For p. 343. You can see this again at the end of Chapter 5, in the rather long extract from Rousseau that begins “Everything that I feel to be good, [357] is good.”1 Where the author, in fact, has to conclude that natural law does not exist, either according to the Deists whom he is challenging, or what’s more, it seems, according to his own persuasion, since he wishes to prove that there are no rules of behavior apart from religion, which is the only guide to moral obligations. And at the beginning of Chapter 6, he actually says: “Man, in whatever place and whatever time, has recognized the essential distinction between good and evil, just and unjust; and despite various errors in assessing whether some free actions should be considered as virtuous or vicious, there has never been a people that confuses the opposing concepts of right and wrong.”2 I agree. It is the same with beauty, everyone has a notion of propriety, but no one has the paradigm. But if this is the case, differing opinions cannot be called errors, as you do, because there is no paradigm of moral goodness, and because it is not wrong for an Ethiopian to believe that the appearance of his fellow countrymen is the most perfect and only example of beauty in the human race.
For p. 161. The annals of the revolution are full of further examples of what I say here, and demonstrate what the intention of the reformers was. They erected altars to the God of Reason: “Condorcet in the education plan presented to the Legislative Assembly on 21 and 22 April 1792”3 proposed the abolition and proscription even of natural religion as being irrational and contrary to philosophy, as well as all the other religions. (Essai sur l’indifférence en matière de religion, ch. 5, near the end, note). I won’t mention [358] the new Calendar, Robespierre’s festival in honor of the Supreme Being, etc. In short, the aim not just of the fanatics but of France’s most distinguished philosophers—either precursors, or participants, or in some way accomplices of the revolution—was precisely to create a perfectly rational and philosophical people. I am not surprised by this, and I pity them not primarily because of their chimerical belief that they could bring about a dream and a utopia but because they did not see that life and reason are incompatible, and instead assumed that a total, precise, and universal reliance on reason and philosophy should be the foundation and source of the life and strength and happiness of a people. (27 Nov. 1820.)
Vigor and the well-being of the body contribute to peace of mind, and peace of mind to vigor and well-being. As, in the contrary case, the weakness or sickliness of the body, and sadness of the mind. Thus, nature devised and arranged everything to ensure the best conditions for human happiness.
For p. 223. “Doctrines never return to their source, and the Reformation struggled in vain to arrest the flow of the stream that was dragging it along” says the Essai sur l’indifférence en matière de religion, a little more than one-third of the way through Chapter 6.1 Similarly, sects, institutions, corporations, and all other human affairs break down and lose their way when they move too far from their beginnings, and there is no remedy but to call them back.2 This is no easy matter, because men will turn back only for some universal, necessary reason, etc., such as upheavals of the globe, or of [359] nations, barbarisms like that which drove the world backward in the Middle Ages, etc., but of their own free will and with their eyes open, on the basis of reason and reflection, never, for it is impossible that the source of the problem—corruption, reason, too much knowledge, etc.—could also provide the means for remedying it. Moreover, the Catholic faith would be faring no better than any others, after so many centuries, if not for an overriding concern with its ancient past and with preserving its original state and rejecting novelty, in the same way, as Montesquieu says (in the place mentioned in this reference), that the English constitution is jealously guarded, observed, protected, and constantly referred to by Parliament.1
For p. 347. This too is a cause of the great difference that exists between the lettered and the unlettered, and also between professional men of letters and those who write on a whim, or to show off, or for amusement, etc., with regard to their enjoyment of even the most popular works, those adapted to the intelligence and delight of anybody.
Eloquence, especially the judicial variety, but other kinds as well, consists largely of smoothing out the bumps, filling in the holes and gaps, leveling the surface and straightening out the kinks in things. And so it often happens that when reading or listening to an eloquent passage you are persuaded of something that you would never have been persuaded of by yourself, and which afterward you might doubt or condemn. You think something is practicable, even simple, that used to seem impossible [360] or difficult, and will seem so again. All that uncertainty and difficulty, etc., vanishes, you are forced to not see and forget what you used to see, to contradict and accuse yourself, often indeed to see and not see, remember and forget at the same time. Such is the power not only of the eloquence that draws you in but also of that dry sort of eloquence based on close argument and logic which for the most part is false (if not in its entirety at least in its parts). Examples of this kind of eloquence among the ancients are the so-called Attic Orators, among the moderns (I am only talking about professional orators) perhaps only Bourdaloue is genuinely an orator in the real Attic style and can convince people of things that are not always true, or at least not entirely true. (27 Nov. 1820.)
“Non eadem omnibus esse honesta atque turpia, sed omnia maiorum institutis iudicari” [“The standard for whether an action is good or bad is not the same everywhere but is to be judged according to the traditions of one’s own past”]. Cornelius Nepos, preface.1
For p. 329, end. “Nulla Lacedaemoni tam est nobilis vidua quae non ad scenam eat mercede conducta. Magnis in laudibus tota fuit Graecia, victorem Olympiae citari. In scenam vero prodire, et populo esse spectaculo, nemini in eisdam gentibus fuit turpitudini. Quae omnia apud nos partim infamia, partim humilia, atque ab honestate remota ponuntur” [“In Sparta no widow was too noble to appear on the stage for the purposes of gain. Moreover, everywhere in Greece, it was a great honor to be proclaimed the winner in the Olympic Games. To be on the stage and to be a spectacle to the people was not considered dishonorable for anyone. All of which we regard as shameful, humiliating, or undignified”]. Cornelius Nepos, preface.2 (27 Nov. 1820.)
A man without knowledge of a language could not have the idea of a finite number. Imagine yourself counting thirty or forty stones without having some denomination to give each of them, which is to say one, two, three [361] up to the last one, thirty or forty, which contains the sum of all the stones, and evokes an idea that can be grasped at the same time by the intellect and by the memory, in that it is complex but finite and whole.1 You, in this case, would be unable to say or conceive the exact number of stones, because when you reached the last one, in order to know and conceive what the quantity is, it is necessary for your mind to conceive and your memory at the same time to contain all the units that make up that quantity, something that is impossible for man. The eye is no help, either, because since it wants to know the number of various objects it sees, and doesn’t know how to count them, the same act of memory, both simultaneous and individual, is required. And so if you were limited to knowing only a single numerical denomination, and in counting you could say only one, one, one; however much attention you paid, in order to gather progressively with your mind and memory the exact sum of the whole, right up to the last, you would always be in the same situation. Likewise, if you knew only two denominations, etc. Apart from very small quantities, like five or six, which the memory and the intellect can picture without words, because they manage to keep all these few objects simultaneously present. In the same way and for the same reason, [362] numbers that represent too large a quantity, such as a hundred thousand, a million, and so on, and, even more, a billion, evoke only a confused idea, even though we very well know their meaning and the exact extension or quantity they measure. But in this case, knowing what the word signifies is not sufficient to grasp the idea that is signified (something that p
erhaps does not happen in other cases, with the exception of indefinite words that express indefinite ideas). This is because the capacity of the mind cannot extend itself sufficiently to absorb, at the same time, all the parts of this quantity, or take hold and conceive them clearly all at once, despite the aid of language, which does not suffice when the parts are too numerous. By parts I mean, for example, tens and hundreds, the sum of which when it can be clearly conceived gives us a reasonably clear idea of the quantity in question, because of the familiarity that comes with the practice of speech, a familiarity that enables us to conceive quickly and easily the units that each ten comprises. Usually, the precise idea of a number, either with or without the help of language, is not instantaneous but is built up in steps, which are longer or shorter, more or less difficult, according to the quantity being measured. (28 Nov. 1820.) See p. 1072, end.
The Essai sur l’indifférence en matière de religion, toward the end of Chapter 7 says: “Weak doctrine produces a weak faith to match it. Therefore, the greater the number of dogmas a sect has preserved, the more life, pomp, and grandeur its faith will have.”1 And see what follows2 because this fits in with my argument. In fact, this observation is yet another confirmation of what I say, that without illusions of which man is persuaded, there is neither life nor action, because man [363] does not act without persuasion, and if the persuasion is not illusory but comes from reason, he will not act, because reason cannot persuade him to action but rather turns him away from it, and casts him into indifference. The rituals and life of a religion have never endured without the persuasion of its binding necessity and importance. If the tenets of a religion are limited, if doubt spreads, if reason, indifference, and dry speculation about things spread, that religion is finished. Whereas it survives among the Catholics, who preserve all its bases, that is, its dogmas, beliefs, etc., with regard both to that religion and to Religion in general. Except that even among ourselves it is languishing, both in practice and in the impression and effect it creates, and in the way and the spirit in which it is considered, regarded, and put into practice. And this in proportion to the advance of unbelief, or erosion of faith, because we will not care much about, or cultivate, or promote, or be much affected or touched by something that we consider unimportant and that bears no relation to our opinions. (29 Nov. 1820.)
“Obligations depend on beliefs: the more symbols there are, the more moral systems…”1 “Who does not understand that the moment we reject all living authority,” (thus, accepted morality derives from authority, [364] not from nature) “the regulation of social behavior becomes as variable and uncertain as the regulation of religious belief?” Essai, etc., just after the place cited in the previous thought.1
“Everyone has the right to judge for himself and differences of opinion are just as natural as differences of taste. Dr. Midleton (Middleton), Introductory Discourse to a free Enquiry into the Miraculous Powers, p. 38.”2
The same people who, whenever they suffer from some slight malady, believe that it is something much more serious, if they become seriously or mortally ill will think it trivial, or less serious than it really is. And the reason in both cases is cowardice, which makes them fear where there is no fear, and hope where there is no hope.
Philosophy and the nature of present-day life and times regard Religion as their deadly enemy, and it really is. Nevertheless, if man was meant to be a philosopher and use reason in the way he does now, know everything he now knows, and generally if he was meant to live in the way he now lives, and if the times were meant to be what they now are, then either the order of nature and things is totally absurd and contradictory or one necessarily has to accept a Religion. Because if man had inevitably to be unhappy, as happens now, it [365] follows that, to the first among beings, not being is better than being, and it follows not only that man should not love and preserve his life but that he should destroy it, in such a way that his very existence contains I won’t say the seeds or basis of its own destruction, but almost its formal and complete destruction. It follows that life excludes life, existence existence, since man would be brought into existence only to strive not to exist once he knew his true destiny. A situation that would amount to an absurdity and a fundamental and primary contradiction in nature’s system. Against this, if man was not meant to be what he is now, if nature had created him differently, if it had put every possible obstacle in the way of his knowing what he knows, and becoming what he has become, then it is impossible to deduce from the present state of man, and the absurdities resulting from it, anything about the true, natural, primitive, and immutable order of things. Just as if an animal breaks a leg this does not enable us to deduce anything about nature as a whole, because it is a particular misfortune. So the present state of mankind in all its absurdity should be considered as a particularity, independent of the order and system that is general and [366] destined, and constant, and primordial. For if there is also no more remedy for man, there is no more remedy even for someone who loses a leg or is crushed by a rock. As long as the malady is not the fault of nature, a flaw in the system, inherent in the universal order, but is a kind of exception, a misfortune, an accidental error in the smooth running of the said system. See pp. 370 and 1079, end.
Might not hanter, to frequent, visit often, be familiar with, etc., a verb that Girard in his Synonyms1 derives from hant (if I remember rightly), which in northern languages means to join forces or give someone a hand, instead be derived from ἀντάω [to meet with]? But it would be necessary also to see if the northern word had any relation with this Greek verb.
The idea of a great misfortune (and also of any major, unexpected change for the better or the worse) that overwhelms us, especially if it happens suddenly, cannot be grasped in its entirety, at least not at first; instead, it is always very confused, very weak, very obscure and deficient. I am not talking now about the impression it makes, and the shock and the pain, etc., which must naturally darken and dull the soul. But supposing you are told of the death of a close member of your family, even if it was expected. The dismay, [367] the memory of your relationship with him, the difference it will make to your life, in other words the total severing of that relationship and the need to think of that person in a completely different way from the past, that is, as dead, no longer able to be loved and cherished, or to love and cherish, etc. etc., all these things crowd into your mind, creating such confusion, awkwardness, and stupor that instead of considering each aspect of the situation you cannot think about any, are not capable of evaluating the extent, the depth, or the nature of it, or of forming any precise conception of it, but are left with just a confused, general idea; you are unable to think about it, and do not think about it properly, I do not say because you do not want to, but because you do not know how. What happens, then, is something often noticed with all great changes, whether misfortune or good fortune, that at first you are stunned, and it is only with time that, as you reflect on each part of it, you begin to weep or rejoice part by part. For this too is noteworthy, that the act of weeping or rejoicing, in other words the expression τοῦ πάθους [of feeling], happens only in relation to a part of the thing, not the whole, because the soul is not capable of embracing the whole, all at once. For example, [368] in the above case, you will begin to weep at a specific memory, at a certain thought about the future or the present, and at similar things, which you cannot distinguish, separate, or conceive at first, and in the first stage of shock. But as long as the idea or the event presents itself to you as a whole and you are unable to distinguish and number its parts, you will not weep at all, nor will you be moved in any determinate way, but only confusedly. Even after a long time, you will never weep because of a comprehensive, general reflection on the misfortune in its entirety. (1 Dec. 1820.)
It is commonly said that monotony makes days seem longer. This is true for periods of time considered separately. But for the whole, it is quite the opposite, because a day filled with variety, when i
t comes to an end, will seem very long, in fact it often happens that on first reflection it seems as if something that happened or that you did or saw, etc., today belongs to yesterday or the day before that, because the multiplicity of events stretches the space in your memory and the greater the number of incidents, the greater the apparent length of time. On the other hand, when life is completely uniform it often happens (it has happened to me) that things that occurred yesterday or the day before seem to belong to today, or something from a few days earlier seems to have occurred yesterday. The reason is the opposite in this case, that uniformity diminishes the sensation of distance. So monotony [369] prolongs life to the extent that longevity is burdensome, and shortens it to the extent that longevity is enjoyable and desirable; and a uniform existence seems very short and momentary when you reach the end of it. (1 Dec. 1820.)
There is perhaps nothing that encourages activity and impatience to achieve a desired goal more than the uncertainty of obtaining it, especially when this uncertainty is pressing and the thought of not achieving your goal upsets you. Not just because the uncertainty spurs you to action (whereas certainty can make you idle), in that if the outcome is uncertain, it needs more effort to achieve. But also when little trouble is required—which can easily happen (because the end can be assured after much prior activity), and independently of the usefulness or need for that effort—you are very busy and highly impatient to obtain it simply because you cannot endure such uncertainty, and you are longing to rid yourself of the anxiety arising from your doubts about successfully achieving a goal that you greatly desire. You might even prefer the certainty of failure to this anxiety. Materially, too, I have on several occasions had cause to doubt whether my physical efforts would be sufficient to achieve some goal that [370] really mattered to me, and so I would impatiently redouble those efforts even though someone else advised me to rest because the delay would not do any harm. But I could not bear uncertainty when something was so important to me, whereas if I had not been in doubt, I would have had no difficulty in waiting. What’s more, my impatience could have ruined everything, by depriving me of the rest I needed, etc. The same applies to writing, etc. Equally, if you have to complete a task in a given period of time and are worried that you might not succeed, your impatience and diligence do not increase just as the need dictates but often go beyond this, so that, if possible, you finish the task before the set time. (1 Dec. 1820.) See p. 712, paragraph 2.
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