Man's Misery Without God

First part: Misery of man without God.

First part: Human misery without God.

Second part: Happiness of man with God.

Second part: Human happiness with God.

Or, First part: That nature is corrupt. Proved by nature itself.

Or, First part: Nature is corrupt. Nature itself proves this.

Second part: That there is a Redeemer. Proved by Scripture.

Second part: There is a Redeemer. Scripture proves this.

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 Thomas²⁰ did not keep it. Mathematics keep it, but they are useless on account of their depth.

Order. I might have arranged this discussion as follows. First, I would show the vanity of all human conditions. Then I would show the vanity of ordinary lives, followed by the vanity of philosophical lives, whether skeptical or stoic. But I would not have kept to that order. I know a little about what order is and how few people understand it. No human science can keep to it. Saint Thomas²⁰ did not keep to it. Mathematics does, but it is useless because it is so deep.

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.

Preface to the first part. Discuss those who have written about self-knowledge. Discuss Charron’s divisions,²¹ which sadden and tire us, and Montaigne’s confusion.²² He was fully aware of his lack of method and avoided it by jumping from subject to subject. 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 ...

What a foolish project, to describe himself! And he did not do it casually or against his own principles. Everyone makes mistakes. He did it according to his principles, as his first and chief aim. Saying silly things by accident or out of weakness is a common misfortune. But saying them deliberately is intolerable, and saying things like that ...

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.

Montaigne. Montaigne's faults are serious. He uses indecent words. This is wrong, despite what Mademoiselle de Gournay says.²³ He is gullible, as with people without eyes.²⁴ He is ignorant, as with squaring the circle,²⁵ a larger world.²⁶ There are also his opinions on suicide and death.²⁷ He suggests that we should be indifferent to salvation, without fear and without repentance.²⁸ His book was not written for a religious purpose, so he did not have to mention religion. But we always have a duty not to turn people away from it. One can excuse his rather uninhibited and licentious views on some relationships in life (730,231)²⁹. But one cannot excuse his thoroughly pagan views on death. A man must abandon piety altogether if he does not at least wish to die like a Christian. Yet throughout his book, his only view of death is cowardly and effeminate.

It is not in Montaigne, but in myself, that I find all that I see in him.

It is not in Montaigne but in myself that I find all I see in him.

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.

Whatever is good in Montaigne must have been acquired with difficulty. His faults, apart from his morality, could have been corrected in a moment. He only needed to be told that he made too much of trivial things and talked too much about himself.

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.

You must know yourself. Even if this does not help you discover the truth, it at least gives you a rule for living. There is nothing better.

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.

The limits of science. In times of suffering, physical science will not comfort me if I lack moral knowledge. But knowledge of ethics will always comfort me if I lack knowledge of the physical sciences.

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.

Men are taught everything except how to be gentlemen. Yet they take more pride in knowing how to be gentlemen than in anything else they know. They take pride only in knowing the one thing they do not know.

The infinites, the mean.—When we read too fast or too slowly, we understand nothing.

The extremes, the middle. When we read too fast or too slowly, we understand nothing.

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. Τά ζῶα τρέχει This makes me believe that the springs in our brain are so adjusted that he who touches one touches also its contrary.]

Nature ... [Nature has placed us so firmly at the center that changing one side of the balance also changes the other. I act. Animals run. This makes me believe that the springs in our brain are arranged so that anyone who touches one also touches its opposite.]

Too much and too little wine. Give him none, he cannot find truth; give him too much, the same.

Too much or too little wine. Give him none, and he cannot find the truth. Give him too much, and he cannot find it either.

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.

Man’s disproportion. [This is where our inborn knowledge leads us. If it is not true, there is no truth in man. If it is true, he finds in it great cause for humility. He is forced to humble himself in one way or another. Since he cannot exist without this knowledge, I wish he would first consider nature seriously and at leisure. He should do this before investigating her more deeply. I wish he would also reflect on himself and understand what proportion there is ...] Let man then contemplate all of nature in her full and grand majesty. Let him turn his eyes away from the lowly things around him. Let him gaze at that brilliant light, set like an eternal lamp to illuminate the universe. Let the earth appear to him as a point beside the vast circle traced by the sun. And let him marvel that this vast circle is itself only a tiny point. It is tiny beside the circle traced by the stars as they revolve around the heavens. But if our sight stops there, let our imagination go beyond it. Our power to imagine will run out before nature runs out of things for us to imagine. The whole visible world is only an imperceptible atom in nature’s vast expanse. No idea comes close to capturing it. We may stretch our thoughts beyond all imaginable space. Even then, we produce only atoms compared with the reality of things. It is an infinite sphere, whose center is everywhere and whose circumference is nowhere.³⁰ In short, this is the greatest visible sign of the almighty power of God. Our imagination loses itself in the thought of it.

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?

Let a person reflect on what they are compared with all that exists. Let them see themselves as lost in this remote corner of nature. From the little cell where they live, the universe, let them judge the true value of the earth, kingdoms, cities, and themselves. What is a person 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.

To show him another wonder just as astonishing, let him examine the smallest things he knows. Give him a mite, with its tiny body and parts far smaller still. It has limbs with joints, veins in its limbs, blood in its veins, and fluids in its blood. There are drops in those fluids and vapors in those drops. Let him divide these last things again until he can imagine nothing smaller. Let the smallest thing he can reach become the subject of our discussion. Perhaps he will think he has found the smallest point in nature. I will show him a new abyss within it. I will picture not only the visible universe, but all the immensity of nature he can imagine. All of it lies within this tiny atom. Let him see an infinity of universes there. Each has its own sky, planets, and earth, in the same proportions as the visible world. On each earth there are animals, and among them mites. In those mites he will find again everything the first mite contained. In these others he will find the same thing, without end or pause. Let him lose himself in wonders as amazing for their smallness as the others are for their vastness. Who would not be astonished? A little while ago, our body was too small to be seen in the universe. That universe itself was too small to be seen within the whole. Yet now our body is a giant, a world, or rather a whole, compared with the nothingness we cannot reach. Anyone who sees himself in this light will be afraid of himself. He will see himself held in the body nature gave him, between the two abysses of the Infinite and Nothing. He will tremble at the sight of these marvels. I think his curiosity will turn to wonder. Then he will be more inclined 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, in fact, is a human being in nature? Nothing compared with the Infinite, everything compared with Nothing, a midpoint between nothing and everything. We are infinitely far from understanding either extreme. The beginning and end of things are hopelessly hidden from us in an impenetrable mystery. We are equally unable to see the Nothing from which we were made and the Infinite in which we are 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.

What can he do, then, except see how things appear in the middle? He must forever despair of knowing either their beginning or their end. All things come from nothing and move toward the infinite. Who can follow these marvelous processes? The author of these wonders understands them. No one else can.

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.

Because they have failed to consider these infinities, people have rushed recklessly to study nature, as if they were proportionate to it. It is strange that they have wanted to understand the beginnings of things and, from there, gain knowledge of the whole. Their presumption is as infinite as the object of their study. Surely, no one could form such a plan without presumption or a capacity as infinite as 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.

If we are well informed, we understand that nature has marked all things with her image and that of her Author. Almost all things therefore share in her double infinity. We see this in all the sciences, whose fields of inquiry are infinite. Who doubts, for example, that geometry has an infinite infinity of problems to solve? The sciences are also infinite in the number and subtlety of their premises. Those presented as ultimate clearly do not stand on their own. They rest on others, which in turn rest on still others, so that there is no end. Yet we treat some premises as ultimate for the purposes of reason. Similarly, with material objects, we call something an indivisible point when our senses can perceive nothing smaller. Yet 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.

Of the two infinities of knowledge, the infinitely great is easier to grasp. So a few people have claimed to know everything. "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

But the infinitely small is the least obvious. Philosophers have claimed much more often to have reached it, and this is where they have all stumbled. This has given rise to common titles such as First Principles, Principles of Philosophy,³² and the like. These titles are in fact as boastful, though they do not seem so, as the dazzling title 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.

We naturally believe we are far more capable of reaching the center of things than of grasping their full extent. The visible extent of the world clearly exceeds our grasp. But because we are larger than small things, we think we can understand them more easily. Yet understanding Nothing requires no less capacity than understanding All. Both require infinite capacity. It seems to me that anyone who understood the ultimate principles of being could also understand the Infinite. Each depends on the other, and each leads to the other. These extremes meet and come together because of the distance between them. They 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.

Let us take stock of where we stand. We are something, but we are not everything. The nature of our existence keeps us from knowing the first beginnings, which arise from Nothing. Our smallness keeps us from seeing the Infinite.

Our intellect holds the same position in the world of thought as our body occupies in the expanse of nature.

Our minds have the same place in the world of thought as our bodies have in the vastness 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.

We are limited in every way. In all our weakness, we occupy a middle ground between two extremes. Our senses cannot perceive extremes. Too much sound deafens us. Too much light dazzles us. Things are hard to see when they are too far away or too close. A discussion that is too long or too short becomes unclear. Too much truth overwhelms us. I know people who cannot understand that taking four from nothing leaves nothing. First principles are too obvious for us. Too much pleasure makes us uncomfortable. Too many harmonious notes in music annoy us. Too many favors irritate us. We want to have the means to repay our debts with something to spare. Favors are welcome only as long as they seem repayable. When they far exceed what we can repay, we return hatred instead of gratitude.³⁴ We do not feel extreme heat or extreme cold. Qualities in excess harm us and cannot be perceived by our senses. We do not feel them, but suffer from them. Extreme youth and extreme old age hinder the mind. So do too much and too little education. In short, extremes might as well not exist for us, and we are beneath their notice. They escape us, or we escape 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.

This is our true condition. It makes us incapable of certain knowledge and of complete ignorance. We sail across a vast expanse, always drifting in uncertainty, driven from one end to the other. When we think we can grasp and hold on to any point, it shifts and leaves us. If we follow it, it escapes our grasp, slips past us, and vanishes forever. Nothing stays fixed for us. This is our natural condition, yet it goes completely against what we desire. We long intensely for solid ground and a final, sure foundation. We want to build on it a tower reaching to the Infinite. But our whole foundation cracks, and the earth opens into 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.

So let us not look for certainty and stability. Our reason is always fooled by shifting shadows. Nothing can hold the finite in place between the two infinities, which both surround it and recede 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?

If we understand this well, I think we will be content to remain where nature has placed each of us. Our allotted place is always distant from either extreme. So what does it matter if a person knows a little more about the universe? That person only rises a little higher. Are we not still infinitely far from the end? And is our lifespan not equally far from eternity, even if we live 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.

Compared with these infinities, all finite things are equal. I see no reason to focus our imagination on one rather than another. Merely comparing ourselves with finite things 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.

If people studied themselves first, they would see how unable they are to go further. How can a part know the whole? Perhaps they can hope to know at least the parts that are comparable to them. But all parts of the world are so connected that I believe it is impossible to know one without knowing the others and 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.

For example, a person is connected to everything he knows. He needs a place to live, time to live through, and movement in order to live. He needs elements to make up his body, warmth and food to nourish him, and air to breathe. He sees light and feels physical objects. In short, he depends on everything. To know a person, then, we must know why he needs air to live. To know air, we must know how it is connected to human life, and so on. A flame cannot exist without air. So to understand either 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.

Everything is both cause and effect, dependent on other things and supporting them, both directly and indirectly. A natural but invisible chain holds everything together. It connects even the most distant and different things. So I believe it is 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.]

[The eternity of things, whether in themselves or in God, must also astonish us, whose lives are so brief. The fixed, unchanging stillness of nature must have the same effect, compared with the constant change within us.]

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.

What makes us completely unable to know things is that they are simple, while we consist of two opposite natures, different in kind: soul and body. Our rational part cannot be anything but spiritual. Suppose someone claims that we are purely physical. This would make knowing things even more impossible for us. Nothing is so hard to conceive as the claim that matter knows itself. It is impossible to imagine how it could do so.

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.

If we are purely material, we can know nothing at all. If we are made of mind and matter, we cannot know simple things perfectly, whether they are spiritual or material. This is why almost all philosophers have confused ideas about things. They speak of material things in spiritual terms and spiritual things in material terms. They boldly say that bodies tend to fall, seek their center, flee destruction, and fear empty space. They say that bodies have inclinations, sympathies, and antipathies. Yet all these qualities belong only to the mind. When they speak of minds, they think of them as being in a place. They also say that minds move from one place to another. Yet these qualities 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.

Instead of receiving these ideas in their pure form, we color them with our own qualities. We stamp all the simple things we contemplate with our complex nature.

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....

Seeing that we understand all things as made up of mind and body, who would not think we understood this mixture? Yet it is what we understand least. To himself, man is the most astonishing thing in nature. He cannot understand what the body is, still less what the mind is. Least of all can he understand how a body can be united to a mind. This is the greatest of his difficulties, 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....

[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.

[But perhaps this subject lies beyond the reach of reason. So let us examine its answers to questions within its reach. If anything should have prompted reason to apply itself most seriously, it is the search for its own highest good. Let us see where these strong and perceptive minds have found 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.

One person says that the highest good consists in virtue. Another says it consists in pleasure, another in knowledge of nature, and another in truth, Felix qui potuit rerum cognoscere causas,³⁶ happy is the one who can know the causes of things. Another says it consists in total ignorance, another in idleness, and others in disregarding appearances. Another finds it in wondering at nothing, nihil admirari prope res una quæ possit facere et servare beatum,³⁷ wondering at nothing is almost the one thing that can make and keep a person happy. True skeptics find it in indifference, doubt, and a constant refusal to make judgments. Others, wiser still, think they can find a better definition. We are well satisfied.

To transpose after the laws to the following title.

Move this after the laws, to the following heading.

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

We must see whether this fine philosophy has learned anything certain from such long and devoted study. Perhaps, at least, the soul will come to know itself. Let us hear what the rulers of the world have to say about it. What have they thought about the soul’s substance? 394.³⁸ Have they had more success in locating it? 395.³⁹ What have they discovered about its 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.

Is the soul too noble a subject for their limited understanding? Let us then lower it to matter. Let us see whether it knows what its own body is made of. Let us also see whether it knows what the other bodies it observes and moves at will are made of. What have those great dogmatists, who know everything, understood about 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.]

This would surely be enough if reason were reasonable. She is reasonable enough to admit that she has found nothing lasting. But she has not yet given up hope of finding it. She is as eager as ever in her search, and she is confident that she has the power to succeed. We must therefore reach a conclusion. Having examined her powers through their effects, we must now examine them in themselves. We must see whether her nature and grasp are capable of reaching the truth.]

A letter On the Foolishness of Human Knowledge and Philosophy.

A letter On the Foolishness of Human Knowledge and Philosophy.

This letter before Diversion.

Place this letter before Diversion.

Felix qui potuit ... Nihil admirari.⁴²

Happy is the person who can ... be amazed by nothing.⁴²

280 kinds of sovereign good in Montaigne.⁴³

Montaigne lists 280 kinds of the highest good.⁴³

Part I, 1, 2, c. 1, section 4.⁴⁴

Part I, 1, 2, chapter 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?

[Probability. It will not be difficult to take the argument one step further and make it look ridiculous. Let us start at the very beginning.] What could be more absurd than saying that lifeless bodies have passions, fears, and hatreds? These bodies cannot feel, are lifeless, and are incapable of life. Yet they supposedly have passions that require at least a soul capable of feeling. What is more, they supposedly fear empty space. What is there in empty space that could make them afraid? Nothing could be more shallow and ridiculous. But that is not all. It is said that they have within themselves a power to move away from empty space. Do they have arms, legs, muscles, or nerves?

To write against those who made too profound a study of science: Descartes.

Write against those who studied science too deeply: Descartes.

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.

I cannot forgive Descartes. In all his philosophy, he would have been happy to do without God. But he had to make God give the world a little push to set it in motion. Beyond that, he has no further need of God.

Descartes useless and uncertain.

Descartes is useless and uncertain.

[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.]

[Descartes. We must say simply, "This is made by shape and motion," because it is true. But it is ridiculous to explain what these are and construct the mechanism. Doing so is useless, uncertain, and painful. Even if it were true, we do not think all philosophy is worth one hour of pain.]

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.

Why does a person with a physical disability not offend us, while a fool does?⁴⁵ Because the person with a disability recognizes that we walk normally. The fool, however, declares that we are the foolish ones. If that were not so, we would feel pity instead of anger.

Epictetus⁴⁶ 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.

Epictetus⁴⁶ presses the question further: "Why are we not angry when someone says we have a headache? Why are we angry when someone says we reason badly or choose wrongly?" The reason is that we are quite certain we do not have a headache or a limp. But we are not as sure that we have made the right choice. Our confidence rests only on seeing as clearly as we can. So we feel uncertain and surprised when someone else looks just as carefully and sees the opposite. We feel this even more when a thousand others mock our choice. We must then trust our own judgment over that of so many others. That is bold and difficult. There is never this kind of conflict in how people perceive someone who is crippled.

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.

It is natural for the mind to believe and for the will to love.⁴⁷ If they lack true objects, they must attach themselves to false ones.

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.

Imagination.⁴⁸ It is that deceitful part of us, the mistress of error and falsehood. She is all the more deceptive because she is not always false. If she were always false, she would be a sure guide to truth. But though she is false most of the time, she gives no sign of her nature. She gives truth and falsehood the same appearance.

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.

I am not speaking of fools. I am speaking of the wisest people, and even among them, imagination has great power to persuade. Reason protests in vain. It cannot judge the true value of 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.

This arrogant power is the enemy of reason. It loves to rule and dominate reason, and has established a second nature in us to show how all-powerful it is. It makes people happy and sad, healthy and sick, rich and poor. It forces reason to believe, doubt, and deny. It dulls the senses or sharpens them. It has its fools and its wise people. Nothing frustrates us more than seeing how much more completely it satisfies its followers than reason satisfies its own. People with lively imaginations are far more pleased with themselves than wise people can reasonably be. They look down on others with pride. They argue boldly and confidently, while others argue timidly and hesitantly. Their cheerful expressions often give them an advantage in the eyes of their listeners. Those who only imagine themselves wise find favor with judges of the same kind. Imagination cannot make fools wise, but it can make them happy. Reason envies this, since it can only make its friends miserable. Imagination covers them with glory, while reason covers them 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!

What but imagination gives people their reputation? It grants respect and reverence to people, works, laws, and the powerful. How little all the riches of the earth are worth without its approval!

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.

Would you not say that this magistrate, whose venerable age commands the respect of an entire people, is guided by pure and elevated reason? Would you not say that he judges cases on their true merits, without regard for trifles that affect only the imaginations of the weak? Watch him go to a sermon, full of devout zeal, strengthening his reason with the intensity of his love. He is ready to listen with exemplary respect. But suppose the preacher appears with a naturally hoarse voice or a comical face. Or suppose his barber has given him a bad shave, or his clothes happen to be dirtier than usual. However great the truths he declares, I wager that our senator will lose his solemn composure.

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.

Even the greatest philosopher in the world may find himself on a plank wider than necessary, hanging over a precipice. His imagination will prevail, even though reason convinces him that he is safe.⁴⁹ Many people cannot bear the thought without breaking into a cold sweat. I will not list 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.

Everyone knows that the sight of cats or rats, the crushing of a piece of coal, and similar things can disturb the mind. The tone of voice affects even the wisest people. It changes the impact of a speech 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!

Love or hate changes how justice appears. How much more confident a lawyer is that his case is just when he is paid a large fee! His bold manner makes his case look much stronger to the judges, who are deceived by appearances! How ridiculous reason is, blown in every direction by a breath!

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.]

I would have to list almost every action people take, since they hardly ever change course except under her attacks. Reason has been forced to give way. Even the wisest reasoning takes as its own principles those that human imagination has rashly introduced everywhere. [Anyone who followed reason alone would be considered foolish by most people. We must judge by the opinion of the majority of humanity. Because that is what pleases them, we must work all day for pleasures we know to be imaginary. After sleep has refreshed our tired reason, we must get up at once and rush after phantoms. We must submit to the impressions made by this mistress of the world. This is one source 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.

Our judges have understood this mystery well. They needed their red robes, the ermine they wrap around themselves like furry cats,⁵⁰ the courts where they administer justice, the fleurs-de-lis, and all such grand attire. Physicians needed their long coats and mules, and scholars their square caps and robes four times too wide. Without them, they would never have fooled the world, which cannot resist such a striking appearance. If judges had true justice, and physicians had the true art of healing, they would not need square caps. The majesty of these fields would command enough respect on its own. But they have only imagined knowledge. So they must use these silly tools to strike the imagination of the people they deal with. In fact, these tools do inspire respect. Soldiers alone do not dress up this way, because their role is indeed the most essential. They establish themselves by force, while the others do so by appearances.

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.

Therefore, our kings need no disguises. They do not wear extraordinary costumes to look like kings. Instead, guards and halberdiers accompany them. These armed, red-faced puppets use their hands and power for the kings alone. Trumpets and drums go before them, and legions surround them. All this makes even the bravest tremble. They have more than fine clothes. They have power. It takes a very discerning mind to see the Grand Turk as an ordinary man, in his magnificent palace, 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.

We cannot even see a lawyer in his robe and cap without thinking well of his ability. Imagination rules everything. It creates beauty, justice, and happiness, which make up everything in the world. I would very much like to see an Italian work whose title is all I know. That title alone is worth many books: Della opinione regina del mondo.⁵¹ I approve of the book without knowing it, except for any evil it may contain. These are roughly the effects of that deceptive faculty. It seems to have been given to us expressly to lead us into unavoidable 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.

Old impressions are not the only things that can mislead us. The attraction of novelty can do the same. This is the source of all human disputes. People mock one another for following false impressions formed in childhood or for rushing recklessly after what is new. Who keeps the right balance? Let that person come forward and prove it. No principle is so natural to us from infancy that it cannot be made to seem like a false impression. It may be made to seem like one formed by education or the senses.

"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?

“Because,” some say, “you believed from childhood that a box was empty when you saw nothing inside it, you believed a vacuum was possible. Your senses have misled you, and habit has reinforced the mistake. Science must correct it.” “Because,” others say, “you were taught at school that there is no vacuum, you have corrupted your common sense. It once clearly understood that a vacuum was possible. You must correct this by returning to your original way of thinking.” 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.

Disease is another source of error.⁵² It impairs judgment and the senses. Serious illnesses produce a noticeable change. I do not doubt that milder illnesses have a proportionate effect.

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.

Self-interest is also a remarkable tool for blinding us. Even the fairest person in the world is not allowed to judge their own case. I know some people who, to avoid this self-love, have swung to the opposite extreme and been completely unfair. A sure way to lose a just case was to have a close relative recommend it to them.

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.

Justice and truth are such fine points that our tools are too blunt to touch them precisely. If our tools reach the point, they either crush it or slip around it, landing more on falsehood than on truth.

[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.]

People are so fortunately made that they have no ... good of the true, and several excellent ones of the false. Let us now see how much ... But the strongest cause of error is the conflict between the senses and reason.

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

We must begin the chapter on the powers that deceive us. Without grace, a person is full of natural, ineradicable error. Nothing shows them the truth. Everything deceives them. Reason and the senses are our two sources of truth. Neither is reliable, and each deceives the other in turn. The senses mislead reason with false appearances. In turn, reason plays the same trick on the senses. Reason takes its revenge. The passions of the soul disturb the senses and create false impressions. Reason and the senses compete in falsehood and deception.⁵³

But besides those errors which arise accidentally and through lack of intelligence, with these heterogeneous faculties ...

But besides the errors that arise by accident and from a lack of intelligence, with these different faculties ...

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.

Imagination makes small things seem so important that they fill our minds with fanciful ideas. And with reckless arrogance, it reduces great things to its own size, as when it speaks of God.

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.

The things that have the strongest hold on us are often almost nothing. One example is hiding the few things we own. Our imagination turns this nothing into a mountain. A different turn of the imagination would let us see this easily.

[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 ...]

[My imagination makes me hate a person who croaks or breathes heavily while eating. Imagination has great influence. Should we make use of it? Should we give in to its influence because it is natural? No, but by resisting it ...]

Næ iste magno conatu magnas nugas dixerit.⁵⁴

Surely, that man has made a great effort to say a great deal of nonsense.⁵⁴

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

As if anything could be more miserable than a person ruled by their own imaginings.⁵⁵ (Plin.)

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.

Children who are frightened by a face they have blackened are only children. But how can someone so weak in childhood become truly strong as an adult? We only change our fantasies. Everything brought to perfection by progress is also destroyed by progress. Anything that has been weak can never become completely strong. It is useless to say, "He has grown, he has changed." He is still the same person.

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?

Habit is our nature. Someone accustomed to the faith believes in it, can no longer fear hell, and believes in nothing else. Someone accustomed to believing that the king is fearsome ... and so on. Who then doubts that our soul, accustomed to seeing number, space, and motion, believes in these and nothing else?

Quod crebro videt non miratur, etiamsi cur fiat nescit; quod ante non viderit, id si evenerit, ostentum esse censet.⁵⁶ (Cic. 583.)

What a person often sees does not surprise them, even if they do not know why it happens. But if something they have never seen before happens, they think it is an omen.⁵⁶ (Cic. 583.)

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.

Spongia solis.⁵⁷ When we see the same effect happen again and again, we assume it must happen naturally. For example, we assume there will be a tomorrow. But nature often deceives us and does not follow her own rules.

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.

What are our natural principles but principles formed by custom? Children acquire them from their fathers' habits, just as animals acquire habits such as hunting. A different custom produces different natural principles. Experience shows this. Some natural principles cannot be erased by custom. But some customs opposed to nature cannot be erased by nature or by another custom. This depends on a person's disposition.

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.

Parents fear that their natural love for their children may fade. What kind of nature can fade away? Habit is a second nature that destroys the first.⁵⁸ But what is nature? Isn't habit natural too? I am very much afraid that nature itself is only a first habit, just as habit is a second nature.

The nature of man is wholly natural, omne animal.⁵⁹

Human nature is entirely natural, omne animal.⁵⁹

There is nothing he may not make natural; there is nothing natural he may not lose.

There is nothing he cannot make natural to himself. There is nothing natural to him that he cannot lose.

Memory, joy, are intuitions; and even mathematical propositions become intuitions, for education produces natural intuitions, and natural intuitions are erased by education.

Memory and joy are intuitive. Even mathematical propositions become intuitive. Education creates natural intuitions, and it erases natural intuitions.

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.

When we get used to giving bad explanations for natural effects, we are unwilling to accept good ones when they are discovered. One example is the circulation of blood, which explains why a vein swells below a band tied around it.

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.

The most important decision in life is the choice of a profession, yet chance decides it. Custom makes men masons, soldiers, or roofers. "He is a good roofer," one person says. Speaking of soldiers, he adds, "They are complete fools." But others say, "Nothing is great except war. All other men are good for nothing." We choose our professions according to what we heard praised or scorned as children. We naturally love truth and hate foolishness. These words move us. The only mistake is in how we apply them. Custom is so powerful that it creates all kinds of men from those whom nature made only human. Some districts are full of masons, others of soldiers, and so on. Nature is certainly not so uniform. Custom must therefore be responsible, for it restrains nature. But sometimes nature gains the upper hand. It preserves a man's instincts despite all custom, whether good or bad.

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.

Bias leading to error. It is deplorable to see all people think only about means, not about the end. Each person thinks about how to fulfill the duties of their station in life. But chance determines their station and their country.

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.

It is sad to see so many Turks, heretics, and unbelievers follow their fathers’ ways. They do so only because each has been taught to assume that those ways are best. That also determines each person’s station in life, whether as a locksmith, a soldier, or something else.

Hence savages care nothing for Providence.⁶⁰

For this reason, savages care nothing about divine providence.⁶⁰

There is an universal and essential difference between the actions of the will and all other actions.

There is a fundamental difference between actions of the will and all other actions. This difference applies in every case.

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.

The will is one of the main factors in belief. It does not create belief, but things are true or false depending on how we look at them. The will prefers one way of looking at things over another. It turns the mind away from considering the qualities of all that it does not like to see. The mind follows the will and stops to consider the aspect it likes. It then judges by what it sees.

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.

Self-love. The nature of self-love and the human ego is to love and consider only oneself. But what can a person do? He cannot prevent the self he loves from being full of faults and shortcomings. He wants to be great, but sees that he is small. He wants to be happy, but sees that he is miserable. He wants to be perfect, but sees that he is full of imperfections. He wants others to love and respect him. Yet he sees that his faults deserve only their hatred and contempt. This predicament gives rise to the most unjust and criminal passion imaginable. He develops a deadly hatred of the truth that condemns him and makes him aware of his faults. He would destroy that truth completely, but he cannot destroy it in itself. Instead, he does all he can to destroy his own and others’ awareness of it. He devotes all his attention to hiding his faults from others and from himself. He cannot bear to have others point out his faults or even 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.

It is wrong to have many faults. But it is even worse to have them and refuse to recognize them. That adds another fault: deliberately deceiving ourselves. We do not like others to deceive us. We do not think it fair to be led to esteem them more highly than they deserve. So it is not fair for us to deceive others and 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.

When people discover the flaws and vices we really have, they clearly do us no wrong. They did not cause those faults. Instead, they do us good by helping us overcome an evil: our ignorance of our own flaws. We should not be angry when they know our faults and despise us. It is only right that they should know us as we are and despise us if we deserve contempt.

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

These are the feelings that would arise in a heart full of fairness and justice. What, then, must we say about our own hearts when we find a completely different attitude there? Is it not true that we hate the truth and those who tell it to us? We want them to be deceived in our favor. We prefer them to think we are different from what we really are. One proof of this makes me shudder. The Catholic religion does not require us to confess our sins to everyone. It allows us to keep them hidden from everyone except one person. The Church tells us to reveal the deepest parts of our hearts to him and show ourselves as we are. He is the only person in the world whom the Church orders us to undeceive. It binds him to absolute secrecy, making it as if he did not know these things. Can we imagine anything kinder or more agreeable? Yet human corruption is such that we find even this rule harsh. It is one of the main reasons a large part of Europe has rebelled 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?

How unjust and unreasonable the human heart is! It resents being required to treat one person as it ought, to some extent, to treat everyone. For is it right for us to deceive people?

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.

People resist the truth to different degrees. But perhaps everyone resists it to some degree, because this resistance is inseparable from self-love. This false sensitivity makes those who must correct others take many indirect paths to avoid giving offense. They must make our faults seem smaller and appear to excuse them. They must also mix in praise and expressions of love and respect. Despite all this, the medicine remains bitter to our self-love. It takes as little as it can, always with disgust. It often secretly resents 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.

As a result, those who have reason to want our love are reluctant to do us a service they know we will dislike. They treat us as we want to be treated. We hate the truth, so they hide it from us. We want flattery, so they flatter us. We like to be deceived, so 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.

Each rise in fortune that lifts us in the world takes us farther from the truth. We are most afraid of hurting those whose affection is most useful to us and whose dislike is most dangerous. A prince may be mocked throughout all Europe, yet he alone will know nothing about it. I am not surprised. Telling the truth benefits those who hear it, but harms those who tell it, because it makes them disliked. Those who live with princes value their own interests more than the interests of the prince they serve. So they take care not to help him at their own expense.

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.

This evil is undoubtedly greater and more common among the upper classes. But the lower classes are not free from it. There is always some advantage in making others love us. Human life is therefore nothing but a constant illusion. People deceive and flatter one another. No one speaks about us in our presence as they do when we are absent. Human society is built on mutual deceit. Few friendships would last if people knew what their friends said about them in their absence. This is true even when their friends speak sincerely and without strong emotion.

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.

Man is nothing but disguise, dishonesty, and hypocrisy, both within himself and toward others. He does not want anyone to tell him the truth. He avoids telling the truth to others. All these tendencies, so far removed from justice and reason, have a natural root in his heart.

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 ...]

I take it as a fact that if everyone knew what others said about them, there would not be four friends in the world. This is clear from the quarrels that arise when people occasionally repeat things they should not. [I say, further, all people would be ...]

Some vices only lay hold of us by means of others, and these, like branches, fall on removal of the trunk.

Some vices take hold of us only through others. Like branches, they fall when the trunk is removed.

The example of Alexander's chastity⁶² 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.

Alexander’s example of sexual restraint⁶² has made fewer people abstinent than his example of drunkenness has made intemperate. We feel no shame in being less virtuous than he was. And it seems excusable to be no more vicious than he was. When we share the vices of great men, we do not believe we are simply sharing the vices of ordinary people. Yet we fail to notice that, in these matters, great men are ordinary people. We are connected to them by the same part of them that connects them to the common crowd. However exalted they are, they remain connected at some point to the lowest people. They are not suspended in the air, completely removed from our society. No, no. If they are greater than we are, it is because their heads are higher. Their feet are as low as ours. They all stand at the same level, on the same earth. At that end, they are as low as we are, as the humblest people, as infants, and as beasts.

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.

When desire leads us to do something, we forget our duty. For example, we may read a book we like when we should be doing something else. To remind ourselves of our duty, we must set ourselves a task we dislike. We then tell ourselves that we have something else to do, and so remember our duty.

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!

How difficult it is to ask someone to judge something without influencing that judgment by how we present it! If we say, "I think it is beautiful," "I think it is obscure," or something similar, we do one of two things. We either draw the imagination toward that view or provoke it to take the opposite one. It is better to say nothing. Then the other person judges according to what is really there. That is, they judge it as it appears at that moment, shaped by circumstances we did not create. At least we will have added nothing ourselves. Yet even silence has an effect, depending on how the other person is inclined to interpret it. If they believe they can read character from appearances, they may guess what we think from our gestures, expression, or tone of voice. It is so difficult not to disturb a judgment from its natural position. Or rather, how rarely is judgment firm and stable!

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.

If we know a person's ruling passion, we can be sure of pleasing them. Yet each person has notions of what is good that run counter to their true good. This is a strangely puzzling fact.

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.

He lit up the earth with his lamp.⁶³ The weather has little to do with my mood. I have my own cloudy days and clear days within me. Whether things go well or badly for me has little to do with it. Sometimes I struggle against bad luck. The glory of overcoming it makes me do so cheerfully. Yet sometimes I feel weary even when things are going well.

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.

Even if people have nothing to gain from what they say, we cannot be sure they are telling the truth. Some people lie simply for the sake of lying.

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.

When we are healthy, we wonder what we would do if we were ill. But when we are ill, we take medicine willingly. Our illness persuades us to do so. We no longer have the passions and desires for amusement and walks that health gave us. These are incompatible with the needs of illness. Nature gives us passions and desires suited to our present condition.⁶⁴ We are troubled only by the fears we give ourselves, not by those nature gives us. These fears add to our present condition the passions of a condition we are not in.

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.

Nature makes us unhappy in every state, so our desires paint a picture of happiness. They add the pleasures of another state to the one we are in. Even if we gained those pleasures, we still would not be happy. We would have other desires natural to that new state.

We must particularise this general proposition....

We must apply this general statement to particular cases....

The consciousness of the falsity of present pleasures, and the ignorance of the vanity of absent pleasures, cause inconstancy.

We realize that the pleasures we have are false, but do not see how empty the pleasures we lack are. This makes us changeable.

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.

Inconstancy. We think that influencing people is like playing an ordinary organ. People are organs, it is true, but they are strange and changeable, [with pipes arranged out of order. Those who know only how to play ordinary organs] will not produce harmony on them. We must know where [the keys] are.

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.

Inconstancy. Things have different qualities, and the soul has different inclinations. Nothing presented to the soul is simple. The soul never approaches any object in a simple way. That is why we weep and laugh at the same thing.

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.

Inconsistency and oddity. Living only by work and ruling the most powerful state in the world are very different things. Yet both come together in the person of the great Sultan of the Turks.

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.

Variety is as abundant as all the tones of voice and all the ways people walk, cough, blow their noses, and sneeze. We distinguish vines by their fruit. We call them Condrien, Desargues, and other names according to their variety. Is that all? Has a vine ever produced two bunches exactly alike? Does a bunch have two grapes alike? And so on.

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.

I can never judge the same thing in exactly the same way. I cannot judge my work while I am doing it. I must do what artists do and stand back, but not too far. How far, then? Guess.

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?

Variety. Theology is one science, but how many sciences does it contain? A person is a whole. But if we dissect him, is he the head, the heart, the stomach, or the veins? Is he each vein, each part of a vein, the blood, or each bodily fluid 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.

From a distance, a town or a country place looks like a town or a country place. But as we get closer, we see houses, trees, roof tiles, leaves, grass, ants, and the limbs of ants, endlessly. All of this is contained in the name “country place.”

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.

Thoughts. All is one, all is different. How many natures are there in a person? How many callings? And why does each person usually choose what they have heard praised? A shapely heel.

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.

The heel of a slipper. "Ah! How well shaped it is! What a skilled craftsman! How brave this soldier is!" This is where our tastes and our choice of occupations come from. "How much this man drinks! How little that one drinks!" This makes people sober or drunk, soldiers, cowards, and so on.

Chief talent, that which rules the rest.

The chief talent is the one that governs all the others.

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.

Nature imitates itself. A seed planted in good soil bears fruit. A principle planted in a good mind bears fruit. Numbers imitate space, which is different in nature.

All is made and led by the same master, root, branches, and fruits; principles and consequences.

All is made and guided by the same master: roots, branches, and fruit, principles and consequences.

[Nature diversifies and imitates; art imitates and diversifies.]

[Nature creates variety and imitates. Art imitates and creates variety.]

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.

Nature always repeats the same things: years, days, and hours. In the same way, spaces and numbers follow one another from beginning to end. This creates a kind of infinity and eternity. It is not that anything in all this is infinite or eternal. Rather, these finite things are multiplied infinitely. So it seems to me that only the number that multiplies them is infinite.

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.

Time heals grief and quarrels because we change and are no longer the same people. Neither the person who caused the offense nor the person offended remains the same. It is like provoking a nation and meeting its people again two generations later. They are still French, but they are not the same people.

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.

He no longer loves the woman he loved ten years ago. I can believe that. She is no longer the same, and neither is he. He was young, and so was she. She is quite different now. He might still love her if she were as she was then.

We view things not only from different sides, but with different eyes; we have no wish to find them alike.

We look at things not only from different sides, but also with different eyes. We do not want to see them in the same way.

Contraries.—Man is naturally credulous and incredulous, timid and rash.

Contradictions. People are naturally both trusting and skeptical, timid and reckless.

Description of man: dependency, desire of independence, need.

A description of human beings: dependence, a desire for independence, and need.

Condition of man: inconstancy, weariness, unrest.

The human condition: inconsistency, weariness, unrest.

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.

We feel weary when we leave activities we are attached to. A man may enjoy staying at home. But if he meets a woman who charms him, or enjoys gambling for five or six days, he feels miserable when he returns to his former way of life. Nothing is more common than this.

Our nature consists in motion; complete rest is death.⁶⁵

Our nature is to be in motion. Complete rest is death.⁶⁵

Restlessness.—If a soldier, or labourer, complain of the hardship of his lot, set him to do nothing.

Restlessness. If a soldier or laborer complains about how hard his life is, make him do nothing.

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.

Weariness.⁶⁶ Nothing is more unbearable for a person than complete rest, without passions, work, entertainment, or study. Then they feel their own insignificance, loneliness, inadequacy, dependence, weakness, and emptiness. At once, weariness, gloom, sadness, restlessness, frustration, and despair rise from the depths of their heart.

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.

I think Caesar was too old to amuse himself by conquering the world.⁶⁷ That kind of sport suited Augustus or Alexander. They were still young men, and so they were hard to restrain. But Caesar should have been more mature.

Two faces which resemble each other, make us laugh, when together, by their resemblance, though neither of them by itself makes us laugh.

Two faces that look alike make us laugh when we see them together because of their resemblance. Yet neither face makes us laugh on its own.

How useless is painting, which attracts admiration by the resemblance of things, the originals of which we do not admire!

How useless painting is! We admire paintings because they resemble things we do not admire in real life.

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.

The struggle alone pleases us, not the victory. We love to watch animals fight, not to see the victor raging over the defeated animal. We want to see only the victorious ending. As soon as it comes, we have had enough. The same is true of games and the search for truth. In disputes, we like to see opinions clash, but not at all to contemplate truth once it is found. To enjoy observing it, we have to see it emerge from conflict. The same is true of the passions. We enjoy seeing two opposing passions clash. But when one takes control, it becomes mere brutality. We never seek things for themselves, but for the search. Likewise, in plays, scenes that do not arouse fear are worthless. So are scenes of extreme and hopeless misery, brutal lust, and extreme cruelty.

A mere trifle consoles us, for a mere trifle distresses us.⁶⁸

A small thing comforts us, because a small thing upsets us.⁶⁸

Without examining every particular pursuit, it is enough to comprehend them under diversion.

Without examining every activity individually, it is enough to understand them all as diversions.

Men naturally slaters and of all callings, save in their own rooms.

People are naturally roofers and practitioners of every trade, except in their own rooms.

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.

Diversion. When I have considered the various ways people distract themselves, I have noticed the hardships and dangers they face at court or in war. These give rise to so many quarrels, passions, and bold, often bad ventures. I have discovered that all human unhappiness comes from one single fact. People cannot stay quietly in their own rooms. A man with enough to live on would not go to sea or besiege a town if he could enjoy staying home. Men would not pay so dearly for an army commission if they did not find it unbearable to stay in town. They seek conversation and join games only because they cannot enjoy staying 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.

But on further thought, after finding the cause of all our troubles, I tried to understand why it exists. I found one very real reason. Our weak and mortal condition is naturally so deprived and miserable that nothing can comfort us when we think closely about it.

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.

Whatever condition we imagine, if we gather all the good things it is possible to possess, being a king is the finest position in the world. Yet imagine a king surrounded by every pleasure he can experience. If he has no diversion and is left to reflect on what he is, this fragile happiness will not sustain him. He will inevitably begin to fear dangers, possible revolutions, and, finally, death and inevitable illness. Without what we call diversion, he is unhappy. He is even unhappier than the least of his subjects who plays and amuses 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.

This is why gambling, the company of women, war, and high office are so sought after. It is not that they actually bring happiness. Nor do men imagine that true happiness lies in money won at gambling or in the hare they hunt. We would not accept these things as gifts. We do not seek the easy, peaceful life that leaves us free to think about our unhappy condition. Nor do we seek the dangers of war or the work of office. We seek the bustle that distracts us from these thoughts and entertains us.

Reasons why we like the chase better than the quarry.

Reasons why we enjoy the pursuit more than what we pursue.

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.

This is why people love noise and activity so much. It is why prison is such a terrible punishment. It is also why the pleasure of solitude is incomprehensible to them. In fact, the greatest source of happiness for kings is that people constantly try to entertain them and provide them with 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.

The king is surrounded by people whose only thought is to entertain him and keep him from thinking about himself. For even a king is unhappy when he thinks about 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.

This is all that people have been able to discover to make themselves happy. Some philosophers think people are unreasonable to spend a whole day chasing a hare they would not have bought. But they hardly understand human nature. The hare itself would not shield us from the sight of death and misfortune. But the chase distracts us from them, and so it shields 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

The advice given to Pyrrhus was full of difficulties. He was advised to rest now, rather than seek rest through so much hard work.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.

[To tell a man to live quietly is to tell him to live happily. It is to advise him to be perfectly happy, able to think at leisure without finding any reason for distress. This is to misunderstand human 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 ...

People naturally understand their own condition and avoid nothing more than rest. They leave nothing undone in their search for turmoil. This is not because 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.]

So we are wrong to blame them. Their mistake is not seeking excitement, if they seek it only as a distraction. The problem is that they seek it as if getting what they pursue would make them truly happy. In this respect, it is right to call their pursuit pointless. So, in all this, neither the critics nor those they criticize understand human 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.

So, when we object that what they pursue so eagerly cannot satisfy them, they could answer us. If they thought the matter through, they would say they seek only intense, absorbing activity that distracts them from themselves. That is why they choose an appealing goal to captivate them and draw them on eagerly. This would leave their opponents with no reply. But they do not give this answer because they do not know themselves.⁷⁰ They do not know that they seek the chase, not the prize.

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.

Dancing: we must think carefully about where to put our feet. A gentleman truly believes that hunting is a great sport fit for kings. But a beater, who drives the game toward the hunters, does not agree.

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 imagine that if they got such a position, they would be happy to rest. They do not realize that their desire can never be satisfied. They think they are truly seeking peace, but 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.

They have a hidden instinct that drives them to seek amusement and activity outside themselves. It arises from their constant unhappiness. They have another hidden instinct, a remnant of the greatness of our original nature. It teaches them that true happiness lies only in rest, not in constant activity. These two opposing instincts form a confused idea within them, hidden from their own view deep in their souls. It drives them to seek rest through excitement. They always imagine that the satisfaction they lack will come if they overcome the difficulties before them. By doing so, they hope to 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.

This is how all human life passes. People seek rest by struggling against difficulties. Once they overcome those difficulties, rest becomes unbearable. We think either of the misfortunes we face or of those that threaten us. Even if we felt well protected on every side, weariness would still arise on its own. It would rise from the depths of the heart, where it naturally takes root, and 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.

People are so miserable that their very nature would make them bored, even without any other cause for boredom. Yet they are also so frivolous that, despite having a thousand reasons for boredom, the smallest thing can amuse them. Playing billiards or hitting a ball is enough.

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.

But you may ask, what is his goal in all this? The pleasure of bragging to his friends tomorrow that he played better than someone else. Others sweat in their rooms to show scholars that they have solved an algebra problem no one had solved before. Many more expose themselves to extreme dangers, in my opinion just as foolishly. They do it so they can boast afterward that they captured a town. Finally, others wear themselves out studying all these things, not to become wiser, but only to prove they know them. These are the most senseless of the group because they know they are being foolish. We may suppose that the others would stop being foolish if they knew it.

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.

This man spends his life playing every day for a small stake, without ever tiring of it. Give him each morning the money he could win that day, on condition that he does not play. You will make him miserable. Perhaps someone will say that he seeks the pleasure of playing, not the winnings. Then let him play for nothing. He will not get excited, and he will feel bored. So pleasure alone is not what he seeks. A dull pleasure without passion will tire him. He needs to get excited. He must fool himself into imagining that winning will make him happy. Yet he would not accept the same money as a gift on condition that he not play. He must create something to feel passionate about. He must stir up his desire, anger, and fear in pursuit of his imagined goal. He is like a child frightened by a face the child has 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.

Why does this man no longer think about his only son, who died a few months ago? Why has he forgotten the lawsuits and quarrels that distressed him so much this morning? Do not wonder. He is fully occupied watching for the boar his dogs have been chasing fiercely for six hours. He needs nothing more. However sad a man may be, he is happy for the time if you can persuade him to enjoy some amusement. And however happy a man may be, he will soon become discontented and miserable without a distraction. He needs some passion or pursuit to keep boredom from overcoming him. Without amusement, there is no joy. With amusement, there is no sadness. This also explains the happiness of people in high positions. They have many people to amuse them and 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.

Consider this. What does it mean to be a superintendent, chancellor, or first president? It means that, from early morning, many people come from everywhere to see them. They do not leave them a single hour in the day to think about themselves. When these officials fall out of favor, they are sent back to their country houses. There they have plenty of wealth and servants to help them when needed. Yet they are still miserable and desolate, because no one stops them from thinking about themselves.

[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.]

[How is it that this man, so distressed by the death of his wife and only son, is not sad now? Or that a man troubled by a major lawsuit seems free of all painful and worrying thoughts? We need not wonder. A ball has been served to him, and he must return it to his companion. He is busy trying to catch it as it falls from the roof, so he can win the game. How can he think about his own affairs when he has this other matter to attend to? Here is a concern worthy of occupying this great soul and driving every other thought from his mind. This man was born to understand the universe, judge all causes, and govern an entire state. Yet he is completely absorbed in catching a hare. If he refuses to lower himself to this and insists on always straining himself, he will be even more foolish. He would be trying to rise above humanity. After all, he is only a man, capable of little and of much, of all and of nothing. He is neither angel nor beast, but man.]

Men spend their time in following a ball or a hare; it is the pleasure even of kings.

Men spend their time chasing a ball or a hare. Even kings enjoy it.

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.

Diversion. Is royal dignity not great enough in itself to make a king happy simply by contemplating what he is? Must he be distracted from this thought like ordinary people? I can see how a man might be made happy by distraction from his troubles at home. All his thoughts might be occupied with dancing well. But is it the same for a king? Will he be happier pursuing these idle amusements than contemplating his greatness? And what more satisfying object could be put before his mind? Would it not rob him of pleasure to occupy his mind with adjusting his steps to the rhythm of a tune? Or with throwing a [ball] skillfully? Why not leave him to enjoy quietly the majestic glory that surrounds him? Let us put it to the test. Let us leave a king entirely alone, free to reflect on himself at leisure. Give him no pleasures of the senses, no cares on his mind, and no company. We will see that a king without diversion is a deeply miserable man. This is carefully avoided. Kings always have many people around them who make sure amusement follows business. They watch over every moment of the king’s leisure, filling it with pleasures and games, so that no time is left empty. In fact, the people around kings are remarkably attentive to keeping the king from being alone and able to think about himself. They know well that he will be miserable, king though he is, if he reflects on himself.

In all this I am not talking of Christian kings as Christians, but only as kings.

In all this, I am speaking of Christian kings not as Christians, but only as kings.

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.

Diversion. From childhood, men are given responsibility for their honor, property, and friends. They are also responsible for their friends’ property and honor. They are overwhelmed with business, the study of languages, and physical exercise.⁷¹ They are made to understand that they cannot be happy unless their health, honor, and fortune are in good condition. The same must be true of their friends’ fortunes. If a single thing is missing, they will be unhappy. So they are given cares and duties that keep them rushing about from daybreak. You will exclaim, “What a strange way to make them happy! What more could be done to make them miserable?” Indeed, what could be done? We would only have to relieve them of all these cares. Then they would see themselves. They would reflect on what they are, where they came from, and where they are going. So we cannot keep them too busy or too distracted. That is why, after giving them so much to do, we advise them to spend any free time on entertainment and games. We tell them to stay fully occupied at all times.

How hollow and full of ribaldry is the heart of man!

How empty and full of vulgar humor the human heart is!

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?

I spent a long time studying the abstract sciences. I was discouraged by how few others studied them. When I began studying human beings, I saw that the abstract sciences are not suited to us. By studying them, I was straying farther from my own condition than others were by knowing nothing about them. I forgave their lack of knowledge. But I thought I would at least find many companions in the study of human beings. I thought it was the true study suited to us. I was mistaken. Even fewer people study it than study geometry. We turn to other studies only because we do not know how to study human beings. But could it be that even this is not the knowledge we should seek? And could it be better for our happiness not to know ourselves?

[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.]

[Only one thought occupies us at a time. We cannot think of two things at once. This is fortunate for us by the world’s standards, but not by God’s.]

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.

Human beings are clearly made to think. All their dignity and merit lie in this. Their whole duty is to think as they should. Thinking should begin with the self, its creator, and its purpose.

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.

Now, what does the world think about? Never about this. Instead, it thinks about dancing, playing the lute, singing, writing poems, jousting at rings, and so on. It thinks about fighting and becoming king, without considering what it means to be a king or a human being.

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.

We are not content with the life we have within ourselves, with our own being. We want to live an imaginary life in the minds of others, and so we try to shine. We work tirelessly to adorn and preserve this imaginary existence, while neglecting our real one. If we possess calmness, generosity, or truthfulness, we are eager to make it known. We want to attach these virtues to our imaginary existence. We would rather separate them from ourselves and attach them to that image. We would willingly be cowards to gain a reputation for bravery. What great proof this is of the nothingness of our being! We are not satisfied with our real existence without the imaginary one, and we give up the real for the imaginary. For anyone who would not die to preserve his honor would be disgraced.

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.

We are so presumptuous that we want to be known by the whole world. We even want to be known by people who will live after we are gone. Yet we are so vain that the respect of five or six neighbors delights and satisfies us.

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.

We do not worry about being respected in towns we pass through. But if we are going to stay a little while, we do worry about it. How long must we stay? A time in keeping with our vain and petty lives.

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 ...

Vanity is so deeply rooted in the human heart that soldiers, soldiers’ servants, cooks, and porters boast and want admirers. Even philosophers want admirers. Those who write against vanity want the glory of having written well.⁷² Those who read their work want the glory of having read it. I who write this perhaps have the same desire, and perhaps those who will read it ...

Glory.—Admiration spoils all from infancy. Ah! How well said! Ah! How well done! How well-behaved he is! etc.

Glory. Admiration spoils everything from infancy. Oh, how well he speaks! Oh, how well he acts! How well-behaved he is! And so on.

The children of Port-Royal, who do not receive this stimulus of envy and glory, fall into carelessness.

The children of Port-Royal, who are not motivated by envy or the desire for glory, become careless.

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.

Pride. Curiosity is only vanity. Most often, we want to know things only so we can talk about them. Otherwise, we would not take a sea voyage solely for the pleasure of seeing things, without ever talking about it or hoping to share what we saw.

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.

The desire to be respected by those around us. Pride takes hold of us so naturally, even amid our troubles, mistakes, and so on. We even gladly give up our lives, as long as people talk about it.

Vanity: play, hunting, visiting, false shame, a lasting name.

Vanity: games, hunting, social visits, misplaced shame, and a lasting reputation.

[I have no friends] to your advantage].

[I have no friends] to your advantage].

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.

A true friend is a great advantage, even to the greatest lords. He can speak well of them and support them when they are absent. They should do all they can to have one. But they should choose carefully. If they devote all their efforts to serving fools, it will do them no good, however well those fools speak of them. And the fools will not even speak well of them if they find themselves on the weaker side. They have no influence, so they will speak ill of them in company.

Ferox gens, nullam esse vitam sine armis rati.⁷³—They prefer death to peace; others prefer death to war.

A fierce people who believed there was no life without weapons.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

Every opinion can be valued more than life, even though the love of life is so strong and natural.⁷⁴

Contradiction: contempt for our existence, to die for nothing, hatred of our existence.

Contradiction: disdain for our existence, dying for nothing, hatred of our existence.

Pursuits.—The charm of fame is so great, that we like every object to which it is attached, even death.

Pursuits. Fame is so appealing that we like anything associated with it, even death.

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.

Noble deeds are most admirable when they are hidden. When I come across some in history (as on page 184)⁷⁵, they give me great pleasure. But in the end, they were not entirely hidden, since they became known. Although people did what they could to hide them, the little publicity they received spoils everything. What was best about them was the wish to keep them hidden.

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.

Sneezing occupies all the functions of the soul, just as work does. Yet we do not draw the same conclusions about human greatness, because sneezing is involuntary. Even when we bring it on ourselves, we still sneeze against our will. We do not bring it on for the act itself, but for some other purpose. So sneezing does not prove human weakness or our enslavement to that action.

It is not disgraceful for man to yield to pain, and it is disgraceful to yield to pleasure. This is not because pain comes to us from without, and we ourselves seek pleasure; for it is possible to seek pain, and yield to it purposely, without this kind of baseness. Whence comes it, then, that reason thinks it honourable to succumb under stress of pain, and disgraceful to yield to the attack of pleasure? It is because pain does not tempt and attract us. It is we ourselves who choose it voluntarily, and will it to prevail over us. So that we are masters of the situation; and in this man yields to himself. But in pleasure it is man who yields to pleasure. Now only mastery and sovereignty bring glory, and only slavery brings shame.

It is not shameful for a person to give in to pain, but it is shameful to give in to pleasure. This is not because pain comes from outside us while we seek pleasure ourselves. We can seek pain and deliberately give in to it without being degraded in this way. Why, then, does reason consider it honorable to succumb to pain, but shameful to give in to pleasure? It is because pain does not tempt or attract us. We choose it freely and allow it to overcome us. So we remain in control. In giving in to pain, we yield to ourselves. But in pleasure, we yield to pleasure itself. Only mastery and self-rule bring glory, and only slavery brings shame.

Vanity.—How wonderful it is that a thing so evident as the vanity of the world is so little known, that it is a strange and surprising thing to say that it is foolish to seek greatness!

Vanity. It is remarkable that the emptiness of the world is so obvious, yet so little understood. As a result, saying that it is foolish to seek greatness sounds strange and surprising.

He who will know fully the vanity of man has only to consider the causes and effects of love. The cause is a je ne sais quoi (Corneille),⁷⁶ and the effects are dreadful. This je ne sais quoi, so small an object that we cannot recognise it, agitates a whole country, princes, armies, the entire world.

Anyone who wants to understand the full extent of human vanity need only consider the causes and effects of love. Its cause is a je ne sais quoi (Corneille),⁷⁶ and its effects are dreadful. This je ne sais quoi is so small that we cannot recognize it. Yet it stirs up a whole country, princes, armies, the entire world.

Cleopatra's nose: had it been shorter, the whole aspect of the world would have been altered.

Cleopatra's nose: if it had been shorter, the whole world would have been different.

Vanity.—The cause and the effects of love: Cleopatra.

Vanity. The causes and effects of love: Cleopatra.

He who does not see the vanity of the world is himself very vain. Indeed who do not see it but youths who are absorbed in fame, diversion, and the thought of the future? But take away diversion, and you will see them dried up with weariness. They feel then their nothingness without knowing it; for it is indeed to be unhappy to be in insufferable sadness as soon as we are reduced to thinking of self, and have no diversion.

Anyone who does not see the emptiness of the world is very vain. Who fails to see it except young people absorbed in fame, entertainment, and thoughts of the future? Take away their entertainment, and you will see them wither with boredom. They feel their own nothingness without knowing it. It is truly miserable to fall into unbearable sadness as soon as we are left to think about ourselves, with nothing to distract us.

Thoughts.—In omnibus requiem quæsivi.⁷⁷ If our condition were truly happy, we would not need diversion from thinking of it in order to make ourselves happy.

Thoughts. I sought rest in all things.⁷⁷ If our condition were truly happy, we would not need to distract ourselves from thinking about it to be happy.

Diversion.—Death is easier to bear without thinking of it, than is the thought of death without peril.

Diversion. It is easier to face death without thinking about it than to think about death when you are not in danger.

The miseries of human life have established all this: as men have seen this, they have taken up diversion.

The miseries of human life have brought about all this. Seeing this, people have turned to distractions.

Diversion.—As men are not able to fight against death, misery, ignorance, they have taken it into their heads, in order to be happy, not to think of them at all.

Diversion. People cannot fight death, misery, or ignorance. So, to be happy, they have decided not to think about them at all.

Despite these miseries, man wishes to be happy, and only wishes to be happy, and cannot wish not to be so. But how will he set about it? To be happy he would have to make himself immortal; but, not being able to do so, it has occurred to him to prevent himself from thinking of death.

Despite these miseries, people want to be happy. They want only to be happy and cannot wish otherwise. But how can they achieve this? To be happy, they would have to make themselves immortal. Since they cannot do that, they have decided to stop themselves from thinking about death.

Diversion.—If man were happy, he would be the more so, the less he was diverted, like the Saints and God.—Yes; but is it not to be happy to have a faculty of being amused by diversion?—No; for that comes from elsewhere and from without, and thus is dependent, and therefore subject to be disturbed by a thousand accidents, which bring inevitable griefs.

Diversion. If a person were happy, the less distracted he was, the happier he would be, like the saints and God. Yes, but isn't being able to enjoy distractions itself a kind of happiness? No. That happiness comes from outside a person, so it depends on external things. It can therefore be disturbed by a thousand accidents, which bring inevitable sorrow.

Misery.—The only thing which consoles us for our miseries is diversion, and yet this it the greatest of our miseries. For it is this which principally hinders us from reflecting upon ourselves, and which makes us insensibly ruin ourselves. Without this we should be in a state of weariness, and this weariness would spur us to seek a more solid means of escaping from it. But diversion amuses us, and leads us unconsciously to death.

Misery. Only diversion comforts us in our misery, yet it is the greatest of our miseries. It is what chiefly keeps us from reflecting on ourselves and makes us ruin ourselves without noticing. Without it, we would grow weary. That weariness would spur us to seek a more lasting way to escape it. But diversion entertains us and leads us to death without our realizing it.

We do not rest satisfied with the present. We anticipate the future as too slow in coming, as if in order to hasten its course; or we recall the past, to stop its too rapid flight. So imprudent are we that we wander in the times which are not ours, and do not think of the only one which belongs to us; and so idle are we that we dream of those times which are no more, and thoughtlessly overlook that which alone exists. For the present is generally painful to us. We conceal it from our sight, because it troubles us; and if it be delightful to us, we regret to see it pass away. We try to sustain it by the future, and think of arranging matters which are not in our power, for a time which we have no certainty of reaching.

We are not content with the present. We look ahead to the future, impatient for it to arrive, as if we could make it come faster. Or we recall the past, hoping to stop it from slipping away so quickly. We are so careless that we wander through times that are not ours. Yet we do not think about the only time that belongs to us. We are so idle that we dream of times that no longer exist. We thoughtlessly overlook the one time that does exist. For the present is generally painful to us. We hide it from ourselves because it troubles us. And when it delights us, we regret seeing it pass away. We try to sustain it by looking to the future. We plan things beyond our control for a time we cannot be sure we will reach.

Let each one examine his thoughts, and he will find them all occupied with the past and the future. We scarcely ever think of the present; and if we think of it, it is only to take light from it to arrange the future. The present is never our end. The past and the present are our means; the future alone is our end.⁷⁸ So we never live, but we hope to live; and, as we are always preparing to be happy, it is inevitable we should never be so.

Let each of us examine our thoughts. We will find them all occupied with the past and the future. We hardly ever think about the present. When we do, it is only to help us plan for the future. The present is never our goal. The past and the present are our means. The future alone is our goal.⁷⁸ So we never live, but only hope to live. Since we are always preparing to be happy, we will inevitably never be happy.

They say that eclipses foretoken misfortune, because misfortunes are common, so that, as evil happens so often, they often foretell it; whereas if they said that they predict good fortune, they would often be wrong. They attribute good fortune only to rare conjunctions of the heavens; so they seldom fail in prediction.

They say eclipses predict misfortune because misfortunes are common. Since bad things happen so often, eclipses often seem to foretell them. If they said eclipses predicted good fortune, they would often be wrong. They attribute good fortune only to rare alignments of heavenly bodies, so their predictions seldom fail.

Misery.—Solomon⁷⁹ and Job have best known and best spoken of the misery of man; the former the most fortunate, and the latter the most unfortunate of men; the former knowing the vanity of pleasures from experience, the latter the reality of evils.

Misery. Solomon⁷⁹ and Job best understood and spoke best about human misery. Solomon was the most fortunate of men, and Job the most unfortunate. Solomon knew from experience how empty pleasures are, while Job knew the reality of suffering.

We know ourselves so little, that many think they are about to die when they are well, and many think they are well when they are near death, unconscious of approaching fever,⁸⁰ or of the abscess ready to form itself.

We know ourselves so poorly that many think they are about to die when they are healthy. Many others think they are healthy when they are near death, unaware of an approaching fever⁸⁰ or an abscess about to form.

Cromwell⁸¹ was about to ravage all Christendom; the royal family was undone, and his own for ever established, save for a little grain of sand which formed in his ureter. Rome herself was trembling under him; but this small piece of gravel having formed there, he is dead, his family cast down, all is peaceful, and the king is restored.

Cromwell⁸¹ was about to ravage all Christendom. The royal family was ruined, and his own would have been established forever, if not for a tiny grain of sand that formed in his ureter. Rome herself was trembling before him. But this small stone formed there, and he died. His family was overthrown, all is peaceful, and the king is restored.

[Three hosts.⁸²] Would he who had possessed the friendship of the King of England, the King of Poland, and the Queen of Sweden, have believed he would lack a refuge and shelter in the world?

[Three hosts.⁸²] He had been friends with the King of England, the King of Poland, and the Queen of Sweden. Would he have believed he could find no refuge or shelter anywhere in the world?

Macrobius:⁸³ on the innocents slain by Herod.

Macrobius:⁸³ on the innocent children killed by Herod.

When Augustus learnt that Herod's own son was amongst the infants under two years of age, whom he had caused to be slain, he said that it was better to be Herod's pig than his son.—Macrobius, Sat., book ii, chap. 4.

Augustus learned that Herod's own son was among the infants under two whom Herod had ordered killed. Augustus said it was better to be Herod's pig than his son. Macrobius, Sat., book ii, chap. 4.

The great and the humble have the same misfortunes, the same griefs, the same passions;⁸⁴ but the one is at the top of the wheel, and the other near the centre, and so less disturbed by the same revolutions.

The powerful and the humble suffer the same misfortunes, griefs, and passions.⁸⁴ But the powerful are at the top of the wheel, while the humble are near its center. So the humble are less disturbed by the same turns of the wheel.

We are so unfortunate that we can only take pleasure in a thing on condition of being annoyed if it turn out ill, as a thousand things can do, and do every hour. He who should find the secret of rejoicing in the good, without troubling himself with its contrary evil, would have hit the mark. It is perpetual motion.

We are so unfortunate that we can enjoy something only if we are also upset when it goes wrong. A thousand things can go wrong, and they do every hour. Anyone who discovered how to enjoy the good without worrying about the opposite evil would have found the answer. It is perpetual motion.

Those who have always good hope in the midst of misfortunes, and who are delighted with good luck, are suspected of being very pleased with the ill success of the affair, if they are not equally distressed by bad luck; and they are overjoyed to find these pretexts of hope, in order to show that they are concerned and to conceal by the joy which they feign to feel that which they have at seeing the failure of the matter.

Some people remain hopeful through every setback and are delighted by good luck. If bad luck does not upset them equally, others suspect they are pleased that the affair is going badly. They are overjoyed to find these reasons for hope, so they can appear concerned. By pretending to be glad about them, they conceal their real pleasure at seeing the matter fail.

We run carelessly to the precipice, after we have put something before us to prevent us seeing it.

We run carelessly toward the cliff, having first put something in front of us so we cannot see it.