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SECTION II: THE MISERY OF MAN WITHOUT GOD
60. First part: Misery of man without God.
Second part: Happiness of man with God.
Or, First part: That nature is corrupt. Proved by nature itself.
Second part: That there is a Redeemer. Proved by Scripture.
61. Order.--I might well have taken this discourse in an order like
this: to show the vanity of all conditions of men, to show the vanity of
ordinary lives, and then the vanity of philosophic lives, sceptics, stoics;
but the order would not have been kept. I know a little what it is, and
how few people understand it. No human science can keep it. Saint Thomas
did not keep it. Mathematics keep it, but they are useless on account of
their depth.
62. Preface to the first part.--To speak of those who have treated
of the knowledge of self; of the divisions of Charron, which sadden and
weary us; of the confusion of Montaigne; that he was quite aware of his
want of method and shunned it by jumping from subject to subject; that
he sought to be fashionable.
His foolish project of describing himself! And this not casually and
against his maxims, since every one makes mistakes, but by his maxims themselves,
and by first and chief design. For to say silly things by chance and weakness
is a common misfortune, but to say them intentionally is intolerable, and
to say such as that...
63. Montaigne.--Montaigne's faults are great. Lewd words; this is bad,
notwithstanding Mademoiselle de Gournay. Credulous; people without eyes.
Ignorant; squaring the circle, a greater world. His opinions on suicide,
on death. He suggests an indifference about salvation, without fear and
without repentance. As his book was not written with a religious purpose,
he was not bound to mention religion; but it is always our duty not to
turn men from it. One can excuse his rather free and licentious opinions
on some relations of life; but one cannot excuse his thoroughly pagan views
on death, for a man must renounce piety altogether, if he does not at least
wish to die like a Christian. Now, through the whole of his book his only
conception of death is a cowardly and effeminate one.
64. It is not in Montaigne, but in myself, that I find all that I see
in him.
65. What good there is in Montaigne can only have been acquired with
difficulty. The evil that is in him, I mean apart from his morality, could
have been corrected in a moment, if he had been informed that he made too
much of trifles and spoke too much of himself.
66. One must know oneself. If this does not serve to discover truth,
it at least serves as a rule of life, and there is nothing better.
67. The vanity of the sciences.--Physical science will not console
me for the ignorance of morality in the time of affliction. But the science
of ethics will always console me for the ignorance of the physical sciences.
68. Men are never taught to be gentlemen and are taught everything
else; and they never plume themselves so much on the rest of their knowledge
as on knowing how to be gentlemen. They only plume themselves on knowing
the one thing they do not know.
69. The infinites, the mean.--When we read too fast or too slowly,
we understand nothing.
70. Nature... --Nature has set us so well in the centre, that if we
change one side of the balance, we change the other also. This makes me
believe that the springs in our brain are so adjusted that he who touches
one touches also its contrary.
71. Too much and too little wine. Give him none, he cannot find truth;
give him too much, the same.
72. Man's disproportion.--This is where our innate knowledge leads
us. If it be not true, there is no truth in man; and if it be true, he
finds therein great cause for humiliation, being compelled to abase himself
in one way or another. And since he cannot exist without this knowledge,
I wish that, before entering on deeper researches into nature, he would
consider her both seriously and at leisure, that he would reflect upon
himself also, and knowing what proportion there is... Let man then contemplate
the whole of nature in her full and grand majesty, and turn his vision
from the low objects which surround him. Let him gaze on that brilliant
light, set like an eternal lamp to illumine the universe; let the earth
appear to him a point in comparison with the vast circle described by the
sun; and let him wonder at the fact that this vast circle is itself but
a very fine point in comparison with that described by the stars in their
revolution round the firmament. But if our view be arrested there, let
our imagination pass beyond; it will sooner exhaust the power of conception
than nature that of supplying material for conception. The whole visible
world is only an imperceptible atom in the ample bosom of nature. No idea
approaches it. We may enlarge our conceptions beyond an imaginable space;
we only produce atoms in comparison with the reality of things. It is an
infinite sphere, the centre of which is everywhere, the circumference nowhere.
In short, it is the greatest sensible mark of the almighty power of God
that imagination loses itself in that thought.
Returning to himself, let man consider what he is in comparison with
all existence; let him regard himself as lost in this remote corner of
nature; and from the little cell in which he finds himself lodged, I mean
the universe, let him estimate at their true value the earth, kingdoms,
cities, and himself. What is a man in the Infinite?
But to show him another prodigy equally astonishing, let him examine
the most delicate things he knows. Let a mite be given him, with its minute
body and parts incomparably more minute, limbs with their joints, veins
in the limbs, blood in the veins, humours in the blood, drops in the humours,
vapours in the drops. Dividing these last things again, let him exhaust
his powers of conception, and let the last object at which he can arrive
be now that of our discourse. Perhaps he will think that here is the smallest
point in nature. I will let him see therein a new abyss. I will paint for
him not only the visible universe, but all that he can conceive of nature's
immensity in the womb of this abridged atom. Let him see therein an infinity
of universes, each of which has its firmament, its planets, its earth,
in the same proportion as in the visible world; in each earth animals,
and in the last mites, in which he will find again all that the first had,
finding still in these others the same thing without end and without cessation.
Let him lose himself in wonders as amazing in their littleness as the others
in their vastness. For who will not be astounded at the fact that our body,
which a little while ago was imperceptible in the universe, itself imperceptible
in the bosom of the whole, is now a colossus, a world, or rather a whole,
in respect of the nothingness which we cannot reach? He who regards himself
in this light will be afraid of himself, and observing himself sustained
in the body given him by nature between those two abysses of the Infinite
and Nothing, will tremble at the sight of these marvels; and I think that,
as his curiosity changes into admiration, he will be more disposed to contemplate
them in silence than to examine them with presumption.
For, in fact, what is man in nature? A Nothing in comparison with the
Infinite, an All in comparison with the Nothing, a mean between nothing
and everything. Since he is infinitely removed from comprehending the extremes,
the end of things and their beginning are hopelessly hidden from him in
an impenetrable secret; he is equally incapable of seeing the Nothing from
which he was made, and the Infinite in which he is swallowed up.
What will he do then, but perceive the appearance of the middle of
things, in an eternal despair of knowing either their beginning or their
end. All things proceed from the Nothing, and are borne towards the Infinite.
Who will follow these marvellous processes? The Author of these wonders
understands them. None other can do so.
Through failure to contemplate these Infinites, men have rashly rushed
into the examination of nature, as though they bore some proportion to
her. It is strange that they have wished to understand the beginnings of
things, and thence to arrive at the knowledge of the whole, with a presumption
as infinite as their object. For surely this design cannot be formed without
presumption or without a capacity infinite like nature.
If we are well informed, we understand that, as nature has graven her
image and that of her Author on all things, they almost all partake of
her double infinity. Thus we see that all the sciences are infinite in
the extent of their researches. For who doubts that geometry, for instance,
has an infinite infinity of problems to solve? They are also infinite in
the multitude and fineness of their premises; for it is clear that those
which are put forward as ultimate are not self-supporting, but are based
on others which, again having others for their support, do not permit of
finality. But we represent some as ultimate for reason, in the same way
as in regard to material objects we call that an indivisible point beyond
which our senses can no longer perceive anything, although by its nature
it is infinitely divisible.
Of these two Infinites of science, that of greatness is the most palpable,
and hence a few persons have pretended to know all things. "I will
speak of the whole," said Democritus.
But the infinitely little is the least obvious. Philosophers have much
oftener claimed to have reached it, and it is here they have all stumbled.
This has given rise to such common titles as First Principles, Principles
of Philosophy, and the like, as ostentatious in fact, though not in appearance,
as that one which blinds us, De omni scibili.5
We naturally believe ourselves far more capable of reaching the centre
of things than of embracing their circumference. The visible extent of
the world visibly exceeds us; but as we exceed little things, we think
ourselves more capable of knowing them. And yet we need no less capacity
for attaining the Nothing than the All. Infinite capacity is required for
both, and it seems to me that whoever shall have understood the ultimate
principles of being might also attain to the knowledge of the Infinite.
The one depends on the other, and one leads to the other. These extremes
meet and reunite by force of distance and find each other in God, and in
God alone.
Let us, then, take our compass; we are something, and we are not everything.
The nature of our existence hides from us the knowledge of first beginnings
which are born of the Nothing; and the littleness of our being conceals
from us the sight of the Infinite.
Our intellect holds the same position in the world of thought as our
body occupies in the expanse of nature.
Limited as we are in every way, this state which holds the mean between
two extremes is present in all our impotence. Our senses perceive no extreme.
Too much sound deafens us; too much light dazzles us; too great distance
or proximity hinders our view. Too great length and too great brevity of
discourse tend to obscurity; too much truth is paralysing (I know some
who cannot understand that to take four from nothing leaves nothing). First
principles are too self-evident for us; too much pleasure disagrees with
us. Too many concords are annoying in music; too many benefits irritate
us; we wish to have the wherewithal to overpay our debts. Beneficia eo
usque laeta sunt dum videntur exsolvi posse; ubi multum antevenere, pro
gratia odium redditur.[6]
We feel neither extreme heat nor extreme cold. Excessive qualities are
prejudicial to us and not perceptible by the senses; we do not feel but
suffer them. Extreme youth and extreme age hinder the mind, as also too
much and too little education. In short, extremes are for us as though
they were not, and we are not within their notice. They escape us, or we
them.
This is our true state; this is what makes us incapable of certain
knowledge and of absolute ignorance. We sail within a vast sphere, ever
drifting in uncertainty, driven from end to end. When we think to attach
ourselves to any point and to fasten to it, it wavers and leaves us; and
if we follow it, it eludes our grasp, slips past us, and vanishes for ever.
Nothing stays for us. This is our natural condition and yet most contrary
to our inclination; we burn with desire to find solid ground and an ultimate
sure foundation whereon to build a tower reaching to the Infinite. But
our whole groundwork cracks, and the earth opens to abysses.
Let us, therefore, not look for certainty and stability. Our reason
is always deceived by fickle shadows; nothing can fix the finite between
the two Infinites, which both enclose and fly from it.
If this be well understood, I think that we shall remain at rest, each
in the state wherein nature has placed him. As this sphere which has fallen
to us as our lot is always distant from either extreme, what matters it
that man should have a little more knowledge of the universe? If he has
it, he but gets a little higher. Is he not always infinitely removed from
the end, and is not the duration of our life equally removed from eternity,
even if it lasts ten years longer?
In comparison with these Infinites, all finites are equal, and I see
no reason for fixing our imagination on one more than on another. The only
comparison which we make of ourselves to the finite is painful to us.
If man made himself the first object of study, he would see how incapable
he is of going further. How can a part know the whole? But he may perhaps
aspire to know at least the parts to which he bears some proportion. But
the parts of the world are all so related and linked to one another that
I believe it impossible to know one without the other and without the whole.
Man, for instance, is related to all he knows. He needs a place wherein
to abide, time through which to live, motion in order to live, elements
to compose him, warmth and food to nourish him, air to breathe. He sees
light; he feels bodies; in short, he is in a dependent alliance with everything.
To know man, then, it is necessary to know how it happens that he needs
air to live, and, to know the air, we must know how it is thus related
to the life of man, etc. Flame cannot exist without air; therefore, to
understand the one, we must understand the other.
Since everything, then, is cause and effect, dependent and supporting,
mediate and immediate, and all is held together by a natural though imperceptible
chain which binds together things most distant and most different, I hold
it equally impossible to know the parts without knowing the whole and to
know the whole without knowing the parts in detail.
The eternity of things in itself or in God must also astonish our brief
duration. The fixed and constant immobility of nature, in comparison with
the continual change which goes on within us, must have the same effect.
And what completes our incapability of knowing things is the fact that
they are simple and that we are composed of two opposite natures, different
in kind, soul and body. For it is impossible that our rational part should
be other than spiritual; and if any one maintain that we are simply corporeal,
this would far more exclude us from the knowledge of things, there being
nothing so inconceivable as to say that matter knows itself. It is impossible
to imagine how it should know itself.
So, if we are simply material, we can know nothing at all; and if we
are composed of mind and matter, we cannot know perfectly things which
are simple, whether spiritual or corporeal. Hence it comes that almost
all philosophers have confused ideas of things, and speak of material things
in spiritual terms, and of spiritual things in material terms. For they
say boldly that bodies have a tendency to fall, that they seek after their
centre, that they fly from destruction, that they fear the void, that they
have inclinations, sympathies, antipathies, all of which attributes pertain
only to mind. And in speaking of minds, they consider them as in a place,
and attribute to them movement from one place to another; and these are
qualities which belong only to bodies.
Instead of receiving the ideas of these things in their purity, we
colour them with our own qualities, and stamp with our composite being
all the simple things which we contemplate.
Who would not think, seeing us compose all things of mind and body,
but that this mixture would be quite intelligible to us? Yet it is the
very thing we least understand. Man is to himself the most wonderful object
in nature; for he cannot conceive what the body is, still less what the
mind is, and least of all how a body should be united to a mind. This is
the consummation of his difficulties, and yet it is his very being. Modus
quo corporibus adhaerent spiritus comprehendi ab hominibus non potest,
et hoc tamen homo est.7 Finally, to complete the proof of
our weakness, I shall conclude with these two considerations...
73. But perhaps this subject goes beyond the capacity of reason. Let
us therefore examine her solutions to problems within her powers. If there
be anything to which her own interest must have made her apply herself
most seriously, it is the inquiry into her own sovereign good. Let us see,
then, wherein these strong and clear-sighted souls have placed it and whether
they agree.
One says that the sovereign good consists in virtue, another in pleasure,
another in the knowledge of nature, another in truth, Felix qui potuit
rerum cognoscere causas,[8]
another in total ignorance, another in indolence, others in disregarding
appearances, another in wondering at nothing, nihil admirari prope res
una quae possit facere et servare beatum,[9]
and the true sceptics in their indifference, doubt, and perpetual suspense,
and others, wiser, think to find a better definition. We are well satisfied.
We must see if this fine philosophy has gained nothing certain from
so long and so intent study; perhaps at least the soul will know itself.
Let us hear the rulers of the world on this subject. What have they thought
of her substance? 394.[10]
Have they been more fortunate in locating her? 395. What have they found
out about her origin, duration, and departure? Harum sententiarum,
399.[11]
Is, then, the soul too noble a subject for their feeble lights? Let
us, then, abase her to matter and see if she knows whereof is made the
very body which she animates and those others which she contemplates and
moves at her will. What have those great dogmatists, who are ignorant of
nothing, known of this matter? 393.[12]
This would doubtless suffice, if Reason were reasonable. She is reasonable
enough to admit that she has been unable to find anything durable, but
she does not yet despair of reaching it; she is as ardent as ever in this
search, and is confident she has within her the necessary powers for this
conquest. We must therefore conclude, and, after having examined her powers
in their effects, observe them in themselves, and see if she has a nature
and a grasp capable of laying hold of the truth.
74. A letter On the Foolishness of Human Knowledge and Philosophy.
This letter before Diversion.
Felix qui potuit... Nihil admirari.
280 kinds of sovereign good in Montaigne.
75. Part I, 1, 2, c. 1, section 4.[13]
Probability.--It will not be difficult to put the case a stage lower,
and make it appear ridiculous. To begin at the very beginning. What is
more absurd than to say that lifeless bodies have passions, fears, hatreds--that
insensible bodies, lifeless and incapable of life, have passions which
presuppose at least a sensitive soul to feel them, nay more, that the object
of their dread is the void? What is there in the void that could make them
afraid? Nothing is more shallow and ridiculous. This is not all; it is
said that they have in themselves a source of movement to shun the void.
Have they arms, legs, muscles, nerves?
76. To write against those who made too profound a study of science:
Descartes.
77. I cannot forgive Descartes. In all his philosophy he would have
been quite willing to dispense with God. But he had to make Him give a
fillip to set the world in motion; beyond this, he has no further need
of God.
78. Descartes useless and uncertain.
79. Descartes.--We must say summarily: "This is made by figure
and motion," for it is true. But to say what these are, and to compose
the machine, is ridiculous. For it is useless, uncertain, and painful.
And were it true, we do not think all Philosophy is worth one hour of pain.
80. How comes it that a cripple does not offend us, but that a fool
does? Because a cripple recognises that we walk straight, whereas a fool
declares that it is we who are silly; if it were not so, we should feel
pity and not anger.
Epictetus asks still more strongly: "Why are we not angry if we
are told that we have a headache, and why are we angry if we are told that
we reason badly, or choose wrongly"? The reason is that we are quite
certain that we have not a headache, or are not lame, but we are not so
sure that we make a true choice. So, having assurance only because we see
with our whole sight, it puts us into suspense and surprise when another
with his whole sight sees the opposite, and still more so when a thousand
others deride our choice. For we must prefer our own lights to those of
so many others, and that is bold and difficult. There is never this contradiction
in the feelings towards a cripple.
81. It is natural for the mind to believe and for the will to love;
so that, for want of true objects, they must attach themselves to false.
82. Imagination.--It is that deceitful part in man, that mistress of
error and falsity, the more deceptive that she is not always so; for she
would be an infallible rule of truth, if she were an infallible rule of
falsehood. But being most generally false, she gives no sign of her nature,
impressing the same character on the true and the false.
I do not speak of fools, I speak of the wisest men; and it is among
them that the imagination has the great gift of persuasion. Reason protests
in vain; it cannot set a true value on things.
This arrogant power, the enemy of reason, who likes to rule and dominate
it, has established in man a second nature to show how all-powerful she
is. She makes men happy and sad, healthy and sick, rich and poor; she compels
reason to believe, doubt, and deny; she blunts the senses, or quickens
them; she has her fools and sages; and nothing vexes us more than to see
that she fills her devotees with a satisfaction far more full and entire
than does reason. Those who have a lively imagination are a great deal
more pleased with themselves than the wise can reasonably be. They look
down upon men with haughtiness; they argue with boldness and confidence,
others with fear and diffidence; and this gaiety of countenance often gives
them the advantage in the opinion of the hearers, such favour have the
imaginary wise in the eyes of judges of like nature. Imagination cannot
make fools wise; but she can make them happy, to the envy of reason which
can only make its friends miserable; the one covers them with glory, the
other with shame.
What but this faculty of imagination dispenses reputation, awards respect
and veneration to persons, works, laws, and the great? How insufficient
are all the riches of the earth without her consent!
Would you not say that this magistrate, whose venerable age commands
the respect of a whole people, is governed by pure and lofty reason, and
that he judges causes according to their true nature without considering
those mere trifles which only affect the imagination of the weak? See him
go to sermon, full of devout zeal, strengthening his reason with the ardour
of his love. He is ready to listen with exemplary respect. Let the preacher
appear, and let nature have given him a hoarse voice or a comical cast
of countenance, or let his barber have given him a bad shave, or let by
chance his dress be more dirtied than usual, then, however great the truths
he announces, I wager our senator loses his gravity.
If the greatest philosopher in the world find himself upon a plank
wider than actually necessary, but hanging over a precipice, his imagination
will prevail, though his reason convince him of his safety. Many cannot
bear the thought without a cold sweat. I will not state all its effects.
Every one knows that the sight of cats or rats, the crushing of a coal,
etc., may unhinge the reason. The tone of voice affects the wisest, and
changes the force of a discourse or a poem.
Love or hate alters the aspect of justice. How much greater confidence
has an advocate, retained with a large fee, in the justice of his cause!
How much better does his bold manner make his case appear to the judges,
deceived as they are by appearances! How ludicrous is reason, blown with
a breath in every direction!
I should have to enumerate almost every action of men who scarce waver
save under her assaults. For reason has been obliged to yield, and the
wisest reason takes as her own principles those which the imagination of
man has everywhere rashly introduced. He who would follow reason only would
be deemed foolish by the generality of men. We must judge by the opinion
of the majority of mankind. Because it has pleased them, we must work all
day for pleasures seen to be imaginary; and, after sleep has refreshed
our tired reason, we must forthwith start up and rush after phantoms, and
suffer the impressions of this mistress of the world. This is one of the
sources of error, but it is not the only one.
Our magistrates have known well this mystery. Their red robes, the
ermine in which they wrap themselves like furry cats, the courts in which
they administer justice, the fleurs-de-lis, and all such august apparel
were necessary; if the physicians had not their cassocks and their mules,
if the doctors had not their square caps and their robes four times too
wide, they would never have duped the world, which cannot resist so original
an appearance. If magistrates had true justice, and if physicians had the
true art of healing, they would have no occasion for square caps; the majesty
of these sciences would of itself be venerable enough. But having only
imaginary knowledge, they must employ those silly tools that strike the
imagination with which they have to deal; and thereby, in fact, they inspire
respect. Soldiers alone are not disguised in this manner, because indeed
their part is the most essential; they establish themselves by force, the
others by show.
Therefore our kings seek out no disguises. They do not mask themselves
in extraordinary costumes to appear such; but they are accompanied by guards
and halberdiers. Those armed and red-faced puppets who have hands and power
for them alone, those trumpets and drums which go before them, and those
legions round about them, make the stoutest tremble. They have not dress
only, they have might. A very refined reason is required to regard as an
ordinary man the Grand Turk, in his superb seraglio, surrounded by forty
thousand janissaries.
We cannot even see an advocate in his robe and with his cap on his
head, without a favourable opinion of his ability. The imagination disposes
of everything; it makes beauty, justice, and happiness, which is everything
in the world. I should much like to see an Italian work, of which I only
know the title, which alone is worth many books, Della opinione regina
del mondo. I approve of the book without knowing it, save the evil in it,
if any. These are pretty much the effects of that deceptive faculty, which
seems to have been expressly given us to lead us into necessary error.
We have, however, many other sources of error.
Not only are old impressions capable of misleading us; the charms of
novelty have the same power. Hence arise all the disputes of men, who taunt
each other either with following the false impressions of childhood or
with running rashly after the new. Who keeps the due mean? Let him appear
and prove it. There is no principle, however natural to us from infancy,
which may not be made to pass for a false impression either of education
or of sense.
"Because," say some, "you have believed from childhood
that a box was empty when you saw nothing in it, you have believed in the
possibility of a vacuum. This is an illusion of your senses, strengthened
by custom, which science must correct." "Because," say others,
"you have been taught at school that there is no vacuum, you have
perverted your common sense which clearly comprehended it, and you must
correct this by returning to your first state." Which has deceived
you, your senses or your education?
We have another source of error in diseases. They spoil the judgement
and the senses; and if the more serious produce a sensible change, I do
not doubt that slighter ills produce a proportionate impression.
Our own interest is again a marvellous instrument for nicely putting
out our eyes. The justest man in the world is not allowed to be judge in
his own cause; I know some who, in order not to fall into this self-love,
have been perfectly unjust out of opposition. The sure way of losing a
just cause has been to get it recommended to these men by their near relatives.
Justice and truth are two such subtle points that our tools are too
blunt to touch them accurately. If they reach the point, they either crush
it, or lean all round, more on the false than on the true.
Man is so happily formed that he has no... good of the true, and several
excellent of the false. Let us now see how much... But the most powerful
cause of error is the war existing between the senses and reason.
83. We must thus begin the chapter on the deceptive powers. Man is
only a subject full of error, natural and ineffaceable, without grace.
Nothing shows him the truth. Everything deceives him. These two sources
of truth, reason and the senses, besides being both wanting in sincerity,
deceive each other in turn. The senses mislead the Reason with false appearances,
and receive from Reason in their turn the same trickery which they apply
to her; Reason has her revenge. The passions of the soul trouble the senses,
and make false impressions upon them. They rival each other in falsehood
and deception.
But besides those errors which arise accidentally and through lack
of intelligence, with these heterogeneous faculties...
84. The imagination enlarges little objects so as to fill our souls
with a fantastic estimate; and, with rash insolence, it belittles the great
to its own measure, as when talking of God.
85. Things which have most hold on us, as the concealment of our few
possessions, are often a mere nothing. It is a nothing which our imagination
magnifies into a mountain. Another turn of the imagination would make us
discover this without difficulty.
86. My fancy makes me hate a croaker, and one who pants when eating.
Fancy has great weight. Shall we profit by it? Shall we yield to this weight
because it is natural? No, but by resisting it...
87. Nae iste magno conatu magnas nugas dixerit.[14]
583.[15] Quasi
quidquam infelicius sit homini cui sua figmenta dominantur.[16]
88. Children who are frightened at the face they have blackened are
but children. But how shall one who is so weak in his childhood become
really strong when he grows older? We only change our fancies. All that
is made perfect by progress perishes also by progress. All that has been
weak can never become absolutely strong. We say in vain, "He has grown,
he has changed"; he is also the same.
89. Custom is our nature. He who is accustomed to the faith believes
in it, can no longer fear hell, and believes in nothing else. He who is
accustomed to believe that the king is terrible... etc. Who doubts, then,
that our soul, being accustomed to see number, space, motion, believes
that and nothing else?
90. Quod crebro videt non miratur, etiamsi cur fiat nescit; quod
ante non viderit, id si evenerit, ostentum esse censet.17
91. Spongia solis.--When we see the same effect always recur,
we infer a natural necessity in it, as that there will be a tomorrow, etc.
But Nature often deceives us, and does not subject herself to her own rules.
92. What are our natural principles but principles of custom? In children
they are those which they have received from the habits of their fathers,
as hunting in animals. A different custom will cause different natural
principles. This is seen in experience; and if there are some natural principles
ineradicable by custom, there are also some customs opposed to nature,
ineradicable by nature or by a second custom. This depends on disposition.
93. Parents fear lest the natural love of their children may fade away.
What kind of nature is that which is subject to decay? Custom is a second
nature which destroys the former. But what is nature? For is custom not
natural? I am much afraid that nature is itself only a first custom, as
custom is a second nature.
94. The nature of man is wholly natural, omne animal.[18]
There is nothing he may not make natural; there is nothing natural
he may not lose.
95. Memory, joy, are intuitions; and even mathematical propositions
become intuitions, for education produces natural intuitions, and natural
intuitions are erased by education.
96. When we are accustomed to use bad reasons for proving natural effects,
we are not willing to receive good reasons when they are discovered. An
example may be given from the circulation of the blood as a reason why
the vein swells below the ligature.
97. The most important affair in life is the choice of a calling; chance
decides it. Custom makes men masons, soldiers, slaters. "He is a good
slater," says one, and, speaking of soldiers, remarks, "They
are perfect fools." But others affirm, "There is nothing great
but war; the rest of men are good for nothing." We choose our callings
according as we hear this or that praised or despised in our childhood,
for we naturally love truth and hate folly. These words move us; the only
error is in their application. So great is the force of custom that, out
of those whom nature has only made men, are created all conditions of men.
For some districts are full of masons, others of soldiers, etc. Certainly
nature is not so uniform. It is custom then which does this, for it constrains
nature. But sometimes nature gains the ascendancy and preserves man's instinct,
in spite of all custom, good or bad.
98. Bias leading to error.--It is a deplorable thing to see all men
deliberating on means alone, and not on the end. Each thinks how he will
acquit himself in his condition; but as for the choice of condition, or
of country, chance gives them to us.
It is a pitiable thing to see so many Turks, heretics, and infidels
follow the way of their fathers for the sole reason that each has been
imbued with the prejudice that it is the best. And that fixes for each
man his condition of locksmith, soldier, etc.
Hence savages care nothing for Providence.
99. There is an universal and essential difference between the actions
of the will and all other actions.
The will is one of the chief factors in belief, not that it creates
belief, but because things are true or false according to the aspect in
which we look at them. The will, which prefers one aspect to another, turns
away the mind from considering the qualities of all that it does not like
to see; and thus the mind, moving in accord with the will, stops to consider
the aspect which it likes and so judges by what it sees.
100. Self-love. The nature of self-love and of this human Ego is to
love self only and consider self only. But what will man do? He cannot
prevent this object that he loves from being full of faults and wants.
He wants to be great, and he sees himself small. He wants to be happy,
and he sees himself miserable. He wants to be perfect, and he sees himself
full of imperfections. He wants to be the object of love and esteem among
men, and he sees that his faults merit only their hatred and contempt.
This embarrassment in which he finds himself produces in him the most unrighteous
and criminal passion that can be imagined; for he conceives a mortal enmity
against that truth which reproves him and which convinces him of his faults.
He would annihilate it, but, unable to destroy it in its essence, he destroys
it as far as possible in his own knowledge and in that of others; that
is to say, he devotes all his attention to hiding his faults both from
others and from himself, and he cannot endure either that others should
point them out to him, or that they should see them.
Truly it is an evil to be full of faults; but it is a still greater
evil to be full of them and to be unwilling to recognise them, since that
is to add the further fault of a voluntary illusion. We do not like others
to deceive us; we do not think it fair that they should be held in higher
esteem by us than they deserve; it is not, then, fair that we should deceive
them and should wish them to esteem us more highly than we deserve.
Thus, when they discover only the imperfections and vices which we
really have, it is plain they do us no wrong, since it is not they who
cause them; they rather do us good, since they help us to free ourselves
from an evil, namely, the ignorance of these imperfections. We ought not
to be angry at their knowing our faults and despising us; it is but right
that they should know us for what we are and should despise us, if we are
contemptible.
Such are the feelings that would arise in a heart full of equity and
justice. What must we say then of our own heart, when we see it in a wholly
different disposition? For is it not true that we hate truth and those
who tell it us, and that we like them to be deceived in our favour, and
prefer to be esteemed by them as being other than what we are in fact?
One proof of this makes me shudder. The Catholic religion does not bind
us to confess our sins indiscriminately to everybody; it allows them to
remain hidden from all other men save one, to whom she bids us reveal the
innermost recesses of our heart and show ourselves as we are. There is
only this one man in the world whom she orders us to undeceive, and she
binds him to an inviolable secrecy, which makes this knowledge to him as
if it were not. Can we imagine anything more charitable and pleasant? And
yet the corruption of man is such that he finds even this law harsh; and
it is one of the main reasons which has caused a great part of Europe to
rebel against the Church.
How unjust and unreasonable is the heart of man, which feels it disagreeable
to be obliged to do in regard to one man what in some measure it were right
to do to all men! For is it right that we should deceive men?
There are different degrees in this aversion to truth; but all may
perhaps be said to have it in some degree, because it is inseparable from
self-love. It is this false delicacy which makes those who are under the
necessity of reproving others choose so many windings and middle courses
to avoid offence. They must lessen our faults, appear to excuse them, intersperse
praises and evidence of love and esteem. Despite all this, the medicine
does not cease to be bitter to self-love. It takes as little as it can,
always with disgust, and often with a secret spite against those who administer
it.
Hence it happens that, if any have some interest in being loved by
us, they are averse to render us a service which they know to be disagreeable.
They treat us as we wish to be treated. We hate the truth, and they hide
it from us. We desire flattery, and they flatter us. We like to be deceived,
and they deceive us.
So each degree of good fortune which raises us in the world removes
us farther from truth, because we are most afraid of wounding those whose
affection is most useful and whose dislike is most dangerous. A prince
may be the byword of all Europe, and he alone will know nothing of it.
I am not astonished. To tell the truth is useful to those to whom it is
spoken, but disadvantageous to those who tell it, because it makes them
disliked. Now those who live with princes love their own interests more
than that of the prince whom they serve; and so they take care not to confer
on him a benefit so as to injure themselves.
This evil is no doubt greater and more common among the higher classes;
but the lower are not exempt from it, since there is always some advantage
in making men love us. Human life is thus only a perpetual illusion; men
deceive and flatter each other. No one speaks of us in our presence as
he does of us in our absence. Human society is founded on mutual deceit;
few friendships would endure if each knew what his friend said of him in
his absence, although he then spoke in sincerity and without passion.
Man is, then, only disguise, falsehood, and hypocrisy, both in himself
and in regard to others. He does not wish any one to tell him the truth;
he avoids telling it to others, and all these dispositions, so removed
from justice and reason, have a natural root in his heart.
101. I set it down as a fact that if all men knew what each said of
the other, there would not be four friends in the world. This is apparent
from the quarrels which arise from the indiscreet tales told from time
to time. I say, further, all men would be...
102. Some vices only lay hold of us by means of others, and these,
like branches, fall on removal of the trunk.
103. The example of Alexander's chastity has not made so many continent
as that of his drunkenness has made intemperate. It is not shameful not
to be as virtuous as he, and it seems excusable to be no more vicious.
We do not believe ourselves to be exactly sharing in the vices of the vulgar
when we see that we are sharing in those of great men; and yet we do not
observe that in these matters they are ordinary men. We hold on to them
by the same end by which they hold on to the rabble; for, however exalted
they are, they are still united at some point to the lowest of men. They
are not suspended in the air, quite removed from our society. No, no; if
they are greater than we, it is because their heads are higher; but their
feet are as low as ours. They are all on the same level, and rest on the
same earth; and by that extremity they are as low as we are, as the meanest
folk, as infants, and as the beasts.
104. When our passion leads us to do something, we forget our duty;
for example, we like a book and read it, when we ought to be doing something
else. Now, to remind ourselves of our duty, we must set ourselves a task
we dislike; we then plead that we have something else to do and by this
means remember our duty.
105. How difficult it is to submit anything to the judgement of another,
without prejudicing his judgement by the manner in which we submit it!
If we say, "I think it beautiful," "I think it obscure,"
or the like, we either entice the imagination into that view, or irritate
it to the contrary. It is better to say nothing; and then the other judges
according to what really is, that is to say, according as it then is and
according as the other circumstances, not of our making, have placed it.
But we at least shall have added nothing, unless it be that silence also
produces an effect, according to the turn and the interpretation which
the other will be disposed to give it, or as he will guess it from gestures
or countenance, or from the tone of the voice, if he is a physiognomist.
So difficult is it not to upset a judgement from its natural place, or,
rather, so rarely is it firm and stable!
106. By knowing each man's ruling passion, we are sure of pleasing
him; and yet each has his fancies, opposed to his true good, in the very
idea which he has of the good. It is a singularly puzzling fact.
107. Lustravit lampade terras.19 --The weather and
my mood have little connection. I have my foggy and my fine days within
me; my prosperity or misfortune has little to do with the matter. I sometimes
struggle against luck, the glory of mastering it makes me master it gaily;
whereas I am sometimes surfeited in the midst of good fortune.
108. Although people may have no interest in what they are saying,
we must not absolutely conclude from this that they are not lying; for
there are some people who lie for the mere sake of lying.
109. When we are well we wonder what we would do if we were ill, but
when we are ill we take medicine cheerfully; the illness persuades us to
do so. We have no longer the passions and desires for amusements and promenades
which health gave to us, but which are incompatible with the necessities
of illness. Nature gives us, then, passions and desires suitable to our
present state. We are only troubled by the fears which we, and not nature,
give ourselves, for they add to the state in which we are the passions
of the state in which we are not.
As nature makes us always unhappy in every state, our desires picture
to us a happy state; because they add to the state in which we are the
pleasures of the state in which we are not. And if we attained to these
pleasures, we should not be happy after all; because we should have other
desires natural to this new state.
We must particularise this general proposition....
110. The consciousness of the falsity of present pleasures, and the
ignorance of the vanity of absent pleasures, cause inconstancy.
111. Inconstancy.--We think we are playing on ordinary organs when
playing upon man. Men are organs, it is true, but, odd, changeable, variable
with pipes not arranged in proper order. Those who only know how to play
on ordinary organs will not produce barmonies on these. We must know where
are.
112. Inconstancy.--Things have different qualities, and the soul different
inclinations; for nothing is simple which is presented to the soul, and
the soul never presents itself simply to any object. Hence it comes that
we weep and laugh at the same thing.
113. Inconstancy and oddity.--To live only by work, and to rule over
the most powerful State in the world, are very opposite things. They are
united in the person of the great Sultan of the Turks.
114. Variety is as abundant as all tones of the voice, all ways of
walking, coughing, blowing the nose, sneezing. We distinguish vines by
their fruit, and call them the Condrien, the Desargues, and such and such
a stock. Is this all? Has a vine ever produced two bunches exactly the
same, and has a bunch two grapes alike, etc.?
I can never judge of the same thing exactly in the same way. I cannot
judge of my work, while doing it. I must do as the artists, stand at a
distance, but not too far. How far, then? Guess.
115. Variety.--Theology is a science, but at the same time how many
sciences? A man is a whole; but if we dissect him, will he be the head,
the heart, the stomach, the veins, each vein, each portion of a vein, the
blood, each humour in the blood?
A town, a country-place, is from afar a town and a country-place. But,
as we draw near, there are houses, trees, tiles, leaves, grass, ants, limbs
of ants, in infinity. All this is contained under the name of country-place.
116. Thoughts.--All is one, all is different. How many natures exist
in man? How many vocations? And by what chance does each man ordinarily
choose what he has heard praised? A well-turned heel.
117. The heel of a slipper.--"Ah! How well this is turned! Here
is a clever workman! How brave is this soldier!" This is the source
of our inclinations and of the choice of conditions. "How much this
man drinks! How little that one"! This makes people sober or drunk,
soldiers, cowards, etc.
118. Chief talent, that which rules the rest.
119. Nature imitates herself A seed grown in good ground brings forth
fruit. A principle instilled into a good mind brings forth fruit. Numbers
imitate space, which is of a different nature.
All is made and led by the same master, root, branches, and fruits;
principles and consequences.
120. Nature diversifies and imitates; art imitates and diversifies.
121. Nature always begins the same things again, the years, the days,
the hours; in like manner spaces and numbers follow each other from beginning
to end. Thus is made a kind of infinity and eternity. Not that anything
in all this is infinite and eternal, but these finite realities are infinitely
multiplied. Thus it seems to me to be only the number which multiplies
them that is infinite.
122. Time heals griefs and quarrels, for we change and are no longer
the same persons. Neither the offender nor the offended are any more themselves.
It is like a nation which we have provoked, but meet again after two generations.
They are still Frenchmen, but not the same.
123. He no longer loves the person whom he loved ten years ago. I quite
believe it. She is no longer the same, nor is he. He was young, and she
also; she is quite different. He would perhaps love her yet, if she were
what she was then.
124. We view things not only from different sides, but with different
eyes; we have no wish to find them alike.
125. Contraries.--Man is naturally credulous and incredulous, timid
and rash.
126. Description of man: dependency, desire of independence, need.
127. Condition of man: inconstancy, weariness, unrest.
128. The weariness which is felt by us in leaving pursuits to which
we are attached. A man dwells at home with pleasure; but if he sees a woman
who charms him, or if he enjoys himself in play for five or six days, he
is miserable if he returns to his former way of living. Nothing is more
common than that.
129. Our nature consists in motion; complete rest is death.
130. Restlessness.--If a soldier, or labourer, complain of the hardship
of his lot, set him to do nothing.
131. Weariness.--Nothing is so insufferable to man as to be completely
at rest, without passions, without business, without diversion, without
study. He then feels his nothingness, his forlornness, his insufficiency,
his dependence, his weakness, his emptiness. There will immediately arise
from the depth of his heart weariness, gloom, sadness, fretfulness, vexation,
despair.
132. Methinks Caesar was too old to set about amusing himself with
conquering the world. Such sport was good for Augustus or Alexander. They
were still young men and thus difficult to restrain. But Caesar should
have been more mature.
133. Two faces which resemble each other make us laugh, when together,
by their resemblance, though neither of them by itself makes us laugh.
134. How useless is painting, which attracts admiration by the resemblance
of things, the originals of which we do not admire!
135. The struggle alone pleases us, not the victory. We love to see
animals fighting, not the victor infuriated over the vanquished. We would
only see the victorious end; and, as soon as it comes, we are satiated.
It is the same in play, and the same in the search for truth. In disputes
we like to see the clash of opinions, but not at all to contemplate truth
when found. To observe it with pleasure, we have to see it emerge out of
strife. So in the passions, there is pleasure in seeing the collision of
two contraries; but when one acquires the mastery, it becomes only brutality.
We never seek things for themselves, but for the search. Likewise in plays,
scenes which do not rouse the emotion of fear are worthless, so are extreme
and hopeless misery, brutal lust, and extreme cruelty.
136. A mere trifle consoles us, for a mere trifle distresses us.
137. Without examining every particular pursuit, it is enough to comprehend
them under diversion.
138. Men naturally slaters and of all callings, save in their own rooms.
139. Diversion.--When I have occasionally set myself to consider the
different distractions of men, the pains and perils to which they expose
themselves at court or in war, whence arise so many quarrels, passions,
bold and often bad ventures, etc., I have discovered that all the unhappiness
of men arises from one single fact, that they cannot stay quietly in their
own chamber. A man who has enough to live on, if he knew how to stay with
pleasure at home, would not leave it to go to sea or to besiege a town.
A commission in the army would not be bought so dearly, but that it is
found insufferable not to budge from the town; and men only seek conversation
and entering games, because they cannot remain with pleasure at home.
But, on further consideration, when, after finding the cause of all
our ills, I have sought to discover the reason of it, I have found that
there is one very real reason, namely, the natural poverty of our feeble
and mortal condition, so miserable that nothing can comfort us when we
think of it closely.
Whatever condition we picture to ourselves, if we muster all the good
things which it is possible to possess, royalty is the finest position
in the world. Yet, when we imagine a king attended with every pleasure
he can feel, if he be without diversion and be left to consider and reflect
on what he is, this feeble happiness will not sustain him; he will necessarily
fall into forebodings of dangers, of revolutions which may happen, and,
finally, of death and inevitable disease; so that, if he be without what
is called diversion, he is unhappy and more unhappy than the least of his
subjects who plays and diverts himself.
Hence it comes that play and the society of women, war and high posts,
are so sought after. Not that there is in fact any happiness in them, or
that men imagine true bliss to consist in money won at play, or in the
hare which they hunt; we would not take these as a gift. We do not seek
that easy and peaceful lot which permits us to think of our unhappy condition,
nor the dangers of war, nor the labour of office, but the bustle which
averts these thoughts of ours and amuses us.
Reasons why we like the chase better than the quarry.
Hence it comes that men so much love noise and stir; hence it comes
that the prison is so horrible a punishment; hence it comes that the pleasure
of solitude is a thing incomprehensible. And it is, in fact, the greatest
source of happiness in the condition of kings that men try incessantly
to divert them and to procure for them all kinds of pleasures.
The king is surrounded by persons whose only thought is to divert the
king and to prevent his thinking of self. For he is unhappy, king though
he be, if he think of himself.
This is all that men have been able to discover to make themselves
happy. And those who philosophise on the matter, and who think men unreasonable
for spending a whole day in chasing a hare which they would not have bought,
scarce know our nature. The hare in itself would not screen us from the
sight of death and calamities; but the chase, which turns away our attention
from these, does screen us.
The advice given to Pyrrhus, to take the rest which he was about to
seek with so much labour, was full of difficulties.
To bid a man live quietly is to bid him live happily. It is to advise
him to be in a state perfectly happy, in which he can think at leisure
without finding therein a cause of distress. This is to misunderstand nature.
As men who naturally understand their own condition avoid nothing so
much as rest, so there is nothing they leave undone in seeking turmoil.
Not that they have an instinctive knowledge of true happiness...
So we are wrong in blaming them. Their error does not lie in seeking
excitement, if they seek it only as a diversion; the evil is that they
seek it as if the possession of the objects of their quest would make them
really happy. In this respect it is right to call their quest a vain one.
Hence in all this both the censurers and the censured do not understand
man's true nature.
And thus, when we take the exception against them, that what they seek
with such fervour cannot satisfy them, if they replied--as they should
do if they considered the matter thoroughly--that they sought in it only
a violent and impetuous occupation which turned their thoughts from self,
and that they therefore chose an attractive object to charm and ardently
attract them, they would leave their opponents without a reply. But they
do not make this reply, because they do not know themselves. They do not
know that it is the chase, and not the quarry, which they seek.
Dancing: We must consider rightly where to place our feet.--A gentleman
sincerely believes that hunting is great and royal sport; but a beater
is not of this opinion.
They imagine that, if they obtained such a post, they would then rest
with pleasure and are insensible of the insatiable nature of the if desire.
They think they are truly seeking quiet, and they are only seeking excitement.
They have a secret instinct which impels them to seek amusement and
occupation abroad, and which arises from the sense of their constant unhappiness.
They have another secret instinct, a remnant of the greatness of our original
nature, which teaches them that happiness in reality consists only in rest
and not in stir. And of these two contrary instincts they form within themselves
a confused idea, which hides itself from their view in the depths of their
soul, inciting them to aim at rest through excitement, and always to fancy
that the satisfaction which they have not will come to them, if, by surmounting
whatever difficulties confront them, they can thereby open the door to
rest.
Thus passes away all man's life. Men seek rest in a struggle against
difficulties; and when they have conquered these, rest becomes insufferable.
For we think either of the misfortunes we have or of those which threaten
us. And even if we should see ourselves sufficiently sheltered on all sides,
weariness of its own accord would not fail to arise from the depths of
the heart wherein it has its natural roots and to fill the mind with its
poison.
Thus so wretched is man that he would weary even without any cause
for weariness from the peculiar state of his disposition; and so frivolous
is he that, though full of a thousand reasons for weariness, the least
thing, such as playing billiards or hitting a ball, is sufficient to amuse
him.
But will you say what object has he in all this? The pleasure of bragging
tomorrow among his friends that he has played better than another. So others
sweat in their own rooms to show to the learned that they have solved a
problem in algebra, which no one had hitherto been able to solve. Many
more expose themselves to extreme perils, in my opinion as foolishly, in
order to boast afterwards that they have captured a town. Lastly, others
wear themselves out in studying all these things, not in order to become
wiser, but only in order to prove that they know them; and these are the
most senseless of the band, since they are so knowingly, whereas one may
suppose of the others that, if they knew it, they would no longer be foolish.
This man spends his life without weariness in playing every day for
a small stake. Give him each morning the money he can win each day, on
condition he does not play; you make him miserable. It will perhaps be
said that he seeks the amusement of play and not the winnings. Make him,
then, play for nothing; he will not become excited over it and will feel
bored. It is, then, not the amusement alone that he seeks; a languid and
passionless amusement will weary him. He must get excited over it and deceive
himself by the fancy that he will be happy to win what he would not have
as a gift on condition of not playing; and he must make for himself an
object of passion, and excite over it his desire, his anger, his fear,
to obtain his imagined end, as children are frightened at the face they
have blackened.
Whence comes it that this man, who lost his only son a few months ago,
or who this morning was in such trouble through being distressed by lawsuits
and quarrels, now no longer thinks of them? Do not wonder; he is quite
taken up in looking out for the boar which his dogs have been hunting so
hotly for the last six hours. He requires nothing more. However full of
sadness a man may be, he is happy for the time, if you can prevail upon
him to enter into some amusement; and however happy a man may be, he will
soon be discontented and wretched, if he be not diverted and occupied by
some passion or pursuit which prevents weariness from overcoming him. Without
amusement there is no joy; with amusement there is no sadness. And this
also constitutes the happiness of persons in high position, that they have
a number of people to amuse them and have the power to keep themselves
in this state.
Consider this. What is it to be superintendent, chancellor, first president,
but to be in a condition wherein from early morning a large number of people
come from all quarters to see them, so as not to leave them an hour in
the day in which they can think of themselves? And when they are in disgrace
and sent back to their country houses, where they lack neither wealth nor
servants to help them on occasion, they do not fail to be wretched and
desolate, because no one prevents them from thinking of themselves.
140. How does it happen that this man, so distressed at the death of
his wife and his only son, or who has some great lawsuit which annoys him,
is not at this moment sad, and that he seems so free from all painful and
disquieting thoughts? We need not wonder; for a ball has been served him,
and he must return it to his companion. He is occupied in catching it in
its fall from the roof, to win a game. How can he think of his own affairs,
pray, when he has this other matter in hand? Here is a care worthy of occupying
this great soul and taking away from him every other thought of the mind.
This man, born to know the universe, to judge all causes, to govern a whole
state, is altogether occupied and taken up with the business of catching
a hare. And if he does not lower himself to this and wants always to be
on the strain, he will be more foolish still, because he would raise himself
above humanity; and after all, he is only a man, that is to say capable
of little and of much, of all and of nothing; he is neither angel nor brute,
but man.
141. Men spend their time in following a ball or a hare; it is the
pleasure even of kings.
142. Diversion--Is not the royal dignity sufficiently great in itself
to make its possessor happy by the mere contemplation of what he is? Must
he be diverted from this thought like ordinary folk? I see well that a
man is made happy by diverting him from the view of his domestic sorrows
so as to occupy all his thoughts with the care of dancing well. But will
it be the same with a king, and will he be happier in the pursuit of these
idle amusements than in the contemplation of his greatness? And what more
satisfactory object could be presented to his mind? Would it not be a deprivation
of his delight for him to occupy his soul with the thought of how to adjust
his steps to the cadence of an air, or of how to throw a ball skilfully,
instead of leaving it to enjoy quietly the contemplation of the majestic
glory which encompasses him? Let us make the trial; let us leave a king
all alone to reflect on himself quite at leisure, without any gratification
of the senses, without any care in his mind, without society; and we will
see that a king without diversion is a man full of wretchedness. So this
is carefully avoided, and near the persons of kings there never fail to
be a great number of people who see to it that amusement follows business,
and who watch all the time of their leisure to supply them with delights
and games, so that there is no blank in it. In fact, kings are surrounded
with persons who are wonderfully attentive in taking care that the king
be not alone and in a state to think of himself, knowing well that he will
be miserable, king though he be, if he meditate on self.
In all this I am not talking of Christian kings as Christians, but
only as kings.
143. Diversion.--Men are entrusted from infancy with the care of their
honour, their property, their friends, and even with the property and the
honour of their friends. They are overwhelmed with business, with the study
of languages, and with physical exercise; and they are made to understand
that they cannot be happy unless their health, their honour, their fortune
and that of their friends be in good condition, and that a single thing
wanting will make them unhappy. Thus they are given cares and business
which make them bustle about from break of day. It is, you will exclaim,
a strange way to make them happy! What more could be done to make them
miserable?--Indeed! what could be done? We should only have to relieve
them from all these cares; for then they would see themselves: they would
reflect on what they are, whence they came, whither they go, and thus we
cannot employ and divert them too much. And this is why, after having given
them so much business, we advise them, if they have some time for relaxation,
to employ it in amusement, in play, and to be always fully occupied.
How hollow and full of ribaldry is the heart of man!
144. I spent a long time in the study of the abstract sciences, and
was disheartened by the small number of fellow-students in them. When I
commenced the study of man, I saw that these abstract sciences are not
suited to man and that I was wandering farther from my own state in examining
them than others in not knowing them. I pardoned their little knowledge;
but I thought at least to find many companions in the study of man and
that it was the true study which is suited to him. I have been deceived;
still fewer study it than geometry. It is only from the want of knowing
how to study this that we seek the other studies. But is it not that even
here is not the knowledge which man should have and that for the purpose
of happiness it is better for him not to know himself.?
145. One thought alone occupies us; we cannot think of two things at
the same time. This is lucky for us according to the world, not according
to God.
146. Man is obviously made to think. It is his whole dignity and his
whole merit; and his whole duty is to think as he ought. Now, the order
of thought is to begin with self, and with its Author and its end.
Now, of what does the world think? Never of this, but of dancing, playing
the lute, singing, making verses, running at the ring, etc., fighting,
making oneself king, without thinking what it is to be a king and what
to be a man.
147. We do not content ourselves with the life we have in ourselves
and in our own being; we desire to live an imaginary life in the mind of
others, and for this purpose we endeavour to shine. We labour unceasingly
to adorn and preserve this imaginary existence and neglect the real. And
if we possess calmness, or generosity, or truthfulness, we are eager to
make it known, so as to attach these virtues to that imaginary existence.
We would rather separate them from ourselves to join them to it; and we
would willingly be cowards in order to acquire the reputation of being
brave. A great proof of the nothingness of our being, not to be satisfied
with the one without the other, and to renounce the one for the other!
For he would be infamous who would not die to preserve his honour.
148. We are so presumptuous that we would wish to be known by all the
world, even by people who shall come after, when we shall be no more; and
we are so vain that the esteem of five or six neighbours delights and contents
us.
149. We do not trouble ourselves about being esteemed in the towns
through which we pass. But if we are to remain a little while there, we
are so concerned. How long is necessary? A time commensurate with our vain
and paltry life.
150. Vanity is so anchored in the heart of man that a soldier, a soldier's
servant, a cook, a porter brags and wishes to have his admirers. Even philosophers
wish for them. Those who write against it want to have the glory of having
written well; and those who read it desire the glory of having read it.
I who write this have perhaps this desire, and perhaps those who will read
it...
151. Glory.--Admiration spoils all from infancy. Ah! How well said!
Ah! How well done! How well-behaved he is! etc.
The children of Port-Royal, who do not receive this stimulus of envy
and glory, fall into carelessness.
152. Pride.--Curiosity is only vanity. Most frequently we wish to know
but to talk. Otherwise we would not take a sea voyage in order never to
talk of it, and for the sole pleasure of seeing without hope of ever communicating
it.
153. Of the desire of being esteemed by those with whom we are.--Pride
takes such natural possession of us in the midst of our woes, errors, etc.
We even lose our life with joy, provided people talk of it.
Vanity: play, hunting, visiting, false shame, a lasting name.
154. I have no friends to your advantage.
155. A true friend is so great an advantage, even for the greatest
lords, in order that he may speak well of them and back them in their absence,
that they should do all to have one. But they should choose well; for,
if they spend all their efforts in the interests of fools, it will be of
no use, however well these may speak of them; and these will not even speak
well of them if they find themselves on the weakest side, for they have
no influence; and thus they will speak ill of them in company.
156. Ferox gens, nullam esse vitam sine armis rati.20
--They prefer death to peace; others prefer death to war.
Every opinion may be held preferable to life, the love of which is
so strong and so natural.
157. Contradiction: contempt for our existence, to die for nothing,
hatred of our existence.
158. Pursuits.--The charm of fame is so great that we like every object
to which it is attached, even death.
159. Noble deeds are most estimable when hidden. When I see some of
these in history, they please me greatly. But after all they have not been
quite hidden, since they have been known; and though people have done what
they could to hide them, the little publication of them spoils all, for
what was best in them was the wish to hide them.
160. Sneezing absorbs all the functions of the soul, as well as work
does; but we do not draw therefrom the same conclusions against the greatness
of man, because it is against his will. And although we bring it on ourselves,
it is nevertheless against our will that we sneeze. It is not in view of
the act itself; it is for another end. And thus it is not a proof of the
weakness of man and of his slavery under that action.
It is not disgraceful for man to yield to pain, and it is disgraceful
to yield to pleasure. This is not because pain comes to us from without,
and we ourselves seek pleasure; for it is possible to seek pain, and yield
to it purposely, without this kind of baseness. Whence comes it, then,
that reason thinks it honourable to succumb under stress of pain, and disgraceful
to yield to the attack of pleasure? It is because pain does not tempt and
attract us. It is we ourselves who choose it voluntarily, and will it to
prevail over us. So that we are masters of the situation; and in this man
yields to himself. But in pleasure it is man who yields to pleasure. Now
only mastery and sovereignty bring glory, and only slavery brings shame.
161. Vanity.--How wonderful it is that a thing so evident as the vanity
of the world is so little known, that it is a strange and surprising thing
to say that it is foolish to seek greatness?
162. He who will know fully the vanity of man has only to consider
the causes and effects of love. The cause is a je ne sais quoi (Corneille),
and the effects are dreadful. This je ne sais quoi, so small an object
that we cannot recognise it, agitates a whole country, princes, armies,
the entire world.
Cleopatra's nose: had it been shorter, the whole aspect of the world
would have been altered.
163. Vanity.--The cause and the effects of love: Cleopatra.
164. He who does not see the vanity of the world is himself very vain.
Indeed who do not see it but youths who are absorbed in fame, diversion,
and the thought of the future? But take away diversion, and you will see
them dried up with weariness. They feel then their nothingness without
knowing it; for it is indeed to be unhappy to be in insufferable sadness
as soon as we are reduced to thinking of self and have no diversion.
165. Thoughts.--In omnibus requiem quaesivi.21 If
our condition were truly happy, we not need diversion from thinking of
it in order to make ourselves happy.
166. Diversion.--Death is easier to bear without thinking of it than
is the thought of death without peril.
167. The miseries of human life has established all this: as men have
seen this, they have taken up diversion.
168. Diversion.--As men are not able to fight against death, misery,
ignorance, they have taken it into their heads, in order to be happy, not
to think of them at all.
169. Despite these miseries, man wishes to be happy, and only wishes
to be happy, and cannot wish not to be so. But how will he set about it?
To be happy he would have to make himself immortal; but, not being able
to do so, it has occurred to him to prevent himself from thinking of death.
170. Diversion.--If man were happy, he would be the more so, the less
he was diverted, like the Saints and God. Yes; but is it not to be happy
to have a faculty of being amused by diversion? No; for that comes from
elsewhere and from without, and thus is dependent, and therefore subject
to be disturbed by a thousand accidents, which bring inevitable griefs.
171. Misery.--The only thing which consoles us for our miseries is
diversion, and yet this is the greatest of our miseries. For it is this
which principally hinders us from reflecting upon ourselves and which makes
us insensibly ruin ourselves. Without this we should be in a state of weariness,
and this weariness would spur us to seek a more solid means of escaping
from it. But diversion amuses us, and leads us unconsciously to death.
172. We do not rest satisfied with the present. We anticipate the future
as too slow in coming, as if in order to hasten its course; or we recall
the past, to stop its too rapid flight. So imprudent are we that we wander
in the times which are not ours and do not think of the only one which
belongs to us; and so idle are we that we dream of those times which are
no more and thoughtlessly overlook that which alone exists. For the present
is generally painful to us. We conceal it from our sight, because it troubles
us; and, if it be delightful to us, we regret to see it pass away. We try
to sustain it by the future and think of arranging matters which are not
in our power, for a time which we have no certainty of reaching.
Let each one examine his thoughts, and he will find them all occupied
with the past and the future. We scarcely ever think of the present; and
if we think of it, it is only to take light from it to arrange the future.
The present is never our end. The past and the present are our means; the
future alone is our end. So we never live, but we hope to live; and, as
we are always preparing to be happy, it is inevitable we should never be
so.
173. They say that eclipses foretoken misfortune, because misfortunes
are common, so that, as evil happens so often, they often foretell it;
whereas if they said that they predict good fortune, they would often be
wrong. They attribute good fortune only to rare conjunctions of the heavens;
so they seldom fail in prediction.
174. Misery.--Solomon and Job have best known and best spoken of the
misery of man; the former the most fortunate, and the latter the most unfortunate
of men; the former knowing the vanity of pleasures from experience, the
latter the reality of evils.
175. We know ourselves so little that many think they are about to
die when they are well, and many think they are well when they are near
death, unconscious of approaching fever, or of the abscess ready to form
itself.
176. Cromwell was about to ravage all Christendom; the royal family
was undone, and his own for ever established, save for a little grain of
sand which formed in his ureter. Rome herself was trembling under him;
but this small piece of gravel having formed there, he is dead, his family
cast down, all is peaceful, and the king is restored.
177. Three hosts. Would he who had possessed the friendship of the
King of England, the King of Poland, and the Queen of Sweden, have believed
he would lack a refuge and shelter in the world?
178. Macrobius: on the innocents slain by Herod.
179. When Augustus learnt that Herod's own son was amongst the infants
under two years of age, whom he had caused to be slain, he said that it
was better to be Herod's pig than his son. Macrobius, Saturnalia, ii. 4.
180. The great and the humble have the same misfortunes, the same griefs,
the same passions; but the one is at the top of the wheel, and the other
near the centre, and so less disturbed by the same revolutions.
181. We are so unfortunate that we can only take pleasure in a thing
on condition of being annoyed if it turn out ill, as a thousand things
can do, and do every hour. He who should find the secret of rejoicing in
the good, without troubling himself with its contrary evil, would have
hit the mark. It is perpetual motion.
182. Those who have always good hope in the midst of misfortunes, and
who are delighted with good luck, are suspected of being very pleased with
the ill success of the affair, if they are not equally distressed by bad
luck; and they are overjoyed to find these pretexts of hope, in order to
show that they are concerned and to conceal by the joy which they feign
to feel that which they have at seeing the failure of the matter.
183. We run carelessly to the precipice, after we have put something
before us to prevent us seeing it.
5Title given by Pico della Mirandola to one of his proposed
nine hundred theses, in 1486.
[6]Tacitus, Annals,
iv. "Kindnesses are agreeable so long as one thinks them possible
to render; further, recognition makes way for hatred."
7St. Augustine, City of God, xxi. 10. "The manner
in which the spirit is united to the body can not be understood by man;
and yet it is man."
[8]Virgil, Georgics,
ii. "Happy is he who is able to know the causes of things."
[9]Horace, Epistles,
I. vi. 1. " To be astonished at nothing is nearly the only thing which
can give and conserve happiness."
[10]Cicero, Disputationes
Tusculanae, i, ii Harum sententiarum quae vera sit, Deus aliquis
viderit. "Which of these opinions in the truth, a god will see."
[11]Montaigne, Essays,
ii.
[12]Montaigne, Essays,
ii.
[13]Treatise on the
Vacuum.
[14]Terence, Heauton
Timorumenos, III. v. 8. "There is one who will say great foolishness
with great effort."
[15]Montaigne,
Essays, ii.
[16]Pliny, ii.
"As though there were anyone more unhappy than a man dominated by
his imagination."
17Cicero, De Divinatione ii. 22. "A common happening
does not astonish, even though the cause is unknown; an event such as one
has never seen before passes for a prodigy."
[18]Allusion to
Gen. 7. 14. Ipsi et omne animal secundus genus suum. "And every
beast after his kind."
19Homer, Odyssey, xviii.
20Livy, xxxiv. 17. "A brutal people, for whom, when
they have not armour, there is not life."
21Ecclus. 24:11. "With all these I have sought rest."
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