DARWIN AND THE BIBLE

     The Bible recounts to us the fall of our progenitor Adam, the first man. You believe that this is only an invention of ignorant Jews? You believe that the discovery of an English scientist is closer to the truth and that man is descended from the ape? Well, permit me to tell you that the Jews were closer to the truth, that they were indeed very close to it.

     You will perhaps ask me why I take the side of the Jews with such assurance. Was I present at the creation of the world? Did I see Eve eat the apple and offer it to Adam? I certainly was not there, and I did not see anything. I do not even have at my disposal the moral proofs that Kant invoked for the defense of his postulates. In general, I do not have any proofs at all. But I think that proofs in such cases are superfluous and even very irksome ballast. Try to admit, if you are capable of it, that in certain cases one can, one must, do without proofs - and look a little at man. Does one not discern even now the fig-leaves under which he once hid his nakedness when he suddenly felt the horror of his fall? And his perpetual anxiety, his inextinguishable thirst? It is idle chatter to say that men have always been able to find on earth what they need. They seek agonizingly but do not find anything - not even those who are considered the teachers and guides of mankind. What great art they must display to give themselves the appearance of "those who have found"! And in the end, despite their genius, they succeed at most only in deceiving and blinding others. For no one can be a light to himself. It is not without reason that it has been said of the sun that it gives light and joy to others but for itself is dark. If man were descended from the ape he would be able to find what he needs in the manner of the ape. I shall be told that such people exist and that they are even very numerous. Certainly. But it follows from this only that Darwin and the Jews were equally right. One part of mankind is really descended from the fallen Adam, feels in its blood the burn of its ancestor's sin, suffers pangs from it and aspires to the paradise lost, while the others really spring from the ape that is free of all sin; their consciences are at peace, nothing tortures them, and they do not dream of impossible things. Will science agree to such a compromise with the Bible?

EXERCITIA SPIRITUALIA

     Those who talk much of righteousness rarely call themselves righteous, but this does not mean that they do not consider themselves such. On the contrary, to believe that righteousness is the supreme goal of man and not to consider oneself righteous or, at least, closer to this perfection than the majority of men - who would willingly accept this? Ordinarily those who seek righteousness sooner or later find it. The seeking itself quickly convinces them of their own merits and gifts: "all those other people live without thinking about anything whatever, while I suffer and seek... therefore I am superior to the mob." There is probably not a single preacher who does not censure the mob and who does not draw a certain spiritual satisfaction from the knowledge of his right to censure others. Even men like Tolstoy, Nietzsche, and Dostoevsky were incapable of renouncing the right they had arrogated to themselves of correcting and reproving their neighbors. Now this is, generally speaking, no great misfortune. The existence of these men was filled with such painful labors that no one would have the heart to reproach them with living, from time to time, like everyone else and enjoying a certain consolation and rest in the knowledge of their relative perfection. What is unfortunate is that often their readers - and not the worst of these - allowed themselves to be tempted by their weakness, by what was in them "human, all too human." It is not for nothing that Pushkin said, "When Apollo does not call the poet to perform the holy sacrifice, he is, among the miserable children of the world, perhaps the most miserable."

     Nietzsche and Tolstoy felt especially how important moral perfection is for men and how unimportant it is in the eyes of God. Nietzsche wrote Beyond Good and Evil. Tolstoy, in his last works, does not stop repeating how his thirst for moral perfection and his desire to feel himself morally superior to other men tormented him and prevented him from living. And yet just those who need to believe in their exclusive virtue, as starving men need bread, seek support in Nietzsche and Tolstoy. When Nietzsche and Tolstoy noticed a straw in the eye of their neighbor, this reminded them of the beam in their own eyes. Their readers and disciples allow themselves to be infected by their indignation against the mob, their pathetic tone and invectives, and imagine that is where the source of their prophetic gift lies. They strain themselves to see the straw in their neighbor's eye in order not to see the beam in their own. Perhaps I am wrong, but it seems to me that it is a long time already since men and especially writers, have felt a need as sharp as that of our contemporaries to believe in their absolute righteousness. And this, after Tolstoy and Nietzsche! Almost every writer is persuaded of his providential role or, to put it differently, that he possesses the "truth," while he mocks his colleagues who believe, with just as much assurance, in their own role and their own truth. This spectacle, to one who contemplates it without participating in it, produces the impression of a veritable Bedlam, a madhouse each of whose inhabitants believes himself to be Ferdinand VIII, King of Spain, and is surprised, irritated or even indignant that his neighbors - all with the same assurance and solemnity - pretend to the throne of Spain. Has it always been so, or is this situation special to our epoch? Perhaps it must be so.

     Are the gods perhaps unwilling for men to know the final mystery, and do they develop in them that self-love which impels them to take the first illusion that comes along for the supreme truth and also that special blindness which does not permit us to see ourselves in a mirror but does not prevent us from seeing our neighbors as they are? Or is there some other mystery here? May it not be that the time has come for us to awaken from common sense and to admit, instead of a reality identical for all, that our natural environment is constituted by a collection of illusions that intersect and mutually exclude each other?

     In any case, I believe that the ceaseless and attentive contemplation of the spectacle of innumerable Ferdinands all pretending to the single throne of Spain - the truth - would be very useful to philosophers as a kind of exercitia spiritualia.

THE PHILOSOPHY OF HISTORY

     It is said that St. Augustine founded the philosophy of history. It is also said that the philosophy of history is already found in the Old Testament, which served St. Augustine as a guide in his reflections on the destinies of mankind. The Old Testament is not content to relate the history of the Jewish people but also explains it, and it is precisely in this that the philosophy of history consists. This statement seems at first sight very close to the truth. But the unfortunate thing, to my way of thinking, is that we have amassed in our mind a great number of judgments that seem to approach the truth. We men are altogether too undemanding and too lazy creatures: as soon as we obtain only the appearance of success we fold our arms. And often, just to have the right to fold our arms, we are ready to consider an unquestionable defeat a victory. Not for nothing do the Italians say, se non e vero è ben trovato [if it is not true, it is well said]. We are very little concerned with the truth, provided what we are told is interesting and witty. The so-called proofs with which men support their statements are not proofs at all in the majority of cases but mere declarations that are as little convincing as the theses they are designed to support. That is why most books are so bulky, monotonous, and boring. A writer has some idea that he could express in ten to twenty pages, but instead he writes an enormous volume, crammed three-quarters full with commonplaces that everyone has known for a long time and that therefore say nothing new. The commonplaces seem all the more to come close to the truth precisely because they are repeated at every turn with the air of assurance which would be appropriate to the expression of the truth if we possessed it, with a tone admitting of no dispute.

     On the subject of the philosophy of history quite as many commonplaces have been expressed as on other subjects. It is worthwhile to examine them a little more closely. Let us begin with the Old Testament, which serves as a model for the philosophy of history, and with St. Augustine, the forefather - if one may so express it - of the philosophers of history.

     The Old Testament recounts the history of the Jewish people and explains its fate. That is undeniable. The Jews lived in Egypt, escaped from it, wandered forty years in the wilderness, finally reached the Promised Land, etc. All the events of this history had a deep significance that Scripture illuminated. And it was precisely this that led St. Augustine astray. If the fate of the Jewish people was disclosed to us, it must then be, St. Augustine concluded, that the destinies of other peoples and of all humanity can also be disclosed. St. Augustine remained too long at the school of Greek thought and, as we see, could not, despite all his hatred of paganism, give up the right to draw conclusions. Socrates, Plato, Aristotle - all the best representatives of ancient wisdom - declared that the truth must be sought in the general and not in the particular. The purposes of God can also be discovered for, as we recall, tên peprômenên moirên adunata estin apophugeein kai theôi [not even a god can escape the decrees of fate]. If the history of the Jewish people can be explained by its particular destiny, it must then be that each people, mankind in its entirety, must have its particular destiny; one need only "discover" the mission God has assigned it. This is so clear, so understandable, so agreeable to the Greek method of seeking and discovering the truth. It is, therefore, indubitable! We see here, perhaps, one of the most curious examples of what is false in the fundamental procedure of Greek thought and how greatly inapplicable it is beyond certain obvious limits. And we see here also how dearly our desire to "understand" everything costs us. For how often, in order to "understand," do we consent not to know - and not to know precisely what is most important for us? It is said in the Bible that God chose the Jewish people in order to realize His great purpose. And He made this known to the world through the mouth of His prophets. But does this give us the right to say that God assigns to each of the peoples a certain mission and informs the philosophers and historians, the successors of the ancient prophets, of His designs? Examine the meaning of this passage from the particular to the general and you will understand that the generalization is made only because we are unwilling to admit the free action of God, only because we have faith in ourselves alone and are afraid to put our faith in the Creator, and because we feel at peace only when we are guaranteed the possibility of verifying in advance what Heaven prepares for us.

     It is better to admit Moira, fate fixed once for all, than God. Such is the true meaning and goal of rationalism which has always loved to boast of its advantages vis-à-vis empiricism, which contents itself with experience. What can limited experience mean in the sight of all-embracing reason? But the pretensions of reason to all-inclusiveness take their rise in our taste for the limited, which encloses itself in artificial bounds and feels such extreme fear before all that is unknown. If you have not noticed this until now, perhaps the example I have just cited will make you think about it.

     By its very nature reason cannot help being limited. At most it is capable of speaking boastfully of the limitless character of the problems it raises: in the Bible the prophets speak of the mission of the Jewish people alone; well, I shall not remain behind them but go even further, I shall make still more astonishing discoveries. The prophets spoke of one people only; I shall speak of all peoples and all mankind, I shall speak of what was and what will be, I shall know what is beyond the heavens and under the earth! Of course, poor, miserable human reason will discover nothing. But it is not at all necessary for it to recognize anything really new, hitherto unknown, which would not find a place in the prepared framework of its concepts. It is enough for it to persuade men that it can make them know, that it can explain. Does not economic materialism represent the philosophy of history for many minds, even very intelligent minds? Does this theory not also take pride in having left the Bible very far behind? The Bible swarms with miracles, contradictions, scientifically uncontrolled facts. And many people are convinced that economic materialism is incomparably deeper and truer than the Bible. And indeed, we must agree, there is no trace whatsoever of the miraculous in economic materialism. Everything in it is "natural." But I cannot for the life of me understand why this is considered so great an excellence; for the natural presents no advantage over the supernatural. Not even from the point of view of approaching the truth. On the contrary, we have every reason to believe that natural explanations remove us from the truth, and it seems that even the representatives of positive science are today beginning to realize this.

     Listen to the voice of the contemporary mathematician and physicist: in it is perceptible an anxiety that is not customary to the representatives of positive thought. To be sure, many of them continue to believe that mathematics must serve as the model for all existing and possible sciences, even for philosophy. That is probably why historical materialism, which uses methods that are almost mathematical - it counts, weighs, measures - appears to many people as one of the loftiest triumphs of the human spirit. They know, of course, that it is flat, dull, and even - excuse the expression - stupid, but, on the other hand, its method is rigorous.

     Do not think, however, that I am here raising objections to that kind of philosophy of history which calls itself economic materialism. I began with it because it is the most perfect, i.e., the most rigorous and consistent, philosophy of history. It is a little more boring, a little more lifeless, a little more stupid than its brothers, but from the scientific point of view these are not at all defects. Truth is not obliged to be brilliant and lively. No one even, as far as I know, has tried to establish that it must be intelligent. But it is considered proven that truth does not admit any contradictions and is consistent with itself. In this respect one can ask nothing better than economic materialism, which leaves other philosophies of history far behind. Furthermore - and this is the most important thing - this philosophy actually gives ready-made answers to all questions. The other philosophies try to do the same but, in fairness, we must say that they are very far from successful. They know how to answer many, almost all questions, but this "almost" has a decisive importance, for the whole task of philosophy finally consists in getting rid of a certain residue of insoluble questions which the positive sciences have transmitted to it. So that an almost complete explanation is, in philosophy, equivalent to total renunciation of explanation.

     One can say, it seems to me, without fear of being imprecise that the philosophy of history strives for omniscience. The modern St. Augustines, particularly Hegel, have tried to accomplish just this task. It is known that economic materialism derives completely from Hegel, i.e., from the conviction that we can draw out of our reason everything we need - obviously by means of the dialectical method. St. Augustine was still quite modest, compared to Hegel. He drew his knowledge not only from reason but also from the Bible. For Hegel the Bible no longer existed. Striving for omniscience, he disdained all sources of knowledge except his own head. Methodologically he was certainly right. For omniscience is possible only on the condition of establishing in rigorous fashion the source of knowledge to which one will have recourse. This is Hegel's head and the reason it contains - no more and no less. The head is capable of producing only thoughts, that is, universal concepts; consequently, thought is the only thing that exists. I repeat once more that it was not Hegel who invented this. Hegel only developed with very Germanic methodicalness and perseverance the ideas he had received from ancient philosophy. The methodological principle of Plato, as the inscription on the front of his Academy declared, was, "Let no one ignorant of geometry enter here."

     Plato already was obliged to transform his living ideas into inanimate numbers and into equally inanimate concepts. Hegel only developed rigorously what the Greeks had brought to mankind. Hegel and all of us after him are sincerely convinced that the twenty-five hundred years which have elapsed since Plato have not passed in vain for mankind. According to Hegel, it could not be otherwise. For history is "development." No one doubts this today; it is considered proven. Many learned books that have appeared in the course of the last century apply themselves to demonstrating and supporting this idea, even though it has no need at all of being supported and even fears all support, for it is finally itself which claims to support everything and it cannot, consequently, admit the least doubt concerning its rights. Without this idea of development, modern philosophy could not understand history at all. History would become for it a variegated, meaningless kaleidoscope. The idea of development is therefore true, for it is completely impossible to admit that history has no humanly understandable meaning. This is impossible, just as it is impossible that what has once been should not have been, etc.

     But now that we have arrived at an absolute impossibility, it will do no harm to stop for a moment and recall certain things. This, for example: that there lived in the Middle Ages a certain Peter Damian who declared that it is possible for God to make that which has already been not to be. And I think it is not a bad idea to throw this stick into the wheels of philosophy's swift-moving chariot. That is why I shall not here examine whether Peter Damian was right or even whether his words have any meaning. My object is to stop the course of thought, of that thought concerning which a popular Russian song says that it is swifter than a swift horse. Whether we stop it by means of rational arguments or through the raving cry of the medieval monk is of no importance. If you wish to know the truth, I shall even say that in my opinion the monk is here more in place than the raisonneur, because the former permits himself to shout at the truth and to trample arguments underfoot without letting himself be impressed by their noble origin, reason itself. The raisonneur will not dare to leave the familiar rut and turn to methods not sanctified by tradition. Rational arguments are the fixed stars by which he has determined his orientation. Can he rebel against them? He would rather rebel against God Himself, if God should extend His power so far as to put the fixed stars in motion. But the vision of the divine omnipotence ravished the monk's heart. The psalms and the prophets had nourished his soul, which was exalted by the thought that the fixed stars themselves would move at the breath of the Almighty. If God be with me, whom else do I still need? God's ways and designs are inscrutable; the prophets themselves knew only what was revealed to them. Will he then deplore the failure of Hegel's attempt to penetrate the mystery of the divine decisions? Or that the little tower of Babel constructed by philosophy turns out to be so like a doll's house? The monk blesses the day he was born when he remembers that all of Hegel's and his disciples' thick volumes fall into dust under the influence of time, and his heart rejoices at each new breach that appears in the edifice built by the philosophers.

     Hegel did not guess right, Hegel created confusion, Hegel deceived men - is this a misfortune? No, it would have been a misfortune - a terrible, irremediable misfortune - if Hegel and those who derived from him had guessed right, if they had spoken the truth, if history had a "meaning," and if their absolute marked out the limits of human "possibilities." But fortunately it is not so. The great and little Hegels are only false pretenders to the seat of the prophets, and their "absolute" which proclaims its power so loudly is subject to decomposition and death, like everything that comes of human hands.

     The mystery of the Creator is impenetrable, and human destinies begin and end in spheres where the rational investigation of men cannot enter. To study the past, i.e., to try to understand the life of beings who are no longer in our midst, is most important and most necessary. But we must study the past not to justify the present and convince ourselves of our superiority over our ancestors or, to put it differently, not to establish in history the idea of development. Human life is so complex that it cannot fit into the framework of any of the ideas we have invented. The present does not at all occupy a level superior to that of the past, just as Liguori or Harnack do not, as religious thinkers, surpass the prophet Isaiah or the apostle Paul. Philosophy as Hegel understood it prevents us from truly seeing history, and history as science hides from us the past of men. We must renounce self-admiration, we must renounce omniscience, and then those ways, now closed, which will lead us to discover at least the smaller mysteries of life will be opened to us.

DE NOVISSIMIS

     You have probably not seen it with your own eyes but you have undoubtedly heard that sometimes a man's hair turns white in one night: someone who had black hair on lying down to sleep finds himself completely white on waking. We have grounds to believe that the opposite at times also happens: old men are transformed overnight into young people - only their hair does not regain its original color. But if this is so, if such transformations are possible on earth, how can we speak of the immutable principles of thought? Of what value then are the foundations on which Kant's famous postulates rest? Kant explains that he cannot renounce his postulates, "for in that case my moral principles would be overthrown - those principles which I cannot renounce without becoming contemptible in my own eyes."

     Here the Russian proverb is proven true: "Do not ask an old man but one who has experienced much." Kant was almost sixty years old when he published his Critique of Pure Reason, but it seemed to him impossible that his moral principles could ever be shaken and that he could, consequently, become an object of hatred and disgust to himself. But if he had read the lives of certain saints - the writings of St. Theresa, St. Bernard - or even looked at Luther's works, he would have become convinced that what appeared to him unbelievable, inconceivable even, nevertheless actually happened. St. Theresa, St. Bernard, and Luther many times recognized themselves in their own consciousness as the least, the vilest, the most miserable of human beings. And if Kant had been able to read Nietzsche or had reflected on the epistles of St. Paul, he would have discovered that his moral principles were not at all as solid as he imagined: it requires only a strong subterranean shock for any earthly stability to be thrown down completely. But Kant did not in the least suspect this. A page further he repeats that his postulate is so strictly bound to his moral disposition that, just as he runs no danger of losing the latter, so he does no fear that the former can ever be taken away from him (Kr. d. R. V. 857, II Aufl.). Whence comes this unconcern of Kant's? Kant, this scholar par excellence accustomed to extraordinary caution in his judgments, who advanced his reflections with extreme deliberateness, and who permitted himself to take a step forward only after having first carefully studied the terrain on which he proposed to set his foot, suddenly showed an almost child-like trust. And his case is not unique. Look, for example, at Plato. Having established that the soul which aspires to unity and universality in the human and divine scorns all pettiness, he asks: "Do you think that the great soul which is the spectator of all time and all existence can think much of human life?" (Republic 486A)

     To his own question Plato responds negatively and with the same assurance with which Kant responds to his. And - what is particularly important - Plato's question and Kant's play a decisive role in the systems of the two philosophers. If it turns out that Kant's morality is not at all as solid as it seemed to its author or if, despite Plato, a great soul which has long wandered in the most distant realms of cosmic being discovers that a single human life has no less value than all human lives together - what will remain of Plato's and Kant's systems?

     I have already said, in speaking of Kant, that if he had consulted men who had lived and experienced much, they would have made him see that there are many things on earth and in heaven of which the most learned of the scholars do not even dream. And he would then have felt what appeared to him entirely inconceivable - he would have felt a great disgust for himself! But may it not be that it is not necessary to fear this feeling so greatly and to avoid it? May it not be that it is the condition of important revelations? St. Theresa, St. Bernard, Luther, Shakespeare, Dostoevsky, Tolstoy - I could continue the list indefinitely - all felt a disgust for themselves and all repeated with terror the words of the psalmist: de profundis ad te clamavi, Domine. Why then did Kant conclude that everything that leads man to a horror of himself must be rejected? Why consider respect for oneself the sign of truth and the reward of truth?

     Note that Plato's statement is also based on the assumption that the normal and natural attitude of the soul toward itself is respect and not disgust. Plato speaks of a great soul - that is, of a soul that respects itself and for which the whole world must have respect, respect that it obtains not as gratia gratis data [grace freely given] but for its merits. One can even generalize and say that every philosopher proceeds from the assumption that the soul, if it wishes, can obtain its own respect as well as that of others. Without this supposition no philosophical system could subsist even for a moment. It is the dogma stantis et cadentis philosophiae [on which philosophy stands or falls].

     But just here it would be well to recall the testimony of those men of different type that I have set opposite Plato and Kant. Through the mouth of his Hamlet, Shakespeare admits that if one acted toward people according to their merits, no one could avoid a box on the ear. Notice that Hamlet himself did not always speak thus. There was a time when Hamlet declared, and with no less assurance than Plato or Kant, that he would never put himself in the situation of feeling disgust for himself. I think that it is not necessary to prove what I put forward, i.e., to quote passages of Shakespeare's work prior to Hamlet. Anyone who has read even only his historical chronicles will easily remember the phrases. For a long time Shakespeare knew contentment and mental equilibrium and believed that it was perfectly natural and normal for man to love and respect himself. The point of departure for his philosophy prior to Hamlet was the conviction that equilibrium of the soul is the supreme good for man. However, the word "conviction" is not altogether exact. It may be, it is certain even, that Shakespeare did not even guess that he had this conviction, just as a strong and healthy man has no idea that health and strength are precious. He learns this only later, after having lost them. But this does not change the situation in the I least. Man may not realize the importance he ascribes to equilibrium of the soul and yet strain all his powers to secure it for himself.

     Of course, at the first threats of fate reason will become excited and do all that its nature prescribes to avoid the misfortunes preparing to break over man. When the natural ground begins to disappear under our feet, reason tries to create through its own powers an artificial ground. And this is what is ordinarily called "philosophy." Man asks himself: "How can I bring it about that fate return to me what it has taken away from me?" He does not doubt in the least that it is absolutely necessary to obtain the return of what has been taken away from him. To entrust his existence to fate, to admit that the fate which has taken away his equilibrium is just as righteous as the fate which only a while ago granted him this "supreme good" - this, man, especially the man of reason who is persuaded that he knows everything better than anyone else, is incapable of doing. He knows that equilibrium of the soul is happiness, a good, and that its loss is unhappiness, an evil. He knows this through his own experience, you will say. Yes, certainly, but there is something else here besides. For if it were a question only of experience, neither Kant nor Plato could have clothed their statements in the form they did. They could have spoken only of themselves and, moreover, of the past. That is, Kant could have said: "When I happened to think for a moment that my moral principles could be proven false or stripped of their value, I experienced a feeling of disgust for myself of which I tried to get rid." This confession would have been the statement of a fact, nothing more. But Kant's pretensions extend infinitely further. He assures us that not only he, Kant, but every man, every reasonable being, is aware and will always be aware of an indissoluble relationship between his existence and his moral principles, and that every man wishes to respect himself and is afraid above everything else of feeling disgust for himself.

     I ask, who gave Kant the right to proceed to all these generalizations and anticipations which constitute, as is known, the very essence of his critiques? How does he know what every man feels? How does he know what he himself will feel tomorrow? May it not be that tomorrow he will experience disgust for these very feelings of his worthiness whose sweetness he savors today? Is it not possible that he could be forced to say, like Antisthenes, maneiên mallon ê hêstheiên (I would prefer losing my reason to experiencing pleasure) and go still further than Antisthenes by understanding hêstheiên as including not only physical pleasures (eating, drinking, etc.) but also moral pleasures? Or even to realize that the most repugnant and vilest pleasures are not at all those which eating and drinking give but precisely those that are aroused by a good conscience, the feeling of moral worth, of acting well - the things of which he speaks as the foundation of his philosophy and his ethical system? This, you will say, cannot be. I expected this answer. For we must finally uncover the invisible prompter who whispers such categorical Statements to man. Who says this cannot be? Obviously, our reason - that reason which proudly considers itself capable of guiding us in all the difficult circumstances of life, that reason which has convinced us that it "enlarges" our poor and miserable experience.

     But consider for once exactly what it does. With all its generalizations and its anticipations it does not enlarge but, on the contrary, infinitely restricts our already sufficiently impoverished experience. Reason knows the single case of Kant and from it immediately "concludes" that it knows all possible cases. And it does not any longer itself wish or permit us to see, to hear, to seek. Kant was frightened by the idea that he could come to feel disgust for himself, and he cried out pathetically, "Hold fast to the pillars of your morality, else you will perish!" It is as if one tried to restrain Christopher Columbus at the moment of his departure upon unknown seas by conjuring him not to abandon his familial hearth, for it is only in the bosom of his own family and under the roof of his own house that he can be happy, while the seas hide terrible dangers. Certainly it is dangerous to roam the seas - no one denies it. But Christopher Columbus did not listen to the objections of his familial Kants and threw himself into his adventure. And likewise ho anthrôpinos bios - the individual human soul - does not listen to Plato. It aspires to freedom, it wishes to escape, to throw itself into infinite space, far from the familial penates, the work of famous philosophers with clever hands. Often it has not the time even to think of this. It does not recognize that reason, which transformed its poor experience into a doctrine of life, has deceived it. The gifts of reason - calmness, peace, pleasures - suddenly disgust it. It aspires to what reason is not even capable of imagining. It can no longer live according to the general rules established for all. All knowledge is painful to it precisely because it is knowledge, i.e., a generalized poverty. It does not wish to know, it does not wish to understand, in order not to find itself bound and limited. Reason is a siren; it knows well to speak of itself and its works in such a way that it seems its doctrines and its knowledge do not bind but deliver. It speaks only of freedom. And it heaps up the most amazing promises. It promises everything except what it cannot conceive, what it cannot even suspect. But we already know what it can conceive and foresee. It promises us all the postulates - those of which Kant spoke, and Plato's also - on condition that we prostrate ourselves before it and worship it. But it does not go beyond promises. If this is enough for you, take reason for your guide, generalize and anticipate experience and continue to believe that this is a most important and useful thing. If not, abandon your calculations and generalizations and go daringly, without looking backward, toward the unknown where God will lead you - and then, come what may! You have no desire for this? That is your affair.