Introduction

In order to tell my story, I must begin far back. If it were possible, I should have to go back much further still, to the earliest years of my childhood, and even beyond, to my distant ancestry.

To tell my story, I must start far back. If I could, I would have to go back even further, to my earliest childhood and beyond, to my distant ancestors.

Authors, in writing novels, usually act as if they were God, and could, by a broadness of perception, comprehend and present any human story as if God were telling it to Himself without veiling anything, and with all the essential details. That I cannot do, any more than can the authors themselves. But I attach more importance to my story than can any other writer to his: because it is my own, and it is the story of a human being—not that of an invented, possible, ideal or otherwise, non-existent creature, but that of a real, unique, living man. What that is, a real living man, one certainly knows less to-day than ever. For men are shot down in heaps—men, of whom each one is a precious, unique experiment of nature. If we were nothing more than individuals, we could actually be put out of the world entirely with a musket-ball, and in that case there would be no more sense in relating stories. But each man is not only himself, he is also the unique, quite special, and in every case the important and remarkable point where the world’s phenomena converge, in a certain manner, never again to be repeated. For that reason the history of everyone is important, eternal, divine. For that reason every man, so long as he lives at all and carries out the will of nature, is wonderful and worthy of every attention. In everyone has the spirit taken shape, in everyone creation suffers, in everyone is a redeemer crucified.

When authors write novels, they usually act as if they were God. They write as if their vision were broad enough to grasp and tell any human story. It is as if God were telling the story to himself, hiding nothing and including all the essential details. I cannot do that, and neither can those authors. But I value my story more than any other writer can value his own. That is because it is my story, the story of a human being. It is not the story of an imagined person who might exist, or an ideal person, or any other nonexistent creature. It is the story of a real, unique, living man. Today, we know less than ever what a real, living man is. For men are shot down in heaps, and each one is a precious, unique experiment of nature. If we were nothing more than individuals, a musket ball could wipe us completely out of the world. In that case, there would be no more reason to tell stories. But each man is more than himself. He is also the unique, special point where the phenomena of the world come together. Each time, they come together in a way that will never be repeated, and each point is important and remarkable. For that reason, everyone’s story is important, eternal, and divine. For that reason, every man is wonderful and worthy of full attention, as long as he lives and carries out nature’s will. In each person, the spirit has taken shape. In each person, creation suffers. In each person, a redeemer is crucified.

Few to-day know what man is. Many feel it, and for that reason die the easier, as I shall die the easier, when I have finished my story.

Few people today know what it means to be human. Many feel it, and that makes it easier for them to die. It will make it easier for me to die, too, when I have finished my story.

I must not call myself one who knows. I was a seeker and am still, but I seek no more in the stars or in books; I am beginning to listen to the promptings of those instincts which are coursing in my very blood. My story is not pleasant, it is not sweet and harmonious like the fictitious stories. It smacks of nonsense and perplexity, of madness and dreams, like the lives of all men who do not wish to delude themselves any longer.

I cannot call myself someone who knows. I was a seeker, and I still am. But I no longer look to the stars or books. I am beginning to listen to the instincts running through my blood. My story is not pleasant. It is not sweet and harmonious like made-up stories. It has the flavor of nonsense and confusion, of madness and dreams. So do the lives of all men who no longer wish to deceive themselves.

The life of everyone is a way to himself, the search for a road, the indication of a path. No man has ever yet attained to self-realization; yet he strives thereafter, one ploddingly, another with less effort, each as best he can. Each one carries the remains of his birth, slime and eggshells of a primeval world, with him to the end. Many a one will remain a frog, a lizard, an ant. Many a one is top-part man and bottom-part fish. But everyone is a projection of nature into manhood. To us all the same origin is common, our mothers—we all come out of the womb. But each of us—an experiment, one of nature’s litter, strives after his own ends. We can understand one another; but each one is able to explain only himself.

Everyone’s life is a journey toward themselves, a search for a road, a sign of a path. No one has ever fully become themselves. Yet everyone strives to do so, some laboriously, others with less effort, each as best they can. Everyone carries the remains of their birth with them to the end: slime and eggshells from a primeval world. Many remain frogs, lizards, or ants. Many are human on top and fish below. But everyone is nature reaching toward humanity. We all share the same origin: our mothers. We all come from the womb. But each of us is an experiment, one of nature’s offspring, striving toward our own ends. We can understand one another, but each of us can explain only ourselves.