For p. 366, thought 1. So those people who deduce the absolute necessity of Religion from the present state of man, and his wretchedness, nihil agunt [achieve nothing], if they cannot also prove that he was destined to this state, and that, living as he does, he follows his destiny, and the absolute, not arbitrary, order of things. Because other animals, such as ants, bees, and beavers, live in a form of society sufficient to their needs or comfort, and yet they have no Religion or any kind of law. Animals also have very adequate powers of reason,1 they have the principle τοῦ λογισμοῦ [of reason], the principle of knowledge innate to all living beings, not just man, and yet they do not use it in the same way as man, nor are they unhappy. And it is not proved that society, as it is now, is the natural state for [371] man, whereas on the contrary, it is proved that man without society has neither by nature nor by instinct any idea of Religion and has not the slightest need of it, all his duties being entirely toward himself and being firmly grounded in the instinct that leads him to love himself and preserve his own life. (2 Dec. 1820.)
The perfectibility of man is held to be beyond doubt. In other words, he can perfect himself; he can perfect the work of nature. Consider the material system of the world, as much in the smallest as in the largest things, as much in the organization of a tiny, scarcely visible creature as in the order of the stars, and you will find everywhere such skill, wisdom, and mastery that not only can there be no improvement to what nature has done, not only can nothing be added or taken away, or changed without damage, but even if we had the same power to do as nature has, there is no man whose intellect is so subtle, profound, and sublime that he would be capable I do not say of carrying out but even of conceiving a plan so magisterial, so detailed, so tightly and neatly tied together, so perfect in every least part, as the one we see carried out by nature. So I say to man [372] who claims to be perfectible, and to be able, even to have a duty, to perfect himself: perfect your body, your anatomy, the structure of your organs, or at least some part of it. If you cannot do this, at least imagine a design that is more perfect, more complete, right, appropriate, precise, exquisite than nature’s own with respect to the organization, etc., of your body. Man bursts out laughing, and admits that not only is there nothing as perfect but that with all his learning, from the beginning of the world until now, he has not yet succeeded in understanding completely its true perfection, and every day reveals something else to admire, and increases his wonder. Now why, since you cannot improve on your body, or even comprehend the extent of its natural perfection, do you presume to perfect something as noble, abstruse, and complex as the mind? And how could nature, so perfect a teacher, so precise, fastidious, and thorough in everything else, and in your body in particular, have been so stupid, negligent, and at fault with the most important part of you, the part on which the use of that perfect body depended, and which was also to have such an influence on other forms of life? Why has it left you with so much work to do on the part that should concern it most, after having left you with nothing more to do to the one that mattered less, and was subordinate to the first? Above all, how can you presume to perfect, not just your mind [373] but also the whole vast order of the other things on earth, insofar as it is strictly related and connected to, and dependent on, the developments and state of being of your own species? (2 Dec. 1820.)
French poetry and prose blend into each other, and the French make no clear distinction between prose and poetry, not just because the style of their poetry is indistinguishable from that of prose, and they have no true poetic language, or because, also in the way they see things, their poets (especially modern ones) are writers, thinkers, and philosophers more than poets, and Voltaire, e.g., in the Enriade, writes with that same enjouement [playfulness], that same esprit [wit], that same conversational tone, that same tour [knack] and play of words, phrases, manners, sentiments, and opinions as he employs in his prose—not only, I maintain, on account of all this but also because French prose is now a kind of poetry. What passes for elegance among philosophers, orators, scientists, and other writers, and all they are capable of producing, is an exaggerated style, a fondness for simile and metaphor, in short a style that is continually poetic, and cast mainly in the lyric register. This largely came about after the introduction of poems in prose, whether these were poems in the proper sense of the word, or novels, descriptive or sentimental works, etc. But [374] the French believe themselves to be the sole experts, exemplars, enthusiasts, and guardians of the classical style of writing in modern times, although I do not know from which ancient classical source they derived this fashion, which cannot be either elegant or eloquent without resorting to what I can only call that perpetual transferral and μετεωρία [elevation] and agitation of style which is proper to poetry. (Bossuet’s eloquence is exactly like this, all biblical, all conventional jargon, and the biblical style and the jargon form the normal eloquence and elegance of every sort of French writer today.) No restraint, no composure, no simplicity, no familiarity. I do not mean the distinctive simplicity or familiarity of some particular style or writer, I mean what is universally and naturally proper to prose, which is not inspired writing. Let them look at Cicero, let them look at the most energetic writers of antiquity, and tell me if there is anyone so blind that he is unable immediately to recognize that this is prose, not poetry; if this prose were turned into metrical verse, it would have nothing in common with poetry (as happens with their prose writings); and if the most eloquent, elegant, and energetic prose of antiquity does or does not possess a style that is absolutely separate from that of poetry. Although the French language has always tended toward this failing, [375] nevertheless even the writers of the good periods have (with few exceptions) a much greater and more distinct flavor and taste of prose. And if they have neither austerity nor gravity nor modesty, they do still have such composure and purity of style as is indispensable to prose: Sévigné, Mme. Lambert, Racine, and Boileau when they write prose, Pascal, etc. Indeed, reading Pascal and then turning to modern philosophers and thinkers, you can’t help noticing the transition and the difference in this respect. (2 Dec. 1820.) See p. 477, paragraph 1.
Reason is inimical to nature, but not the primitive sort of reasoning that man uses in the natural state, and in which the other animals, equally free, and therefore necessarily capable of knowing, have a share. Nature itself provided us with this, and there are no contradictions in nature. The enemy of nature is the use of reason that is not natural, the excessive use, which belongs uniquely to man, and to corrupted man: the enemy of nature precisely because it is not natural nor does it belong to primitive man.
Indecisive people, once they have made a decision, are often very firm in sticking to it in the face of serious difficulties, precisely because of their indecisiveness, and because they cannot resolve to abandon the first decision and make another, because that seems more problematic to them, because they are frightened by the idea of going back and deciding again. Perhaps this happens most with people who are indecisive out of laziness and who find the laziest, [376] easiest option is to carry on rather than turn back. But, if I am not mistaken, this is something common to all indecisive people. (3 Dec. 1820.)
The Essai sur l’indifférence en matière de religion, on the first or second page of Chapter 9: “It is remarkable that all men … constantly link the idea of happiness with the idea of rest, which is nothing other than that profound, changeless peace, necessarily enjoyed by beings who have achieved perfection, and which St. Augustine calls par excellence ‘the tranquillity of order.’ … In a word happiness is not found other than in the bosom of order; and order is the source of good, as disorder is the source of evil, as much in the moral as in the physical world; as much for peoples as for Individuals.”1 The love of order, or the idea of the necessity of order, which is to say harmony and propriety, is innate, absolute, and universal, for it is the basis of reasoning and the principle underlying our knowledge and judgment of what is true or f
alse. But the idea of such order is variable and dependent on habit, opinion, etc., it is relative and particular. The desire for rest is not for rest in the sense of peace and quiet but (1) in the sense of agreement, harmony, etc., with the characteristics and nature of the species or individual; (2) in the sense of stability or the ability to endure. Man and no other being can only find good in [377] a state that is in harmony with his essential nature. Denied this state, he is in a condition of confusion and disorder, and therefore of torment, not because of a lack of absolute tranquillity but because of a lack of relative harmony. If his nature was suited to warfare, constant movement, and continuous action, he would be wretched, even violent, when he was in a state of enforced rest, in the strict sense of the word, and he would not rest, in other words find happiness, except in war or toil. For him, peace and rest would be disorder, war and toil order. So the rest we are seeking is not absolute rest and tranquillity but harmony with our nature both as species and as individuals. The same applies to stability, because that which conflicts with our nature, even if it is actually durable, has neither potentiality nor legitimacy, and therefore man cannot find peace there.1 The opposite is true if the situation is reversed. But this tranquillity is not absolute tranquillity, as though tranquillity were essentially and primordially good; rather it is relative tranquillity, or let us say harmony. We should not use abstract propositions to refer to relative matters, or claim to have demonstrated that we naturally love a given order, because we love order. We love order, as all creatures do. But which order? We hate disorder, but which disorder is this? That is what we need [378] to find out, and here again, philosophers are divided, and it is in vain that from the preceding, incontrovertible, and accepted principle we presume to extract anything definite and concrete concerning the question of the state and perfection that is the particular destiny of man, and which he so ardently desires. I say, therefore: the state of perfection, that state of order, outside of which there is no rest, outside of which there is no tranquillity of order, or happiness, is for man, and all living beings, that state which nature has established for them with its own hand, and not one that he either has, or should, determine for himself.
Chapter 9 of the Essai, etc., cited above is perhaps the strongest, most profound, and most conclusive of the whole work, because the proofs of religion are not deduced from a consideration of man as he is now, or of opinions, etc., but from the nature of man. You would do well to reread it. But here is the argument. Happiness can be found only in the perfection of which a being is capable. A being is not perfect if all its faculties are not perfectly in accord with one another, perfectly developed according to their nature, and if each of these does not enjoy its proper object to the full extent of its capability. It is not perfect if it does not conform to the laws resulting from its nature. But in order to conform to them, [379] it needs to know what they are. Therefore, man cannot be happy unless he knows himself and the necessary relationships he has with other beings. And he must be able to know this, “otherwise he would be a contradictory being, because having a goal, namely perfection or happiness, he would have no means of reaching it.”1 So man, aiming for perfection or happiness, aims above all for knowledge of the truth. From knowledge, love and hate derive, that is, the judgment of what constitutes good or bad qualities. From love and hate comes action, because a man cannot decide upon something unless he thinks it good. Total ignorance is like the state of death, because if it is supposed that man has no reason to think things good or bad, his indifference is total, and, being unable to love or hate, he cannot choose, therefore he cannot act, therefore he cannot live. So then, knowing, loving, acting, this is what man is all about. The object of the faculty of knowing is truth. The extent of this faculty is measured by desire. Man feels an infinite desire to know, and thus to love. Therefore, his cognitive faculty, or intelligence, is capable of knowing infinite truth; his faculty of love is capable of loving the infinite Good. Whereas, his faculty of action being limited, he does not feel an infinite desire for action, as a physical being. Therefore, the happiness of man [380] consists in the perfection of knowledge; of love, that is, the disposition of the soul with regard to objects; and of action, which derives from these two principles. Therefore, it consists in the true because (1) total ignorance is the same as a total lack of knowledge, love, and action; (2) error, by deceiving him about his relations, and about the accord and development of his faculties, contradicts perfection, that is, it destroys the harmony between man and his faculties and the laws that result from his nature, and thus destroys his happiness. That is the argument. Here are the responses.
First, with regard to truth, what is to be understood by truth with respect to the happiness of man, and consequently what is the end, the aim, the true object of his faculty of knowing, can be seen clearly expounded on p. 326 of these thoughts, paragraph 1. That alone should be a sufficient response to this whole argument.
Second, as regards what this order, this perfect balance of his faculties is for man, and how it corresponds with his relationships and the laws that result from his nature, see pp. 376–78, where you will find that this abstract principle, although true and accepted, is powerless to prove anything on the question of the true laws, the true relationships, and the true, particular nature of man.
We come to the desire for knowledge. Certainly it is necessary that man should know, that is, that he should make choices, because he is free. This happens with the brutes as well. [381] It is necessary to know well in order to choose well. Therefore, it is necessary to know the truth, as error will deprive him of happiness. The wrong conclusion. He needs to know what is right for him. Absolute truth, and so to speak the very type of truth, is a matter of indifference for man. His happiness may depend on recognizing and judging what is true or false. What is necessary is that this judgment be truly appropriate to his nature.
An uneducated man does not lack the ability to make this judgment because nature already teaches him everything he needs to know. One has to be really stupid to accept the hypothesis of a degree of ignorance that leaves a man in a state of total indifference, like the ass of the paradox who, “tra due cibi distanti e moventi / d’un modo,” “si morria di fame” [between two foods, equally near at hand and tempting, might die of hunger].1 An uneducated man may not know the truth, but he knows how to make up his mind. Indeed, someone in a natural state of ignorance, like a child, makes up his mind much more quickly, easily, enthusiastically, definitely, and confidently than a highly educated or wise man. Moreover, the same things that by their nature seem unimportant to man, however little he has moved away from nature, those things which cannot be objects of action, like plants, rocks, and so on, are not unimportant to primitive man and to children, who find in the most minute details reasons to love or hate them. They find remarkable, even if imaginary, differences in the most [382] indifferent objects, and exaggerate and magnify tiny real differences, so that they are never without a motive for decision. Instead, it is reason and science that are supremely indifferent, nature and ignorance quite the opposite. (See my discourse on the Romantics1 and p. 69 of these thoughts, paragraph 3.) Because imagination, and error, gives much more weight to details than reason does, and such certainty does not permit any doubts or coldness, unlike reason, which recognizes how unimportant all things are, and therefore how little difference there is in their respective usefulness and goodness. Added to which, reason and science obviously tend to reduce everything in the world to the same level, and eliminate or diminish variety, because there is nothing more uniform than reason, and nothing more varied than nature. And so science is a major promoter of indifference because it removes or blurs genuine differences and therefore diminishes the motivation for decision.
As for doubt, the main cause of indifference, the book I’m discussing refers to a passage by Pascal, where among other things (all worth reading) he says: “Everyone needs to decide, and ally himself necessarily with either dogmatism or Pyr
rhonism … I maintain that there has never been an effective or perfect Pyrrhonist. Nature supports powerless reason and to that extent limits its excesses … [383] Nature confounds the Pyrrhonists, and reason confounds the dogmatists” (that is to say, those who accept and defend their opinions as certainties). (Pensées de Pascal, Ch. 21.)1 In fact, doubt hardly existed until reason and science came to the fore, and there is nothing so sure as ignorance in those who believe. Everything that natural man knows or believes he knows (as nature intended), he regards as absolutely certain and feels no shadow of doubt. To the extent that ignorance is conducive to total indifference, and therefore to inaction and death; or rather to the extent that there is a state of absolute ignorance, that is, a state of mind wholly incapable of belief and judgment: to that extent it is foolish to confuse the lack of truth with a lack of judgment, as if the only judgments one makes must be true ones, or as if from the said principle there followed the necessity for absolutely true judgments, rather than for judgments that are truly useful and adapted to the nature of man.
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