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The Impossible

 

Ah! that life of my childhood, the main road in all weathers, supernaturally sober, more disinterested than the best of beggars, proud of having neither country, nor friends, what foolishness it was—and I just see it!

—I was right to despise those fellows who did not miss the chance of a caress, parasites of the cleanliness and health of our women, today when they are so little in accord with us.

I was right in all my disdains: since I escape!

I escape?

I explain.

Only yesterday, I would sigh, "Heavens! are we not enough damned ones down here! Myself, I've so much time already in their troupe! I know them all. We recognize each other always; we disgust each other. Charity is unknown to us. But we are polished; our relations with the world are very fitting." Is it stunning? The world! merchants, naifs!—we are not dishonored—but the elect, how would they receive us? Now there are people aggressive and joyous, the false elect, since we must have audacity or humility to accost them. They are the only elect. They are not blessers!

Having recovered two sous' worth of reason—it goes fast!—I see that my discomforts come from not having a conception soon enough that we are in the West. The western swamps! Not that I think the altered light, the extenuated form, the strayed motion... Good! see how my mind absolutely wants to take upon itself all the cruel developments the mind has suffered since the end of the East... It wants to, my mind!

... My two sous' worth of reason is done!—my mind is authority, it wants me to be in the West. It would have to be silenced to conclude as I wished.

I sent to the devil the palms of martyrs, the rays of art, the pride of inventors, the ardor of plunderers; I returned to the East and the first and eternal wisdom—it seems that's a dream of gross sloth!

Nonetheless, I scarcely contemplated the pleasure of escaping modern sufferings. I did not have in view the bastard wisdom of the Koran—but is there not a real torture in this that, since that declaration of science, Christianity, man fools himself, proves to himself the obvious, is puffed up with the pleasure of repeating his proofs, and only lives like that? Subtle, silly torture; wellspring of my spiritual divagations. Nature could get bored, maybe! Mr. Goodfellow was born with Christ.

Is it not because we cultivate fog? We eat fever with our watery vegetables. And drunkenness! and tobacco! and ignorance! and devotions!—is all that far enough from the thought, the wisdom of the East, the primitive nation? Why a modern world, if such poisons are come up with?

Clergymen will say: That's understood. But you would talk of Eden. Nothing for you in the history of eastern peoples—that's true: it is of Eden I was thinking! What is that to my dream, that purity of ancient races!

The philosophers: The world has no age. Humanity moves around, simply. You are in the West, but free to live in your East, as ancient as you require it—and to live well there. Don't be a loser. Philosophers, you are of your West.

My mind, take heed. No violent salvation options. Exert yourself!—ah! science doesn't move fast enough for us!

—But I see my mind is sleeping.

If it was wide awake from this moment on, we would soon be at the truth, which perhaps surrounds us with its angels weeping!... If it had been awake until this very moment, then I would not have yielded to deleterious instincts, at an immemorial epoch!... If it had always been wide awake, I would be sailing in full wisdom!...

O purity! purity!

It is this minute of waking that has given me the vision of purity!—through the mind we go to God!

Harrowing misfortune!