphysical insight. The compassionate person has begun to see through the apparent multiplicity of the world and to apprehend the unity beneath it. The boundary between self and other belongs to the world of representation, not to the world as it is in itself.

In piercing the veil of mâyâ, the compassionate person approaches the Vedantic principle of Tat tvam asi: ‘That art thou.’

In the Chandogya Upanishad, one of the earliest Upanishads, the sage Uddalaka Aruni offers his son Shvetaketu a series of analogies to illuminate the nature of the self. Some rivers run to the east and others to the west, but all lose themselves in the same ocean from which they arose:

That which is the subtlest of all is the Self of all this. It is the Truth. It is the Self. Tat tvam asi, O Shvetaketu.

Although usually translated from the Sanskrit as ‘That art thou’, the great saying Tat tvam asi might better be rendered as ‘You too are like that.’

The Denial of the Will

Art suspends Will. Compassion sees through individuation. But complete deliverance requires the denial of Will itself.

Once a person recognises that individuality and multiplicity are appearances, the motives that ordinarily drive human life begin to lose their force. If all beings are manifestations of the same Will, harming another is, at the deepest level, harming oneself. More radically, to affirm one’s own willing is to affirm the entire world of striving and suffering.

The saint or ascetic therefore turns away from pleasure, possession, ambition, and sexual desire. Through chastity, poverty, fasting, and resignation, he denies the will-to-life as it manifests in his own person.

Such a person may have arrived at renunciation through knowledge, or simply through suffering so intense that his will has been broken. Freed from willing, he remains as a pure knowing being, ‘the undimmed mirror of the world’, marked out from other people by his calm composure and profound compassion.

All told, Schopenhauer suggests, it would have been better for us—and for the world—never to have existed. But since we do exist, the task is to arrive at the realisation that our individuality and the world of appearances are illusions, to turn our backs upon those illusions, and to welcome the eventual release of death—which is itself an illusion.

And this, for Schopenhauer, is as good as it is ever going to get.

Schopenhauer and the Buddha

Schopenhauer’s philosophy bears a striking resemblance to the Buddha’s Four Noble Truths—or ‘four truths for the noble of spirit’:

1. Suffering [dukkha] is inherent in all life.
2. The cause of suffering is desire.
3. There is a way to bring suffering to an end.
4. The Noble Eightfold Path is that way.

If the cause of dukkha is desire, the cause of desire is ignorance, pointing to knowledge or wisdom as the way forward. With proper perspective, there would be no desire, and so no suffering—and no birth and rebirth, which are the outcome of desire and the source of further suffering.

Does this mean that people ought to refrain from having children? No, but only insofar as being born is an opportunity to escape being born. The purpose of life is to provide us with an opportunity to escape it by achieving wisdom and enlightenment. Otherwise, we shall have to come back and try again.

Wisdom is hard to attain because it runs counter to everything that we have learnt and everything that we love, including the thing that we love most: our self. On top of that, it lies beyond everything that we fear, not least death and impermanence.

For these reasons and more, it takes a long time to attain wisdom—and an even longer time to hold on to it in the face of temptation, fragility, and adversity.

Schopenhauer regarded the arrival of the Upanishads in Europe as an intellectual event comparable to the Renaissance revival of Greek philosophy. Yet he repeatedly claimed not to have been influenced by Buddhism when developing his system:

For up till 1818, when my work appeared, there was to be found in Europe only a very few accounts of Buddhism.

He took pleasure and pride in the idea that he had arrived at the same truths as the Buddha through a purely Western, rationalist inquiry. He called Buddhism ‘the best of all possible religions’, adding:

If I wished to take the results of my philosophy as the standard of truth, I should have to concede to Buddhism pre-eminence over others.

One of the two busts in Schopenhauer’s study was of Immanuel Kant.

The other was of the Buddha.

And he, somehow, had bridged them.

Continue Exploring

Schopenhauer was the first major Western philosopher to engage seriously with Indian thought. The German Greeks explores his philosophy alongside those of Leibniz, Kant, Hegel, and Nietzsche, tracing the remarkable development of German philosophy from the Enlightenment to modernity.

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