Arthur Schopenhauer ; 22 February 1788 – 21 September 1860) was a German philosopher. He is best known for his 1818 work The World as Will and Representation (expanded in 1844), which characterizes the phenomenal world as the product of a blind noumenal will. Building on the transcendental idealism of Immanuel Kant (1724–1804), Schopenhauer developed an atheistic metaphysical and ethical system that rejected the contemporaneous ideas of German idealism. He was among the first thinkers in Western philosophy to share and affirm significant tenets of Indian philosophy, such as asceticism, denial of the self, and the notion of the world-as-appearance. His work has been described as an exemplary manifestation of philosophical pessimism. [Wikipedia]
Every night for 30 years, he placed a gold coin on his dinner table—and every night, he put it back in his pocket. The reason why reveals one of philosophy's sharpest minds.
Arthur Schopenhauer—the German philosopher whose ideas shaped Nietzsche, Freud, and Einstein—spent the final decades of his life almost entirely alone in Frankfurt.
Not because the world rejected him. Because he chose it.
The Philosopher and His Poodle
His only companion was a succession of poodles, each one named "Atma"—Sanskrit for "soul" or "world-soul."
The irony wasn't lost on him: the man who rejected divine purpose and saw life as suffering named his beloved dogs after the very essence of being.
He adored them. He scolded them like children. When they misbehaved, he'd reportedly say: "You are not a dog—you are a human being!"
Whether this was the ultimate compliment or insult from a man who despised humanity, we'll never know.
The Nightly Ritual
Every evening, Schopenhauer walked to the Englischer Hof, a restaurant in Frankfurt where English military officers gathered.
He'd sit at his usual table, order his meal, and before eating, place a single gold coin in front of him.
He'd dine alone. Listen to the officers at nearby tables. Then, at the end of the meal, he'd pick up the coin and return it to his pocket.
Night after night. Year after year.
Finally, a waiter gathered the courage to ask: "Sir, why do you do this?"
Schopenhauer's answer was devastating in its wit:
"It's a wager with myself. The day these gentlemen discuss anything other than horses, women, or dogs, I'll donate this coin to the church."
The bet was never lost.
Not in 30 years.
The Man Who Saw Too Clearly
Schopenhauer wasn't a misanthrope because he was cruel or unfeeling.
He was a misanthrope because he paid attention.
He watched people chase pleasure that never satisfied. Pursue goals that never fulfilled. Build identities on foundations of sand. And worst of all—remain blissfully unaware of their own blindness.
His philosophy was brutal in its honesty: life is suffering. The will drives everything. Desire can never be satisfied because satisfaction itself destroys desire, leaving only emptiness in its wake.
Most people found this unbearable to hear.
So Schopenhauer stopped trying to tell them.
He withdrew into solitude—not as escape, but as liberation.
The Freedom of Solitude
He once wrote words that still echo 150 years later:
"We give up three-quarters of ourselves to resemble others. A man can only be himself when he is alone. And if he does not love solitude, he does not love freedom—for only when he is alone is he truly free."
This wasn't the rant of a bitter recluse.
It was the observation of someone who understood that most human interaction is performance. That society demands we constantly edit ourselves, suppress our thoughts, conform to expectations.
And that true authenticity—true freedom—requires stepping away from that stage.
The Paradox
Here's what makes Schopenhauer fascinating:
He hated people. But he understood them completely.
He lived alone. But his ideas connected with millions across generations.
He saw life as suffering. Yet he found joy in his poodles, his books, his evening walks.
He rejected the masses. Yet he spent decades writing philosophy that would help them understand themselves.
The man who wanted nothing to do with humanity ended up giving humanity some of its most profound insights about existence.
The Legacy
Schopenhauer died in 1860, alone in his Frankfurt apartment, with only his poodle Atma beside him.
His main beneficiary? That last poodle. He left money to ensure Atma would be cared for.
For years, academics dismissed him. His masterwork sold almost no copies. The world wasn't ready for his unflinching honesty.
But decades after his death, the greatest minds of the next century discovered him—Nietzsche, Freud, Tolstoy, Einstein, Jung—and realized this lonely pessimist had seen something true about the human condition that optimists missed.
The Gold Coin Still Sits There
That nightly ritual at the Englischer Hof wasn't really about the officers at all.
It was about Schopenhauer's relationship with humanity—close enough to observe, distant enough to remain free.
Close enough to understand. Distant enough to stay himself.
He never gave away that coin because he never heard what he was waiting for: evidence that humans could transcend their petty concerns and discuss something meaningful.
But here's the twist: by writing down everything he observed from that solitary vantage point, he gave humanity something far more valuable than a gold coin.
He gave us a mirror.
And 150 years later, we're still looking into it, seeing ourselves more clearly because one man chose to see us from a distance.
Arthur Schopenhauer (1788-1860)
The philosopher who hated people—but loved truth even more.
See Also