THE IRREFUTABILITY OF MATERIALISM

     I shall say it openly and right from the start: no one has ever refuted materialism. All the objections the opponents of materialism have raised relate not to materialism itself but to the arguments invoked for its defense. To be sure, it is not difficult to destroy these arguments. But are other metaphysical systems in a better position in this respect? It is true that materialism takes the fate of its arguments very much to heart, being convinced - no one knows why - that it must share their fate. In general, it is too scrupulous and, despite its apparent robustness, more nervous than is appropriate to a philosophical theory. It suffices for its opponents to call it "metaphysical" for it immediately to blanch with fear; it believes that all is lost. Not at all! Even if materialism should be called metaphysical, this would not in any way change its nature. And I do not think that the idealists would have an easier job if materialism made use of its rights as a metaphysics.

     But the chief argument against materialism is that it admits the possibility of miraculous transformations, in the genre of Ovid's metamorphoses. Inanimate matter is suddenly transformed into spirit. This objection greatly troubles the materialists, more so than the former objection; they try to escape the reproach of credulity that is thrown at them, and for this purpose seek to replace "suddenly" with "gradually." To be sure, the defense is a sorry one. Their perceptive opponents very easily discover the fatal "suddenly" which the "gradually" conceals. But if I were a materialist, sudden transformations would not embarrass me at all. On the contrary, I would myself insist upon them and so disarm my opponents. Yes, there are sudden metamorphoses, perhaps not of every kind but of a certain kind only. It may also be that anything whatsoever can come from anything whatsoever. What follows from this? Reason does not understand the suddenness? But has materialism bound itself to everything comprehensible to reason? Does the fact that a thing is incomprehensible or even irrational give us the right to refuse to recognize it? Many of the things that in fact exist are incomprehensible to reason. It also does not understand how atoms coming together can form an ape or a rational man.

     So materialism could answer. But the materialists, I am certain, will never speak thus. They also woo reason, which they consider to have been born of atoms and regard as perishable; and they flatter it just as much as their opponents, the idealists, who believe reason to be a primal and eternal principle. And that is why the materialists lay quite as much value on the possibility of demonstrating their truth by rational arguments as on the truth itself. It is clear that under these conditions they can arrive at nothing. To demonstrate the truth of materialism is impossible; and if one admits that demonstrability constitutes the conditio sine qua non (necessary condition) of truth materialism finds itself in a bad way. Its opponents understand this very well, and that is why they speak not of materialism but of the rights of materialism before the tribunal of reason. But this procedure is obviously inadmissible and even dishonest. Before the tribunal of reason every metaphysics, whether it be idealist or materialist, will be in the wrong, for at a certain moment in its development it must rely on the incomprehensible, i.e., what is unacceptable to reason - as on something given. So, then, if materialism would be invulnerable, it must renounce all argumentation whatsoever. Sic volo, sic jubeo, stat pro ratione voluntas (thus I wish, thus I command, my will is reason enough). It is time to understand that only that philosophy which dares to be arbitrary will succeed in breaking its way through.

     Will the materialists follow my advice? I think not. It is probable that they will prefer to meet the idealists halfway, for the effort of the idealists, who try to root out of reality all miracles and everything unexpected, is much closer to them than the conceptions of materialism. Freedom always terrifies men who have become accustomed to thinking that their reason is above everything in the world. I would also certainly not be mistaken in making the contrary assumption: if the idealists were obliged to choose, they would surely agree to accept matter rather than arbitrariness as the supreme principle of the universe.

REASON

     Like all the philosophers, Epictetus tries to demonstrate that always and under every circumstance man must preserve the equilibrium of his soul. A misfortune has come to you: your father has died - you weep, you despair, and there is not, it seems, any remedy in the world capable of restoring peace of heart to you. But this is only apparently so. In reality a remedy exists. Try to reflect rationally. What would you have said if it had been your neighbor's father who had died? You would have said that it is completely natural. Every man must die - such is the law of nature. Why then are you so agitated and inconsolable at your father's death? Reflect a moment and you will understand that your father's death is an event as natural, as right, as the death of all other men and that, consequently, you have no more reason to lament today, when you father is no more, than yesterday, when you still had your father.

     At first blush this reasoning is impeccable. Unfortunately, it can be turned around. One can say, "My neighbor has lost his father, and this leaves me quite indifferent. But is this right? If it were my father, I should be in despair. Why does not the death of a stranger produce in me the same painful impression? This is an 'error': I ought to lament the death of any man just as I lament the loss of my dear ones."

     Compare these two reasonings: which is the more rigorous and logical? They are, it is clear, equally good, and if Epictetus gave preference to the first, this was not because it was more "rational" but because it led him more surely and rapidly to the supreme goal of the Stoic philosophy, to ataraksia, the complete independence of man vis-à-vis external circumstances. The Stoic wished to be master of the world. Si vis tibi omnia subjicere, te subjice rationi[if you wish to subject all things to yourself, subject yourself to reason], said Seneca. But in reality neither with the help of reason nor without it could he subject everything to his wishes. There was then only one thing to do - to say that man has no need of the universe at all. Man and the universe have nothing in common. If one's father, following the laws of nature, has died - this concerns neither Epictetus nor any other wise man. For the wise man knows very well that external events, being independent of his will, must not concern him if he does not wish to become the slave of a senseless power. This is the fundamental thought of the Stoic philosophy. The Cynics were certainly more logical. They testified with much more daring, by their life as well as their doctrine, to their scorn for that universe which they could not subject but to which they no longer wished to be subordinate. If ataraksia is the supreme goal of man, he must obviously be indifferent to everything, to his own sufferings as well as to those of others.

     But "reason" has nothing to do with this, and the reflections of Epictetus have nothing to do with it either. One can get along very well without reason and reflections: one can say once and for all that he does not wish to admit any power over himself. I refuse either to rejoice over the joys or to grieve over the sorrows that may accidentally come to me. If fate should grant me the genius, beauty, and power of Alexander of Macedon, I shall, following the example of Diogenes, decline them. If, on the contrary, I am plunged into tortures, I shall endure them without tears. I do not wish to rejoice or despair so long as I shall not have acquired the power to laugh and weep not according to the caprice of fate but of my own will. That is why the Stoics talked so much of the vanity of terrestrial goods. What are the gifts of fate worth if it can presently take them back and make misfortunes rain on our heads? Echai ouk echomai (I hold, I am not held [i.e., I hold my own fate, it is not forced on me]) was the favorite adage of the Stoics, and it was from this that all their interminable reflections, presumably founded on reason, flowed. But they could have gotten along very well without reasoning and argumentation.

     Reason supports the Stoics quite as well as it supports their opponents. As long as A = A, as long as their resolution not to submit to nature remains unshakable, the Stoics will succeed in solving the problems they pose: they will not weep or rejoice, whatever be the gifts and trials the gods send them; they will sing under torture and pour out tears when empires are offered them. But if their resolution weakens, if it suddenly appears to them that it is better to be the least of slaves in the universe created by the gods than king in that empire of shadows which they have themselves invented - farewell, then, to all reflections, arguments, appeals to reason! And then they may come to prefer the divine arbitrariness to the harmony and order imagined by men.

SYNTHESIS

     Synthesis is highly honored not only in Europe but also in Russia, despite the fact that we have for many years been straining all our efforts to rid ourselves of the "spiritual yoke" of the West. When synthesis is anywhere involved, everyone pursues it. It is imagined that synthesis is what is best and that we must always synthesize. It was not only Spencer, when he thought to make room in his system of synthetic philosophy for the most puzzling facts of human life, who sought general ideas; there are today many very believing philosophers who follow Spencer's method in their researches.

     They begin with fetishism and end with the most developed religions. According to these philosophers, the savage who worships a cow, a serpent or a piece of wood "believes," and in his belief one can find true faith in nuce. I have found similar statements in books which even bore the imprimatur and, moreover, these books are known to everyone.

     As far as Spencer is concerned, these actions are very understandable: for him religion is a social phenomenon which can be studied and explained like all other natural phenomena. From his point of view the savage who strikes his idol to force it to come to his aid; the Arab or Turk who hurls himself into combat convinced that if he succeeds in killing many infidels he will know the joys of paradise with its gardens, fountains, and houris; the prophet Isaiah and St. Paul are all believers, religious spirits. Such a synthesis is certainly very useful and even appears scientific, for it greatly simplifies the problem: one can do without explaining Isaiah or St. Paul and content himself with studying the savage and the Turk whose psychology lies, so to speak, at hand and seems in any case elementary and perfectly clear. But what meaning can such a synthesis have for a believer? It is enough to look a little more closely at the matter to realize that the fetishism of the savage has absolutely nothing in common with religious faith. The savage is convinced that if he strikes his idol the latter will be afraid of him and will grant him a successful hunt. It is thus that uncultivated minds believe in sorcerers and cultivated people in materialism, or deceived husbands in their wives' virtue and naïve proprietors in their managers' honesty. But what has the faith of these deceived people, who trust the word of those near to them or of persons above them, at all in common with religious faith? These sentiments that are so different from each other are designated by the same term only through accident. So it is, to use Spinoza's comparison, that one calls by the name "dog" both the constellation and the domestic animal that barks. People wish to generalize and gladly renounce the truth in order to obtain some all-embracing synthesis, for it is indubitable that he who believes that he finds a common element, faith, in the fetishist and in the psalmist can set up a comprehensible and even convincing argument but has certainly lost from view precisely the things he seeks and for the sake of which he set out on the road.

THOUGHTS EXPRESSED AND NOT EXPRESSED

     At present Tiutchev's verse, "A thought expressed is a lie," is developed in thousands of variants; and everyone agrees that a thought expressed in words becomes false because we have at our disposal only few words, and the words that we do possess, being insufficiently supple and elastic, enchain and contract the thought.

     There is a certain amount of truth in this statement, but a very small amount. Our thought becomes false when we clothe it in words not so much because we do not find adequate expression for it but, above all, because we do not dare show it to others in the form under which it was originally revealed to us. The poorest language would amply suffice to express many things about which we are today silent. We are always afraid of everything, and we are particularly afraid of our thoughts. That is why when, from time to time, a daring man appears, he always finds the words he needs. In any case, one can state without hesitation that we could say many more things than we do say and that we could lie much less than we do lie. But the truth is painful for us; we do not need it, we are not fit for it, and so we lie - timorously trying to justify ourselves by the poverty of our language.

     Consider a little the ideas current among men. Are they false because those who proclaimed them did not succeed in expressing themselves accurately? Is it true that a man who declares that the supreme good is love, while he himself is filled with hatred, could not say that the supreme good for him would be to conquer and crush his enemy? He could say it very well; but he knows that if he does so, he will appear foolish and ridiculous. And one who declares that he does not accept life because he cannot become a Napoleon - could he not simply admit that he would really like to be a councillor of state? Certainly he could, but he believes that his real idea is too dull and flat and he wishes to express only brilliant ideas that sparkle like diamonds.

     The philosophers declare - each obviously of himself - that their doctrines are free of all internal contradictions and that they are attached to them only because they see that they are thus free. What? Have they not the words necessary to express without mutilation their real thought - to say quite simply that they chose the doctrine that was particularly to their taste and that their goal is not so much to avoid contradiction as to hide these in the most careful way possible from the sharp looks of their opponents? There is no need of particularly profound words for these very simple thoughts not to be changed into lies. But the philosophers are unwilling to express themselves openly, out of fear of losing their reputation and appearing ridiculous and foolish. Nevertheless, in order to conform to tradition, they complain that their thought, despite all their efforts, is turned into a lie.

     And the debates on absolute truth! The Catholics affirm that they teach quod semper ubique et ab omnibus creditum est. Could they not say, instead of semper - "for a long time," instead of ubique - "in many places," instead of omnibus - "by many people"? Those who speak of absolute truth have already contented themselves for a long time, and that very well, with relative truths, but they continue to speak of absolute truth, the most absolute that can be.

     Finally, not to forget one of the most widespread thoughts of the present hour, who does not now speak of his prophetic mission? Everyone today wishes to be a prophet. Napoleon is already no longer enough; he represents too modest a rank. Do you think, perhaps, that this idea is false because the prophets could not express their true thought in words? It is generally writers who proclaim their prophetic mission, and indeed writers who lose their heads at the least praise. They could explain perfectly well that they have no need in the least to be prophets and would be very happy to be endlessly praised for their talent, their intelligence, their cleverness. But they do not dare offer this truth to their readers and consider themselves obliged to lie and to explain sadly that language misrepresents their thought, which thus necessarily becomes false.

     Do not think that I have in mind here only insignificant writers with mediocre minds. Not at all - this defect inheres in everyone! All lie, lie unbearably, and live in an atmosphere of falsehood in which they do not choke but content themselves with sighing sadly. In the end men prefer the traditional lofty falsehoods to the truth, whatever it may be - not only to the lowly truth but even to that of which no one knows what it finally is. And then they wonder why they never succeed in speaking the truth and why life is so filled with lies.

RULES AND EXCEPTIONS

     What kind of truths does man need? This question immediately implies another: How can we know what truths we need? Is there some principle from which we can deduce with assurance that certain truths are necessary to us and certain others are not? This principle does not exist. In any case, as far as I know, men are not in possession of it.

     Some, it is true, declare that the truths which all men will declare themselves prepared to accept once and for all are necessary truths. But this statement appears self-evident only at first blush; in reality it is very naïve and imposes upon us only because it has been repeated constantly and because, like everything customary, it seems perfectly clear, understandable and even natural. Above all, where are there such truths that are admitted by everyone? I am not speaking, naturally, of mathematics and the exact sciences. They have nothing in common with the truths of which we are speaking here. As soon as we pass beyond the limits of the so-called exact sciences, every man goes his own way. Not only can we not unite everyone around any truth whatsoever and obtain universal agreement on any point, but it also often happens that a single individual recognizes at one time several contradictory truths. There cannot, then, be any question of indisputable principles and infallible conclusions. The Germans are still capable of relying on deductions, principles and certainties. But we others must learn how to do without these scientific ornaments and answer as the occasion arises.

     It may perhaps be that people will even object to the way that I posed the first question. I shall be told that it is not at all appropriate to ask what truths we need, for we are always obliged to accept the truths that arise, whatever these may be. But I shall say again that this is only an idea inculcated in us by our German education. Men do not at all accept the truths such as they are but most of the time, almost always, choose what pleases them according to their various tastes. As the Russian people say, "one is loved not because he is lovable but he is lovable because he is loved." Consider. As a general rule, men change their convictions with age. What pleased them in their youth becomes disagreeable and unbearable when they become old. In our day people bid farewell to the convictions of their youthful years even before the appearance of their first gray hairs, and not only do they not feel embarrassed by these rapid transformations - they even glory in them. If it were a question of truth, of a truth that one could not admit so long as it had not become indubitable, this haste and these transformations would be completely impossible. But in reality, in youth as well as in maturity and old age, we are not very much concerned with the objective value of the truth so that it is completely natural to ask oneself if men, in acting thus, do not obey an instinct inculcated by nature itself. Of course, men do not openly admit their changeability and even painstakingly seek to hide it.

     Following a millennial custom, men surround each of their statements with ceremonies and solemn rites. They do not choose what pleases them according to their taste. Oh no, they commune with the absolute truth, consecrating their entire existence to it. The day before, it is true, they had similarly sworn fidelity to a truth opposed to the first, but this does not at all trouble them and they do not even suspect (men are very myopic beings and this is not an accidental trait of their nature but the fundamental predicate of their being) that tomorrow they will again change masters, just as Don Juan does not suspect that he will once more have to betray his mistress, even though he has already changed women dozens of times. Men would be bored if they had always to do with the same truth. Among human beings truths are like women - they age rapidly and lose their charm.

     This time I have succeeded, it seems to me, not only in making but in proving my point. What follows will appear less convincing, but this is in the order of things. If we choose our truths, can there be any question of proofs; can one prove anything? Youth is generous, old age avaricious. The rich are generally conservative, undertaking little and thinking only of preserving what they have amassed. Misery, as is known, is inventive, etc.

     At present in Russia, generosity does not enjoy any great prestige. People continue, it is true, to sing its praises and to boast of it - and particularly those who would like to take everything for themselves. No longer applicable to Russia is Rostopchin's old joke: in Europe the peasant, wishing to become a gentleman, revolts; while in Russia the gentleman, wishing to become a peasant, organizes a revolution. In this respect we are all completely Europeanized: the gentleman wishes to remain what he is and watches very carefully that the peasant not take away one bit of his belongings. We still have "noble penitents," but they repent not for having exploited the peasant but for not having taken from him everything that could have been taken. It is obvious that Russia's youth is passing away, and even though it is still far from old age it has already acquired the wisdom of ripe maturity. There was a time when we aspired only to become Europeans; today it is constantly repeated to us that we must rid ourselves of the spiritual yoke of strangers and again become ourselves. But never before have we copied the West so much as today while, on the contrary, at the time when the Western phraseology flourished among us we preserved our special character. A little while ago Europeans did not understand our young people at all, and the speeches of Dostoevsky and Tolstoy upset them. Today our youth is Europeanized, and Tolstoy and Dostoevsky have had to give way to the ideologues of the real - just as in Europe. They are still a little embarrassed among us to be Europeans and continue to employ a few old words, but this will not last long. Soon they will speak with that cynical frankness which is proper to mature men who accept only what they see with their own eyes and scorn all dreams.

     I have deliberately chosen, to begin with, a very simple, understandable example of transformation. Under our eyes men have rid themselves of the old truths and substituted new ones. And they have done this very calmly, as if the old truths had never been truths at all but only seemed such, as if no one had ever sworn eternal fidelity to them, while the new truths are established for the first time and forever, in saecula saeculorum. In twenty or twenty-five years the new eternal truths will certainly undergo the same fate as those that preceded them. They will be thrown into the ditch with the refuse and yield their place and their predicates of eternity and immutability to other, still newer truths.

     I believe that this eternal truth must be repeated as often as possible, for it is extremely difficult to assimilate. Human "nature" protests against it with all its powers and "ever since the world has existed" has driven it far from itself. For if one accepts it, we are told, he must admit that there is a place where all differences between good and evil, truth and error, justice and injustice, fade completely away. No one could any longer say of himself that he is right, that he is good, that he has the truth.

     We must, however, remark that though men have been afraid to make this admission, they have always more or less obstinately persecuted those who have reflected, be it ever so little, on the first and last things - de novissimis. Has not mankind accepted the parable of the prodigal son and of the Pharisee and the publican? It heard the words "Judge not!" and was obliged to accept them. But how can a man who is just and good, a man who knows the truth - a man such as the Pharisee was - not judge? Was not the publican a wicked man, knowing neither virtue nor truth? How can I not thank God for not being like the publican? One can refrain from rejoicing in his wealth, his success, the homage that he receives, but would not to refrain from rejoicing in one's virtue be a grievous sin? To admit that the publican is better than we or in any case not worse would be equivalent to renouncing truth, goodness, and that righteousness which is inseparably bound to truth and goodness. Is it possible to admit this? Is it possible to admit that a father rejoices more on the return of his prodigal son who had abandoned him than over his faithful son who had never left him? If we accept this, do we not renounce goodness and truth?

     For a long time now mankind has found itself before this difficult dilemma. It seems to have tried over and over again to resolve it anew, but it always returns finally to the Socratic method. Whenever men have had to choose between the inconceivable truth of revelation and the "understandable" affirmations of Greek wisdom, they have always - not without hesitation, to be sure - inclined toward the latter. Whatever European mankind may have said about faith, whatever the passionate efforts it has made to attain faith, it has never been able to conquer its innate unbelief. It spoke of faith, but it sought knowledge and understanding.

     Philo, who first tried to make Western man participate in the revelation that arose in the East, felt quite rightly that there was only one means of drawing the Greco-Roman world to the truth of the Bible: to prove that this truth was in perfect agreement with the doctrines of Greek wisdom. He knew that the Europeans would not believe in God Himself so long as He had not given them sufficient proofs of His divine rights. And Philo was the first to insist on the rationality of Biblical doctrine. The logos of Greek philosophy, its eternal reason, is already completely contained in the revelation given to the Jewish people on Mount Sinai. God is rational, the essence of God is reason: it was on this condition that the success of the new religion rested. The Greco-Roman world expected from revelation not a new previously unheard-of truth but a new, authoritative, indisputable confirmation of the truth already known to it. On Mount Sinai, said Philo to the pagans, God proclaimed the same truth that your famous wise men - Socrates, Plato, Aristotle - glorified as the only rational truth. This, apparently, was the only way to bring the Bible to Europe.

     Later it became necessary to say that philosophy is the handmaid of theology - ancilla theologiae. And people sincerely believed this. But, in fact, it was just the opposite that happened. Europe accepted the theology of the East on the express condition that the latter forever subordinate itself to the philosophy that had been created long before in Europe. It is no accident that Aristotle was called praecursor Christi in naturalibus (the precursor of Christ among the philosophers, aided only by natural reason [i.e., lacking the gift of faith]) and was and still is considered by Catholics as the philosopher kat'eksochên (supreme [pre-eminent]). Catholicism could not and would not be content with simply believing. It was always afraid to take the wrong road, to believe in him whom it ought not to believe and not to believe in the way necessary. Before believing, it asked cui est credendum - who is to be believed? But of whom did it ask? Who will take upon himself so terrible a burden of responsibility, who will answer so fearful a question?

     The Orient, the fatherland of religions, did not offer the Bible only. How is one to decide, and who shall decide, what books of the Orient contain the true revelation? Philo's solution appeared extremely tempting: revelation must not contradict the reason of the Greeks, the logos. Naturally, this solution had a fateful influence on the further development of Catholicism. In reality, the Bible - the New Testament as well as the Old - did not at all comply with the demands reason imposes on truth. In these mysterious books the principle of contradiction, the first condition for the truth of any statement, is completely ignored. Even more, one can say that Greek philosophy, by its very nature, excluded the possibility of the revelation of the Old and New Testaments. In Plato and Aristotle we read that philosophy was born out of wonder - dia to thaumadzein - and many wished to see in this statement at least a hint of the admissibility of revelation. But this is hardly correct. Plato's and Aristotle's wonder is only curiosity, nothing more. But all curiosity is only the consequence of a certain rupture of the mind's equilibrium and is always accompanied by the desire to restore this equilibrium. Plato raises the questions in order to obtain answers. And he obtains what he needs. Hence his motto: mêdeis ageômetrêtos eisitô [let no one lacking knowledge of geometry enter here] - geometry must precede philosophy. This is the fundamental thought of the Greek wisdom, which is considered sacred by all philosophers without exception to the present day. Philosophy must be a rigorous science; it must explain everything, without leaving the least residue. And theology, in this respect, never would nor could remain behind philosophy. The Vatican Council corroborated in modern times the idea that faith cannot be contrary to reason, that it must be in accord with reason: verum et si fides sit supra rationem, nulla tamen unquam inter fidem et rationem vera dissensio esse potest: cum idem Deus, qui mysteria revelat et fidem infundit, animo humano rationis lumen indiderit, Deus autem negare se ipsum non possit nec verum vero unquam contradicere [but even if faith be above reason, there still can never be any real disagreement between faith and reason, since the same God who reveals mysteries and infuses faith has endowed the human soul with the light of reason. God, however, cannot negate himself, nor can truth ever contradict truth] (Cap. IV, de fide et ratione). European man chose, out of the different doctrines which came to him from the Orient, that which could meet his needs and his habits of mind, and he accepted it only after having first made it undergo a certain reworking corresponding to these needs and habits.

     It is in this finally that the Hellenization of Catholicism, of which modern Protestant theologians speak so much, consists. Needing to choose between the faith coming from the Orient and the reason it had itself cultivated, Europe could not long hesitate. If it accepted this faith, this was only after having first subjected it to the most severe testing. And it is natural that reason continued to dominate minds during the entire evolution of Catholicism. The latest Protestant scholars - the liberal theologians - imagine that they are less Hellenized than the monks of the Middle Ages. But this is only one of those exalted illusions with which our time, like all other eras, loves to deck itself out. Harnack, Loofs and Troeltsch, and the French modernists who are so close to the liberal German theology, are all permeated with Hellenism, and to such a degree that they have become incapable of distinguishing between Hellenism and their own human essence. It seems to them that "to be oneself" is equivalent to being a Greek. And whatever the truth that appears to them and no matter how attractive it may be, they will push it away if it offends even only slightly their second, Hellenized nature. They expect the truth to bless what they are accustomed to, what they love. And if a truth does not correspond to their hopes, they reject it and sincerely consider it a lie.

     Harnack confidently declares in his Dogmengeschichte that mankind had to labor two thousand years to attain that conception of God which liberal Protestant theology has now accepted. It is in this that this faithful disciple of Hegel sees quite seriously "the meaning of history"! I repeat once more: one is loved not because one is lovable, but one is lovable because one is loved. We ourselves choose our truths - this is a general rule. In certain very exceptional cases we may observe that it is not we who choose the truths but the truths that choose us. These cases, however, are so rare, so exceptional, that no account is taken of them in the theory of knowledge. For the conditions of knowledge are conditions that always exist and are always unchangeable (in reality, that almost always exist and are almost always unchangeable, but we succeed very easily in ridding ourselves of this "almost"). If one wishes to follow rare exceptions, it is impossible to construct any theory.