The Project Gutenberg EBook of Pascal's Pensées, by Blaise Pascal

This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org


Title: Pascal's Pensées

Author: Blaise Pascal

Release Date: April 27, 2006 [EBook #18269]

Language: English

Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PASCAL'S PENSÉES ***




Produced by John Hagerson, LN Yaddanapudi, Juliet Sutherland
and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
http://www.pgdp.net









PASCAL'S PENSÉES


INTRODUCTION BY
T. S. ELIOT

_A Dutton Paperback_

New York
E. P. DUTTON & CO., INC.




_This paperback edition of "Pascal's Pensées" Published 1958 by E. P.
Dutton & Co., Inc. All rights reserved. Printed in the U.S.A._


SBN 0-525-47018-2




INTRODUCTION


It might seem that about Blaise Pascal, and about the two works on which
his fame is founded, everything that there is to say had been said. The
details of his life are as fully known as we can expect to know them;
his mathematical and physical discoveries have been treated many times;
his religious sentiment and his theological views have been discussed
again and again; and his prose style has been analysed by French critics
down to the finest particular. But Pascal is one of those writers who
will be and who must be studied afresh by men in every generation. It is
not he who changes, but we who change. It is not our knowledge of him
that increases, but our world that alters and our attitudes towards it.
The history of human opinions of Pascal and of men of his stature is a
part of the history of humanity. That indicates his permanent
importance.

The facts of Pascal's life, so far as they are necessary for this brief
introduction to the _Pensées_, are as follows. He was born at Clermont,
in Auvergne, in 1623. His family were people of substance of the upper
middle class. His father was a government official, who was able to
leave, when he died, a sufficient patrimony to his one son and his two
daughters. In 1631 the father moved to Paris, and a few years later took
up another government post at Rouen. Wherever he lived, the elder Pascal
seems to have mingled with some of the best society, and with men of
eminence in science and the arts. Blaise was educated entirely by his
father at home. He was exceedingly precocious, indeed excessively
precocious, for his application to studies in childhood and adolescence
impaired his health, and is held responsible for his death at
thirty-nine. Prodigious, though not incredible stories are preserved,
especially of his precocity in mathematics. His mind was active rather
than accumulative; he showed from his earliest years that disposition to
find things out for himself, which has characterised the infancy of
Clerk-Maxwell and other scientists. Of his later discoveries in physics
there is no need for mention here; it must only be remembered that he
counts as one of the greatest physicists and mathematicians of all time;
and that his discoveries were made during the years when most scientists
are still apprentices.

The elder Pascal, Étienne, was a sincere Christian. About 1646 he fell
in with some representatives of the religious revival within the Church
which has become known as Jansenism--after Jansenius, Bishop of Ypres,
whose theological work is taken as the origin of the movement. This
period is usually spoken of as the moment of Pascal's "first
conversion." The word "conversion," however, is too forcible to be
applied at this point to Blaise Pascal himself. The family had always
been devout, and the younger Pascal, though absorbed in his scientific
work, never seems to have been afflicted with infidelity. His attention
was then directed, certainly, to religious and theological matters; but
the term "conversion" can only be applied to his sisters--the elder,
already Madame Périer, and particularly the younger, Jacqueline, who at
that time conceived a vocation for the religious life. Pascal himself
was by no means disposed to renounce the world. After the death of the
father in 1650 Jacqueline, a young woman of remarkable strength and
beauty of character, wished to take her vows as a sister of Port-Royal,
and for some time her wish remained unfulfilled owing to the opposition
of her brother. His objection was on the purely worldly ground that she
wished to make over her patrimony to the Order; whereas while she lived
with him, their combined resources made it possible for him to live more
nearly on a scale of expense congenial to his tastes. He liked, in fact,
not only to mix with the best society, but to keep a coach and
horses--six horses is the number at one time attributed to his carriage.
Though he had no legal power to prevent his sister from disposing of her
property as she elected, the amiable Jacqueline shrank from doing so
without her brother's willing approval. The Mother Superior, Mère
Angélique--herself an eminent personage in the history of this religious
movement--finally persuaded the young novice to enter the order without
the satisfaction of bringing her patrimony with her; but Jacqueline
remained so distressed by this situation that her brother finally
relented.

So far as is known, the worldly life enjoyed by Pascal during this
period can hardly be qualified as "dissipation," and certainly not as
"debauchery." Even gambling may have appealed to him chiefly as
affording a study of mathematical probabilities. He appears to have led
such a life as any cultivated intellectual man of good position and
independent means might lead and consider himself a model of probity and
virtue. Not even a love-affair is laid at his door, though he is said to
have contemplated marriage. But Jansenism, as represented by the
religious society of Port-Royal, was morally a Puritan movement within
the Church, and its standards of conduct were at least as severe as
those of any Puritanism in England or America. The period of fashionable
society, in Pascal's life, is however, of great importance in his
development. It enlarged his knowledge of men and refined his tastes; he
became a man of the world and never lost what he had learnt; and when he
turned his thoughts wholly towards religion, his worldly knowledge was a
part of his composition which is essential to the value of his work.

Pascal's interest in society did not distract him from scientific
research; nor did this period occupy much space in what is a very short
and crowded life. Partly his natural dissatisfaction with such a life,
once he had learned all it had to teach him, partly the influence of his
saintly sister Jacqueline, partly increasing suffering as his health
declined, directed him more and more out of the world and to thoughts of
eternity. And in 1654 occurs what is called his "second conversion," but
which might be called his conversion simply.

He made a note of his mystical experience, which he kept always about
him, and which was found, after his death, sewn into the coat which he
was wearing. The experience occurred on 23 November, 1654, and there is
no reason to doubt its genuineness unless we choose to deny all mystical
experience. Now, Pascal was not a mystic, and his works are not to be
classified amongst mystical writings; but what can only be called
mystical experience happens to many men who do not become mystics. The
work which he undertook soon after, the _Lettres écrites à un
provincial_, is a masterpiece of religious controversy at the opposite
pole from mysticism. We know quite well that he was at the time when he
received his illumination from God in extremely poor health; but it is a
commonplace that some forms of illness are extremely favourable, not
only to religious illumination, but to artistic and literary
composition. A piece of writing meditated, apparently without progress,
for months or years, may suddenly take shape and word; and in this state
long passages may be produced which require little or no retouch. I have
no good word to say for the cultivation of automatic writing as the
model of literary composition; I doubt whether these moments _can_ be
cultivated by the writer; but he to whom this happens assuredly has the
sensation of being a vehicle rather than a maker. No masterpiece can be
produced whole by such means; but neither does even the higher form of
religious inspiration suffice for the religious life; even the most
exalted mystic must return to the world, and use his reason to employ
the results of his experience in daily life. You may call it communion
with the Divine, or you may call it a temporary crystallisation of the
mind. Until science can teach us to reproduce such phenomena at will,
science cannot claim to have explained them; and they can be judged only
by their fruits.

From that time until his death, Pascal was closely associated with the
society of Port-Royal which his sister Jacqueline, who predeceased him,
had joined as a _religieuse_; the society was then fighting for its life
against the Jesuits. Five propositions, judged by a committee of
cardinals and theologians at Rome to be heretical, were found to be put
forward in the work of Jansenius; and the society of Port-Royal, the
representative of Jansenism among devotional communities, suffered a
blow from which it never revived. It is not the place here to review the
bitter controversy and conflict; the best account, from the point of
view of a critic of genius who took no side, who was neither Jansenist
nor Jesuit, Christian nor infidel, is that in the great book of
Sainte-Beuve, _Port-Royal_. And in this book the parts devoted to Pascal
himself are among the most brilliant pages of criticism that
Sainte-Beuve ever wrote. It is sufficient to notice that the next
occupation of Pascal, after his conversion, was to write these eighteen
"Letters," which as prose are of capital importance in the foundation of
French classical style, and which as polemic are surpassed by none, not
by Demosthenes, or Cicero, or Swift. They have the limitation of all
polemic and forensic: they persuade, they seduce, they are unfair. But
it is also unfair to assert that, in these _Letters to a Provincial_,
Pascal was attacking the Society of Jesus in itself. He was attacking
rather a particular school of casuistry which relaxed the requirements
of the Confessional; a school which certainly flourished amongst the
Society of Jesus at that time, and of which the Spaniards Escobar and
Molina are the most eminent authorities. He undoubtedly abused the art
of quotation, as a polemical writer can hardly help but do; but there
were abuses for him to abuse; and he did the job thoroughly. His
_Letters_ must not be called theology. Academic theology was not a
department in which Pascal was versed; when necessary, the fathers of
Port-Royal came to his aid. The _Letters_ are the work of one of the
finest mathematical minds of any time, and of a man of the world who
addressed, not theologians, but the world in general--all of the
cultivated and many of the less cultivated of the French laity; and with
this public they made an astonishing success.

During this time Pascal never wholly abandoned his scientific interests.
Though in his religious writings he composed slowly and painfully, and
revised often, in matters of mathematics his mind seemed to move with
consummate natural ease and grace. Discoveries and inventions sprang
from his brain without effort; among the minor devices of this later
period, the first omnibus service in Paris is said to owe its origin to
his inventiveness. But rapidly failing health, and absorption in the
great work he had in mind, left him little time and energy during the
last two years of his life.

The plan of what we call the _Pensées_ formed itself about 1660. The
completed book was to have been a carefully constructed defence of
Christianity, a true Apology and a kind of Grammar of Assent, setting
forth the reasons which will convince the intellect. As I have indicated
before, Pascal was not a theologian, and on dogmatic theology had
recourse to his spiritual advisers. Nor was he indeed a systematic
philosopher. He was a man with an immense genius for science, and at the
same time a natural psychologist and moralist. As he was a great
literary artist, his book would have been also his own spiritual
autobiography; his style, free from all diminishing idiosyncrasies, was
yet very personal. Above all, he was a man of strong passions; and his
intellectual passion for truth was reinforced by his passionate
dissatisfaction with human life unless a spiritual explanation could be
found.

We must regard the _Pensées_ as merely the first notes for a work which
he left far from completion; we have, in Sainte-Beuve's words, a tower
of which the stones have been laid on each other, but not cemented, and
the structure unfinished. In early years his memory had been amazingly
retentive of anything that he wished to remember; and had it not been
impaired by increasing illness and pain, he probably would not have been
obliged to set down these notes at all. But taking the book as it is
left to us, we still find that it occupies a unique place in the history
of French literature and in the history of religious meditation.

To understand the method which Pascal employs, the reader must be
prepared to follow the process of the mind of the intelligent believer.
The Christian thinker--and I mean the man who is trying consciously and
conscientiously to explain to himself the sequence which culminated in
faith, rather than the public apologist--proceeds by rejection and
elimination. He finds the world to be so and so; he finds its character
inexplicable by any non-religious theory; among religions he finds
Christianity, and Catholic Christianity, to account most satisfactorily
for the world and especially for the moral world within; and thus, by
what Newman calls "powerful and concurrent" reasons, he finds himself
inexorably committed to the dogma of the Incarnation. To the unbeliever,
this method seems disingenuous and perverse; for the unbeliever is, as a
rule, not so greatly troubled to explain the world to himself, nor so
greatly distressed by its disorder; nor is he generally concerned (in
modern terms) to "preserve values." He does not consider that if certain
emotional states, certain developments of character, and what in the
highest sense can be called "saintliness" are inherently and by
inspection known to be good, then the satisfactory explanation of the
world must be an explanation which will admit the "reality" of these
values. Nor does he consider such reasoning admissible; he would, so to
speak, trim his values according to his cloth, because to him such
values are of no great value. The unbeliever starts from the other end,
and as likely as not with the question: Is a case of human
parthenogenesis credible? and this he would call going straight to the
heart of the matter. Now Pascal's method is, on the whole, the method
natural and right for the Christian; and the opposite method is that
taken by Voltaire. It is worth while to remember that Voltaire, in his
attempt to refute Pascal, has given once and for all the type of such
refutation; and that later opponents of Pascal's Apology for the
Christian Faith have contributed little beyond psychological
irrelevancies. For Voltaire has presented, better than any one since,
what is the unbelieving point of view; and in the end we must all choose
for ourselves between one point of view and another.

I have said above that Pascal's method is "on the whole" that of the
typical Christian apologist; and this reservation was directed at
Pascal's belief in miracles, which plays a larger part in his
construction than it would in that, at least, of the modern liberal
Catholic. It would seem fantastic to accept Christianity because we
first believe the Gospel miracles to be true, and it would seem impious
to accept it primarily because we believe more recent miracles to be
true; we accept the miracles, or some miracles, to be true because we
believe the Gospel of Jesus Christ: we found our belief in the miracles
on the Gospel, not our belief in the Gospel on the miracles. But it must
be remembered that Pascal had been deeply impressed by a contemporary
miracle, known as the miracle of the Holy Thorn: a thorn reputed to have
been preserved from the Crown of Our Lord was pressed upon an ulcer
which quickly healed. Sainte-Beuve, who as a medical man felt himself on
solid ground, discusses fully the possible explanation of this apparent
miracle. It is true that the miracle happened at Port-Royal, and that it
arrived opportunely to revive the depressed spirits of the community in
its political afflictions; and it is likely that Pascal was the more
inclined to believe a miracle which was performed upon his beloved
sister. In any case, it probably led him to assign a place to miracles,
in his study of faith, which is not quite that which we should give to
them ourselves.

Now the great adversary against whom Pascal set himself, from the time
of his first conversations with M. de Saci at Port-Royal, was Montaigne.
One cannot destroy Pascal, certainly; but of all authors Montaigne is
one of the least destructible. You could as well dissipate a fog by
flinging hand-grenades into it. For Montaigne is a fog, a gas, a fluid,
insidious element. He does not reason, he insinuates, charms, and
influences; or if he reasons, you must be prepared for his having some
other design upon you than to convince you by his argument. It is
hardly too much to say that Montaigne is the most essential author to
know, if we would understand the course of French thought during the
last three hundred years. In every way, the influence of Montaigne was
repugnant to the men of Port-Royal. Pascal studied him with the
intention of demolishing him. Yet, in the _Pensées_, at the very end of
his life, we find passage after passage, and the slighter they are the
more significant, almost "lifted" out of Montaigne, down to a figure of
speech or a word. The parallels[A] are most often with the long essay of
Montaigne called _Apologie de Raymond Sébond_--an astonishing piece of
writing upon which Shakespeare also probably drew in _Hamlet_. Indeed,
by the time a man knew Montaigne well enough to attack him, he would
already be thoroughly infected by him.

    [A] Cf. the use of the simile of the _couvreur_. For comparing
    parallel passages, the edition of the _Pensées_ by Henri Massis (_A
    la cité des livres_) is better than the two-volume edition of
    Jacques Chevalier (Gabalda). It seems just possible that in the
    latter edition, and also in his biographical study (_Pascal_; by
    Jacques Chevalier, English translation, published by Sheed & Ward),
    M. Chevalier is a little over-zealous to demonstrate the perfect
    orthodoxy of Pascal.

It would, however, be grossly unfair to Pascal, to Montaigne, and indeed
to French literature, to leave the matter at that. It is no diminution
of Pascal, but only an aggrandisement of Montaigne. Had Montaigne been
an ordinary life-sized sceptic, a small man like Anatole France, or even
a greater man like Renan, or even like the greatest sceptic of all,
Voltaire, this "influence" would be to the discredit of Pascal; but if
Montaigne had been no more than Voltaire, he could not have affected
Pascal at all. The picture of Montaigne which offers itself first to our
eyes, that of the original and independent solitary "personality,"
absorbed in amused analysis of himself, is deceptive. Montaigne's is no
_limited_ Pyrrhonism, like that of Voltaire, Renan, or France. He
exists, so to speak, on a plan of numerous concentric circles, the most
apparent of which is the small inmost circle, a personal puckish
scepticism which can be easily aped if not imitated. But what makes
Montaigne a very great figure is that he succeeded, God knows how--for
Montaigne very likely did not know that he had done it--it is not the
sort of thing that men _can_ observe about themselves, for it is
essentially bigger than the individual's consciousness--he succeeded in
giving expression to the scepticism of _every_ human being. For every
man who thinks and lives by thought must have his own scepticism, that
which stops at the question, that which ends in denial, or that which
leads to faith and which is somehow integrated into the faith which
transcends it. And Pascal, as the type of one kind of religious
believer, which is highly passionate and ardent, but passionate only
through a powerful and regulated intellect, is in the first sections of
his unfinished Apology for Christianity facing unflinchingly the demon
of doubt which is inseparable from the spirit of belief.

There is accordingly something quite different from an influence which
would prove Pascal's weakness; there is a real affinity between his
doubt and that of Montaigne; and through the common kinship with
Montaigne Pascal is related to the noble and distinguished line of
French moralists, from La Rochefoucauld down. In the honesty with which
they face the _données_ of the actual world this French tradition has a
unique quality in European literature, and in the seventeenth century
Hobbes is crude and uncivilised in comparison.

Pascal is a man of the world among ascetics, and an ascetic among men of
the world; he had the knowledge of worldliness and the passion of
asceticism, and in him the two are fused into an individual whole. The
majority of mankind is lazy-minded, incurious, absorbed in vanities, and
tepid in emotion, and is therefore incapable of either much doubt or
much faith; and when the ordinary man calls himself a sceptic or an
unbeliever, that is ordinarily a simple pose, cloaking a disinclination
to think anything out to a conclusion. Pascal's disillusioned analysis
of human bondage is sometimes interpreted to mean that Pascal was really
and finally an unbeliever, who, in his despair, was incapable of
enduring reality and enjoying the heroic satisfaction of the free man's
worship of nothing. His despair, his disillusion, are, however, no
illustration of personal weakness; they are perfectly objective, because
they are essential moments in the progress of the intellectual soul; and
for the type of Pascal they are the analogue of the drought, the dark
night, which is an essential stage in the progress of the Christian
mystic. A similar despair, when it is arrived at by a diseased character
or an impure soul, may issue in the most disastrous consequences though
with the most superb manifestations; and thus we get _Gulliver's
Travels_; but in Pascal we find no such distortion; his despair is in
itself more terrible than Swift's, because our heart tells us that it
corresponds exactly to the facts and cannot be dismissed as mental
disease; but it was also a despair which was a necessary prelude to, and
element in, the joy of faith.

I do not wish to enter any further than necessary upon the question of
the heterodoxy of Jansenism; and it is no concern of this essay, whether
the Five Propositions condemned at Rome were really maintained by
Jansenius in his book _Augustinus_; or whether we should deplore or
approve the consequent decay (indeed with some persecution) of
Port-Royal. It is impossible to discuss the matter without becoming
involved as a controversialist either for or against Rome. But in a man
of the type of Pascal--and the type always exists--there is, I think, an
ingredient of what may be called Jansenism of temperament, without
identifying it with the Jansenism of Jansenius and of other devout and
sincere, but not immensely gifted doctors.[B] It is accordingly needful
to state in brief what the dangerous doctrine of Jansenius was, without
advancing too far into theological refinements. It is recognised in
Christian theology--and indeed on a lower plane it is recognised by all
men in affairs of daily life--that freewill or the natural effort and
ability of the individual man, and also supernatural _grace_, a gift
accorded we know not quite how, are both required, in co-operation, for
salvation. Though numerous theologians have set their wits at the
problem, it ends in a mystery which we can perceive but not finally
decipher. At least, it is obvious that, like any doctrine, a slight
excess or deviation to one side or the other will precipitate a heresy.
The Pelagians, who were refuted by St. Augustine, emphasised the
efficacy of human effort and belittled the importance of supernatural
grace. The Calvinists emphasised the degradation of man through Original
Sin, and considered mankind so corrupt that the will was of no avail;
and thus fell into the doctrine of predestination. It was upon the
doctrine of grace according to St. Augustine that the Jansenists relied;
and the _Augustinus_ of Jansenius was presented as a sound exposition of
the Augustinian views.

    [B] The great man of Port-Royal was of course Saint-Cyran, but any
    one who is interested will certainly consult, first of all, the book
    of Sainte-Beuve mentioned.

Such heresies are never antiquated, because they forever assume new
forms. For instance, the insistence upon good works and "service" which
is preached from many quarters, or the simple faith that any one who
lives a good and useful life need have no "morbid" anxieties about
salvation, is a form of Pelagianism. On the other hand, one sometimes
hears enounced the view that it will make no real difference if all the
traditional religious sanctions for moral behaviour break down, because
those who are born and bred to be nice people will always prefer to
behave nicely, and those who are not will behave otherwise in any case:
and this is surely a form of predestination--for the hazard of being
born a nice person or not is as uncertain as the gift of grace.

It is likely that Pascal was attracted as much by the fruits of
Jansenism in the life of Port-Royal as by the doctrine itself. This
devout, ascetic, thoroughgoing society, striving heroically in the midst
of a relaxed and easy-going Christianity, was formed to attract a nature
so concentrated, so passionate, and so thoroughgoing as Pascal's. But
the insistence upon the degraded and helpless state of man, in
Jansenism, is something also to which we must be grateful, for to it we
owe the magnificent analysis of human motives and occupations which was
to have constituted the early part of his book. And apart from the
Jansenism which is the work of a not very eminent bishop who wrote a
Latin treatise which is now unread, there is also, so to speak, a
Jansenism of the individual biography. A moment of Jansenism may
naturally take place, and take place rightly, in the individual;
particularly in the life of a man of great and intense intellectual
powers, who cannot avoid seeing through human beings and observing the
vanity of their thoughts and of their avocations, their dishonesty and
self-deceptions, the insincerity of their emotions, their cowardice, the
pettiness of their real ambitions. Actually, considering that Pascal
died at the age of thirty-nine, one must be amazed at the balance and
justice of his observations; much greater maturity is required for these
qualities, than for any mathematical or scientific greatness. How easily
his brooding on _the misery of man without God_ might have encouraged in
him the sin of spiritual pride, the _concupiscence de l'esprit_, and how
fast a hold he has of humility!

And although Pascal brings to his work the same powers which he exerted
in science, it is not as a scientist that he presents himself. He does
not seem to say to the reader: I am one of the most distinguished
scientists of the day; I understand many matters which will always be
mysteries to you, and through science I have come to the Faith; you
therefore who are not initiated into science ought to have faith if I
have it. He is fully aware of the difference of subject-matter; and his
famous distinction between the _esprit de géométrie_ and the _esprit de
finesse_ is one to ponder over. It is the just combination of the
scientist, the _honnête homme_, and the religious nature with a
passionate craving for God, that makes Pascal unique. He succeeds where
Descartes fails; for in Descartes the element of _esprit de géométrie_
is excessive.[C] And in a few phrases about Descartes, in the present
book, Pascal laid his finger on the place of weakness.

    [C] For a brilliant criticism of the errors of Descartes from a
    theological point of view the reader is referred to _Three
    Reformers_ by Jacques Maritain (translation published by Sheed &
    Ward).

He who reads this book will observe at once its fragmentary nature; but
only after some study will perceive that the fragmentariness lies in the
expression more than in the thought. The "thoughts" cannot be detached
from each other and quoted as if each were complete in itself. _Le coeur
a ses raisons que la raison ne connaît point_: how often one has heard
that quoted, and quoted often to the wrong purpose! For this is by no
means an exaltation of the "heart" over the "head," a defence of
unreason. The heart, in Pascal's terminology, is itself truly rational
if it is truly the heart. For him, in theological matters, which seemed
to him much larger, more difficult, and more important than scientific
matters, the whole personality is involved.

We cannot quite understand any of the parts, fragmentary as they are,
without some understanding of the whole. Capital, for instance, is his
analysis of the _three orders_: the order of nature, the order of mind,
and the order of charity. These three are _discontinuous_; the higher is
not implicit in the lower as in an evolutionary doctrine it would be.[D]
In this distinction Pascal offers much about which the modern world
would do well to think. And indeed, because of his unique combination
and balance of qualities, I know of no religious writer more pertinent
to our time. The great mystics like St. John of the Cross, are
primarily for readers with a special determination of purpose; the
devotional writers, such as St. François de Sales, are primarily for
those who already feel consciously desirous of the love of God; the
great theologians are for those interested in theology. But I can think
of no Christian writer, not Newman even, more to be commended than
Pascal to those who doubt, but who have the mind to conceive, and the
sensibility to feel, the disorder, the futility, the meaninglessness,
the mystery of life and suffering, and who can only find peace through a
satisfaction of the whole being.

    [D] An important modern theory of discontinuity, suggested partly by
    Pascal, is sketched in the collected fragments of _Speculations_ by
    T. E. Hulme (Kegan Paul).

T. S. ELIOT.




CONTENTS


                                                     Page
         INTRODUCTION By T. S. Eliot                 vii
SECTION
I.       THOUGHTS ON MIND AND ON STYLE                 1
II.      THE MISERY OF MAN WITHOUT GOD                14
III.     OF THE NECESSITY OF THE WAGER                52
IV.      OF THE MEANS OF BELIEF                       71
V.       JUSTICE AND THE REASON OF EFFECTS            83
VI.      THE PHILOSOPHERS                             96
VII.     MORALITY AND DOCTRINE                       113
VIII.    THE FUNDAMENTALS OF THE CHRISTIAN RELIGION  152
IX.      PERPETUITY                                  163
X.       TYPOLOGY                                    181
XI.      THE PROPHECIES                              198
XII.     PROOFS OF JESUS CHRIST                      222
XIII.    THE MIRACLES                                238
XIV.     APPENDIX: POLEMICAL FRAGMENTS               257
         NOTES                                       273
         INDEX                                       289

       *       *       *       *       *


NOTE

_Passages_ erased by Pascal are enclosed in square brackets, thus [].
_Words_, added or corrected by the editor of the text, are similarly
denoted, but are in italics.

It has been seen fit to transfer Fragment 514 of the French edition to
the Notes. All subsequent Fragments have accordingly been renumbered.




SECTION I

THOUGHTS ON MIND AND ON STYLE


1


_The difference between the mathematical and the intuitive mind._[1]--In
the one the principles are palpable, but removed from ordinary use; so
that for want of habit it is difficult to turn one's mind in that
direction: but if one turns it thither ever so little, one sees the
principles fully, and one must have a quite inaccurate mind who reasons
wrongly from principles so plain that it is almost impossible they
should escape notice.

But in the intuitive mind the principles are found in common use, and
are before the eyes of everybody. One has only to look, and no effort is
necessary; it is only a question of good eyesight, but it must be good,
for the principles are so subtle and so numerous, that it is almost
impossible but that some escape notice. Now the omission of one
principle leads to error; thus one must have very clear sight to see all
the principles, and in the next place an accurate mind not to draw false
deductions from known principles.

All mathematicians would then be intuitive if they had clear sight, for
they do not reason incorrectly from principles known to them; and
intuitive minds would be mathematical if they could turn their eyes to
the principles of mathematics to which they are unused.

The reason, therefore, that some intuitive minds are not mathematical is
that they cannot at all turn their attention to the principles of
mathematics. But the reason that mathematicians are not intuitive is
that they do not see what is before them, and that, accustomed to the
exact and plain principles of mathematics, and not reasoning till they
have well inspected and arranged their principles, they are lost in
matters of intuition where the principles do not allow of such
arrangement. They are scarcely seen; they are felt rather than seen;
there is the greatest difficulty in making them felt by those who do
not of themselves perceive them. These principles are so fine and so
numerous that a very delicate and very clear sense is needed to perceive
them, and to judge rightly and justly when they are perceived, without
for the most part being able to demonstrate them in order as in
mathematics; because the principles are not known to us in the same way,
and because it would be an endless matter to undertake it. We must see
the matter at once, at one glance, and not by a process of reasoning, at
least to a certain degree. And thus it is rare that mathematicians are
intuitive, and that men of intuition are mathematicians, because
mathematicians wish to treat matters of intuition mathematically, and
make themselves ridiculous, wishing to begin with definitions and then
with axioms, which is not the way to proceed in this kind of reasoning.
Not that the mind does not do so, but it does it tacitly, naturally, and
without technical rules; for the expression of it is beyond all men, and
only a few can feel it.

Intuitive minds, on the contrary, being thus accustomed to judge at a
single glance, are so astonished when they are presented with
propositions of which they understand nothing, and the way to which is
through definitions and axioms so sterile, and which they are not
accustomed to see thus in detail, that they are repelled and
disheartened.

But dull minds are never either intuitive or mathematical.

Mathematicians who are only mathematicians have exact minds, provided
all things are explained to them by means of definitions and axioms;
otherwise they are inaccurate and insufferable, for they are only right
when the principles are quite clear.

And men of intuition who are only intuitive cannot have the patience to
reach to first principles of things speculative and conceptual, which
they have never seen in the world, and which are altogether out of the
common.


2

There are different kinds of right understanding;[2] some have right
understanding in a certain order of things, and not in others, where
they go astray. Some draw conclusions well from a few premises, and this
displays an acute judgment.

Others draw conclusions well where there are many premises.

For example, the former easily learn hydrostatics, where the premises
are few, but the conclusions are so fine that only the greatest
acuteness can reach them.

And in spite of that these persons would perhaps not be great
mathematicians, because mathematics contain a great number of premises,
and there is perhaps a kind of intellect that can search with ease a few
premises to the bottom, and cannot in the least penetrate those matters
in which there are many premises.

There are then two kinds of intellect: the one able to penetrate acutely
and deeply into the conclusions of given premises, and this is the
precise intellect; the other able to comprehend a great number of
premises without confusing them, and this is the mathematical intellect.
The one has force and exactness, the other comprehension. Now the one
quality can exist without the other; the intellect can be strong and
narrow, and can also be comprehensive and weak.


3

Those who are accustomed to judge by feeling do not understand the
process of reasoning, for they would understand at first sight, and are
not used to seek for principles. And others, on the contrary, who are
accustomed to reason from principles, do not at all understand matters
of feeling, seeking principles, and being unable to see at a glance.


4

_Mathematics, intuition._--True eloquence makes light of eloquence, true
morality makes light of morality; that is to say, the morality of the
judgment, which has no rules, makes light of the morality of the
intellect.

For it is to judgment that perception belongs, as science belongs to
intellect. Intuition is the part of judgment, mathematics of intellect.

To make light of philosophy is to be a true philosopher.


5

Those who judge of a work by rule[3] are in regard to others as those
who have a watch are in regard to others. One says, "It is two hours
ago"; the other says, "It is only three-quarters of an hour." I look at
my watch, and say to the one, "You are weary," and to the other, "Time
gallops with you"; for it is only an hour and a half ago, and I laugh
at those who tell me that time goes slowly with me, and that I judge by
imagination. They do not know that I judge by my watch.[4]


6

Just as we harm the understanding, we harm the feelings also.

The understanding and the feelings are moulded by intercourse; the
understanding and feelings are corrupted by intercourse. Thus good or
bad society improves or corrupts them. It is, then, all-important to
know how to choose in order to improve and not to corrupt them; and we
cannot make this choice, if they be not already improved and not
corrupted. Thus a circle is formed, and those are fortunate who escape
it.


7

The greater intellect one has, the more originality one finds in men.
Ordinary persons find no difference between men.


8

There are many people who listen to a sermon in the same way as they
listen to vespers.


9

When we wish to correct with advantage, and to show another that he
errs, we must notice from what side he views the matter, for on that
side it is usually true, and admit that truth to him, but reveal to him
the side on which it is false. He is satisfied with that, for he sees
that he was not mistaken, and that he only failed to see all sides. Now,
no one is offended at not seeing everything; but one does not like to be
mistaken, and that perhaps arises from the fact that man naturally
cannot see everything, and that naturally he cannot err in the side he
looks at, since the perceptions of our senses are always true.


10

People are generally better persuaded by the reasons which they have
themselves discovered than by those which have come into the mind of
others.


11

All great amusements are dangerous to the Christian life; but among all
those which the world has invented there is none more to be feared than
the theatre. It is a representation of the passions so natural and so
delicate that it excites them and gives birth to them in our hearts,
and, above all, to that of love, principally when it is represented as
very chaste and virtuous. For the more innocent it appears to innocent
souls, the more they are likely to be touched by it. Its violence
pleases our self-love, which immediately forms a desire to produce the
same effects which are seen so well represented; and, at the same time,
we make ourselves a conscience founded on the propriety of the feelings
which we see there, by which the fear of pure souls is removed, since
they imagine that it cannot hurt their purity to love with a love which
seems to them so reasonable.

So we depart from the theatre with our heart so filled with all the
beauty and tenderness of love, the soul and the mind so persuaded of its
innocence, that we are quite ready to receive its first impressions, or
rather to seek an opportunity of awakening them in the heart of another,
in order that we may receive the same pleasures and the same sacrifices
which we have seen so well represented in the theatre.


12

Scaramouch,[5] who only thinks of one thing.

The doctor,[6] who speaks for a quarter of an hour after he has said
everything, so full is he of the desire of talking.


13

One likes to see the error, the passion of Cleobuline,[7] because she is
unconscious of it. She would be displeasing, if she were not deceived.


14

When a natural discourse paints a passion or an effect, one feels within
oneself the truth of what one reads, which was there before, although
one did not know it. Hence one is inclined to love him who makes us feel
it, for he has not shown us his own riches, but ours. And thus this
benefit renders him pleasing to us, besides that such community of
intellect as we have with him necessarily inclines the heart to love.


15

Eloquence, which persuades by sweetness, not by authority; as a tyrant,
not as a king.


16

Eloquence is an art of saying things in such a way--(1) that those to
whom we speak may listen to them without pain and with pleasure; (2)
that they feel themselves interested, so that self-love leads them more
willingly to reflection upon it.

It consists, then, in a correspondence which we seek to establish
between the head and the heart of those to whom we speak on the one
hand, and, on the other, between the thoughts and the expressions which
we employ. This assumes that we have studied well the heart of man so as
to know all its powers, and then to find the just proportions of the
discourse which we wish to adapt to them. We must put ourselves in the
place of those who are to hear us, and make trial on our own heart of
the turn which we give to our discourse in order to see whether one is
made for the other, and whether we can assure ourselves that the hearer
will be, as it were, forced to surrender. We ought to restrict
ourselves, so far as possible, to the simple and natural, and not to
magnify that which is little, or belittle that which is great. It is not
enough that a thing be beautiful; it must be suitable to the subject,
and there must be in it nothing of excess or defect.


17

Rivers are roads which move,[8] and which carry us whither we desire to
go.


18

When we do not know the truth of a thing, it is of advantage that there
should exist a common error which determines the mind of man, as, for
example, the moon, to which is attributed the change of seasons, the
progress of diseases, etc. For the chief malady of man is restless
curiosity about things which he cannot understand; and it is not so bad
for him to be in error as to be curious to no purpose.

The manner in which Epictetus, Montaigne, and Salomon de Tultie[9]
wrote, is the most usual, the most suggestive, the most remembered, and
the oftenest quoted; because it is entirely composed of thoughts born
from the common talk of life. As when we speak of the common error which
exists among men that the moon is the cause of everything, we never fail
to say that Salomon de Tultie says that when we do not know the truth
of a thing, it is of advantage that there should exist a common error,
etc.; which is the thought above.


19

The last thing one settles in writing a book is what one should put in
first.


20

_Order._--Why should I undertake to divide my virtues into four rather
than into six? Why should I rather establish virtue in four, in two, in
one? Why into _Abstine et sustine_[10] rather than into "Follow
Nature,"[11] or, "Conduct your private affairs without injustice," as
Plato,[12] or anything else? But there, you will say, everything is
contained in one word. Yes, but it is useless without explanation, and
when we come to explain it, as soon as we unfold this maxim which
contains all the rest, they emerge in that first confusion which you
desired to avoid. So, when they are all included in one, they are hidden
and useless, as in a chest, and never appear save in their natural
confusion. Nature has established them all without including one in the
other.


21

Nature has made all her truths independent of one another. Our art makes
one dependent on the other. But this is not natural. Each keeps its own
place.


22

Let no one say that I have said nothing new; the arrangement of the
subject is new. When we play tennis, we both play with the same ball,
but one of us places it better.

I had as soon it said that I used words employed before. And in the same
way if the same thoughts in a different arrangement do not form a
different discourse, no more do the same words in their different
arrangement form different thoughts!


23

Words differently arranged have a different meaning, and meanings
differently arranged have different effects.


24

_Language._--We should not turn the mind from one thing to another,
except for relaxation, and that when it is necessary and the time
suitable, and not otherwise. For he that relaxes out of season wearies,
and he who wearies us out of season makes us languid, since we turn
quite away. So much does our perverse lust like to do the contrary of
what those wish to obtain from us without giving us pleasure, the coin
for which we will do whatever is wanted.


25

_Eloquence._--It requires the pleasant and the real; but the pleasant
must itself be drawn from the true.


26

Eloquence is a painting of thought; and thus those who, after having
painted it, add something more, make a picture instead of a portrait.


27

_Miscellaneous. Language._--Those who make antitheses by forcing words
are like those who make false windows for symmetry. Their rule is not to
speak accurately, but to make apt figures of speech.


28

Symmetry is what we see at a glance; based on the fact that there is no
reason for any difference, and based also on the face of man; whence it
happens that symmetry is only wanted in breadth, not in height or depth.


29

When we see a natural style, we are astonished and delighted; for we
expected to see an author, and we find a man. Whereas those who have
good taste, and who seeing a book expect to find a man, are quite
surprised to find an author. _Plus poetice quam humane locutus es._
Those honour Nature well, who teach that she can speak on everything,
even on theology.


30

We only consult the ear because the heart is wanting. The rule is
uprightness.

Beauty of omission, of judgment.


31

All the false beauties which we blame in Cicero have their admirers, and
in great number.


32

There is a certain standard of grace and beauty which consists in a
certain relation between our nature, such as it is, weak or strong, and
the thing which pleases us.

Whatever is formed according to this standard pleases us, be it house,
song, discourse, verse, prose, woman, birds, rivers, trees, rooms,
dress, etc. Whatever is not made according to this standard displeases
those who have good taste.

And as there is a perfect relation between a song and a house which are
made after a good model, because they are like this good model, though
each after its kind; even so there is a perfect relation between things
made after a bad model. Not that the bad model is unique, for there are
many; but each bad sonnet, for example, on whatever false model it is
formed, is just like a woman dressed after that model.

Nothing makes us understand better the ridiculousness of a false sonnet
than to consider nature and the standard, and then to imagine a woman or
a house made according to that standard.


33

_Poetical beauty._--As we speak of poetical beauty, so ought we to speak
of mathematical beauty and medical beauty. But we do not do so; and the
reason is that we know well what is the object of mathematics, and that
it consists in proofs, and what is the object of medicine, and that it
consists in healing. But we do not know in what grace consists, which is
the object of poetry. We do not know the natural model which we ought to
imitate; and through lack of this knowledge, we have coined fantastic
terms, "The golden age," "The wonder of our times," "Fatal," etc., and
call this jargon poetical beauty.[13]

But whoever imagines a woman after this model, which consists in saying
little things in big words, will see a pretty girl adorned with mirrors
and chains, at whom he will smile; because we know better wherein
consists the charm of woman than the charm of verse. But those who are
ignorant would admire her in this dress, and there are many villages in
which she would be taken for the queen; hence we call sonnets made after
this model "Village Queens."


34

No one passes in the world as skilled in verse unless he has put up the
sign of a poet, a mathematician, etc. But educated people do not want a
sign, and draw little distinction between the trade of a poet and that
of an embroiderer.

People of education are not called poets or mathematicians, etc.; but
they are all these, and judges of all these. No one guesses what they
are. When they come into society, they talk on matters about which the
rest are talking. We do not observe in them one quality rather than
another, save when they have to make use of it. But then we remember it,
for it is characteristic of such persons that we do not say of them that
they are fine speakers, when it is not a question of oratory, and that
we say of them that they are fine speakers, when it is such a question.

It is therefore false praise to give a man when we say of him, on his
entry, that he is a very clever poet; and it is a bad sign when a man is
not asked to give his judgment on some verses.


35

We should not be able to say of a man, "He is a mathematician," or "a
preacher," or "eloquent"; but that he is "a gentleman." That universal
quality alone pleases me. It is a bad sign when, on seeing a person, you
remember his book. I would prefer you to see no quality till you meet it
and have occasion to use it (_Ne quid nimis_[14]), for fear some one
quality prevail and designate the man. Let none think him a fine
speaker, unless oratory be in question, and then let them think it.


36

Man is full of wants: he loves only those who can satisfy them all.
"This one is a good mathematician," one will say. But I have nothing to
do with mathematics; he would take me for a proposition. "That one is a
good soldier." He would take me for a besieged town. I need, then, an
upright man who can accommodate himself generally to all my wants.


37

[Since we cannot be universal and know all that is to be known of
everything, we ought to know a little about everything. For it is far
better to know something about everything than to know all about one
thing. This universality is the best. If we can have both, still better;
but if we must choose, we ought to choose the former. And the world
feels this and does so; for the world is often a good judge.]


38

A poet and not an honest man.


39

If lightning fell on low places, etc., poets, and those who can only
reason about things of that kind, would lack proofs.


40

If we wished to prove the examples which we take to prove other things,
we should have to take those other things to be examples; for, as we
always believe the difficulty is in what we wish to prove, we find the
examples clearer and a help to demonstration.

Thus when we wish to demonstrate a general theorem, we must give the
rule as applied to a particular case; but if we wish to demonstrate a
particular case, we must begin with the general rule. For we always find
the thing obscure which we wish to prove, and that clear which we use
for the proof; for, when a thing is put forward to be proved, we first
fill ourselves with the imagination that it is therefore obscure, and on
the contrary that what is to prove it is clear, and so we understand it
easily.


41

_Epigrams of Martial._--Man loves malice, but not against one-eyed men
nor the unfortunate, but against the fortunate and proud. People are
mistaken in thinking otherwise.

For lust is the source of all our actions, and humanity, etc. We must
please those who have humane and tender feelings. That epigram about two
one-eyed people is worthless,[15] for it does not console them, and only
gives a point to the author's glory. All that is only for the sake of
the author is worthless. _Ambitiosa recident ornamenta_.[16]


42

To call a king "Prince" is pleasing, because it diminishes his rank.


43

Certain authors, speaking of their works, say, "My book," "My
commentary," "My history," etc. They resemble middle-class people who
have a house of their own, and always have "My house" on their tongue.
They would do better to say, "Our book," "Our commentary," "Our
history," etc., because there is in them usually more of other people's
than their own.


44

Do you wish people to believe good of you? Don't speak.


45

Languages are ciphers, wherein letters are not changed into letters, but
words into words, so that an unknown language is decipherable.


46

A maker of witticisms, a bad character.


47

There are some who speak well and write badly. For the place and the
audience warm them, and draw from their minds more than they think of
without that warmth.


48

When we find words repeated in a discourse, and, in trying to correct
them, discover that they are so appropriate that we would spoil the
discourse, we must leave them alone. This is the test; and our attempt
is the work of envy, which is blind, and does not see that repetition is
not in this place a fault; for there is no general rule.


49

To mask nature and disguise her. No more king, pope, bishop--but _august
monarch_, etc.; not Paris--_the capital of the kingdom_. There are
places in which we ought to call Paris, Paris, and others in which we
ought to call it the capital of the kingdom.


50

The same meaning changes with the words which express it. Meanings
receive their dignity from words instead of giving it to them. Examples
should be sought....


51

Sceptic, for obstinate.


52

No one calls another a Cartesian[17] but he who is one himself, a pedant
but a pedant, a provincial but a provincial; and I would wager it was
the printer who put it on the title of _Letters to a Provincial_.


53

A carriage _upset_ or _overturned_, according to the meaning _To spread
abroad_ or _upset_, according to the meaning. (The argument by force of
M. le Maître[18] over the friar.)


54

_Miscellaneous._--A form of speech, "I should have liked to apply myself
to that."


55

The _aperitive_ virtue of a key, the _attractive_ virtue of a hook.


56

To guess: "The part that I take in your trouble." The Cardinal[19] did
not want to be guessed.

"My mind is disquieted." _I am disquieted_ is better.


57

I always feel uncomfortable under such compliments as these: "I have
given you a great deal of trouble," "I am afraid I am boring you," "I
fear this is too long." We either carry our audience with us, or
irritate them.


58

You are ungraceful: "Excuse me, pray." Without that excuse I would not
have known there was anything amiss. "With reverence be it spoken...."
The only thing bad is their excuse.


59

"To extinguish the torch of sedition"; too luxuriant. "The restlessness
of his genius"; two superfluous grand words.




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[20] 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,[21] which sadden and
weary us; of the confusion of Montaigne;[22] 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.[23] Credulous; _people without
eyes_.[24] Ignorant; _squaring the circle,[25] a greater world_.[26] His
opinions on suicide, on death.[27] He suggests an indifference about
salvation, _without fear and without repentance_.[28] 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
(730,231)[29]; 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. _I act._ +Ta
zôa trechei.+ 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 all 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.[30] 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,"[31] 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_,[32] and the like, as
ostentatious in fact, though not in appearance, as that one which blinds
us, _De omni scibili_.[33]

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 over-pay
our debts. _Beneficia eo usque læta sunt dum videntur exsolvi posse; ubi
multum antevenere, pro gratia odium redditur._[34] 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 adhærent spiritus comprehendi ab hominibus non
potest, et hoc tamen homo est_.[35] 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_,[36] another in total ignorance,
another in indolence, others in disregarding appearances, another in
wondering at nothing, _nihil admirari prope res una quæ possit facere et
servare beatum_,[37] and the true sceptics in their indifference, doubt,
and perpetual suspense, and others, wiser, think to find a better
definition. We are well satisfied.

_To transpose after the laws to the following title._

We must see if this fine philosophy have 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.[38] Have they been more fortunate in
locating her? 395.[39] What have they found out about her origin,
duration, and departure? 399.[40]

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? _Harum sententiarum_,[41] 393.

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._[42]

280 kinds of sovereign good in Montaigne.[43]


75

Part I, 1, 2, c. 1, section 4.[44]

[_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?[45] 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[46] 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;[47] so
that, for want of true objects, they must attach themselves to false.


82

_Imagination._[48]--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.[49] 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,[50] 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_.[51] 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.[52] They spoil the judgment
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.[53]

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

_Næ iste magno conatu magnas nugas dixerit.[54]

Quasi quidquam infelicius sit homini cui sua figmenta dominantur._[55]
(Plin.)


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._[56] (Cic. 583.)


91

_Spongia solis._[57]--When we see the same effect always recur, we infer
a natural necessity in it, as that there will be a to-morrow, 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.[58] 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_.[59]

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 conditions of locksmith, soldier, etc.

Hence savages care nothing for Providence.[60]


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 in it 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.[61]

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[62] 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 judgment of another,
without prejudicing his judgment 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 judgment 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._[63]--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.[64] 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 harmonies on these. We must
know where [_the keys_] 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 sown 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.[65]


130

_Restlessness._--If a soldier, or labourer, complain of the hardship of
his lot, set him to do nothing.


131

_Weariness._[66]--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 Cæsar was too old to set about amusing himself with conquering
the world.[67] Such sport was good for Augustus or Alexander. They were
still young men, and thus difficult to restrain. But Cæsar 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.[68]


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.[69]

[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.[70] 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 their
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 to-morrow 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;[71] 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;[72] 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._[73]--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.[74]


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 (as p. 184)[75], 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