The Void, of which it cannot be said that it is or is not, nor that it has consciousness or has none, while it denies absoluteness to any experiential value (alike to being and to consciousness) cannot be identified. And that is the doctrine of not-self (anatta) as I see it in one aspect at present. This voidness cannot be “is-ed” and so introduced into the worldly scheme, except as the denial of absoluteness of all particular values. It has no more effect on ordinary life than the theory of relativity. But just as that theory completely alters calculation of enormous speeds, so, as I see it, this void-element completely alters calculations of extraordinary situations, of death (as killing, suicide or the partner of old age). N.T

Tuesday, March 18, 2014

From the point of view of happiness, the problem of life is insoluble


From the point of view of happiness, the problem of life is insoluble, for it is our highest aspirations which prevent us from being happy. From the point of view of duty, there is the same difficulty, for the fulfillment of duty brings peace, not happiness. It is divine love, the love of the holiest, the possession of God by faith, which solves the difficulty; for if sacrifice has itself become a joy, a lasting, growing and imperishable joy—the soul is then secure of an all−sufficient and unfailing nourishment.

Amiel's Journal

From a child I have been liable to the disease of irony ...


July 27, 1855.—So life passes away, tossed like a boat by the waves up and down, hither and thither, drenched by the spray, stained by the foam, now thrown upon the bank, now drawn back again according to the endless caprice of the water. Such, at least, is the life of the heart and the passions, the life which Spinoza and the stoics reprove, and which is the exact opposite of that serene and contemplative life, always equable like the starlight, in which man lives at peace, and sees everything tinder its eternal aspect; the opposite also of the life of conscience, in which God alone speaks, and all self−will surrenders itself to His will made manifest.

I pass from one to another of these three existences, which are equally known to me; but this very mobility deprives me of the advantages of each. For my heart is worn with scruples, the soul in me cannot crush the needs of the heart, and the conscience is troubled and no longer knows how to distinguish, in the chaos of contradictory inclinations, the voice of duty or the will of God. The want of simple faith, the indecision which springs from distrust of self, tend to make all my personal life a matter of doubt and uncertainty. I am afraid of the subjective life, and recoil from every enterprise, demand, or promise which may oblige me to realize myself; I feel a terror of action, and am only at ease in the impersonal, disinterested, and objective life of thought. The reason seems to be timidity, and the timidity springs from the excessive development of the reflective power which has almost destroyed in me all spontaneity, impulse, and instinct, and therefore all boldness and confidence. Whenever I am forced to act, I see cause for error and repentance everywhere, everywhere hidden threats and masked vexations. From a child I have been liable to the disease of irony, and that it may not be altogether crushed by destiny, my nature seems to have armed itself with a caution strong enough to prevail against any of life's blandishments. It is just this strength which is my weakness. I have a horror of being duped, above all, duped by myself, and I would rather cut myself off from all life's joys than deceive or be deceived. Humiliation, then, is the sorrow which I fear the most, and therefore it would seem as if pride were the deepest rooted of my faults.

This may be logical, but it is not the truth: it seems to me that it is really distrust, incurable doubt of the future, a sense of the justice but not of the goodness of God—in short, unbelief, which is my misfortune and my sin. Every act is a hostage delivered over to avenging destiny—there is the instinctive belief which chills and freezes; every act is a pledge confided to a fatherly providence, there is the belief which calms.

Pain seems to me a punishment and not a mercy: this is why I have a secret horror of it. And as I feel myself vulnerable at all points, and everywhere accessible to pain, I prefer to remain motionless, like a timid child, who, left alone in his father's laboratory, dares not touch anything for fear of springs; explosions, and catastrophes, which may burst from every corner at the least movement of his inexperienced hands. I have trust in God directly and as revealed in nature, but I have a deep distrust of all free and evil agents. I feel or foresee evil, moral and physical, as the consequence of every error, fault, or sin, and I am ashamed of pain.

At bottom, is it not a mere boundless self−love, the purism of perfection, an incapacity to accept our human condition, a tacit protest against the order of the world, which lies at the root of my inertia? It means all or nothing, a vast ambition made inactive by disgust, a yearning that cannot be uttered for the ideal, joined with an offended dignity and a wounded pride which will have nothing to say to what they consider beneath them. It springs from the ironical temper which refuses to take either self or reality seriously, because it is forever comparing both with the dimly−seen infinite of its dreams. It is a state of mental reservation in which one lends one's self to circumstances for form's sake, but refuses to recognize them in one's heart because one cannot see the necessity or the divine order in them. I am disinterested because I am indifferent; I have nothing to say against what is, and yet I am never satisfied. I am too weak to conquer, and yet I will not be Conquered—it is the isolation of the disenchanted soul, which has put even hope away from it.

But even this is a trial laid upon one. Its providential purpose is no doubt to lead one to that true renunciation of which charity is the sign and symbol. It is when one expects nothing more for one's self that one is able to love. To do good to men because we love them, to use every talent we have so as to please the Father from whom we hold it for His service, there is no other way of reaching and curing this deep discontent with life which hides itself under an appearance of indifference.

Amiel's Journal

Satisfied by a little heat as by an eternal truth


I've also noticed that the only difference between humans and animals is the way they deceive themselves and remain ignorant about the life they live. Animals don't know what they do: they're born, they grow up, they die without thought, reflection or a real future. And how many man live differently from animals? We all sleep, and the only difference is in what we dream, and in the degree and quality of our dreaming. Perhaps death will awaken us, but we can't even be sure of that unless it's by faith (for which believing is having), and hope (for which wanting is possessing), or by charity (for which giving is receiving).

It's raining, and as if the rain had made them hunch forward, my feelings lower their stupid gaze to the ground, where water flows and nourishes nothing, washes nothing, cheers up nothing. It's raining, and I suddenly feel the terrible weight of being an animal that doesn't know what it is, dreaming its thought and emotion, withdrawn into spatial region of being as into a hovel, satisfied by a little heat as by an eternal truth.

Fernando Pessoa
The Book of Disquiet
translation: Richard Zenith
p. 323

Creator of indifferences


“Creator of indifferences” is the motto I want for my spirit today. I'd like my life's activity to consist, above all, in educating others to feel more and more for themselves, and less and less according to the dynamic low of collectiveness. To educate people in that spiritual antisepsis which precludes contamination by commonness and vulgarity is the loftiest destiny I can imagine for the pedagogue of inner discipline that I aspire to be. If all who read me would learn – slowly, of course, as the subject matter requires – to be completely insensitive to the other people's opinions and even their glances, that would be enough of a garland to make up for my life's scholastic stagnation.

Fernando Pessoa
The Book of Disquiet
translation: Richard Zenith
p. 322

Monday, March 17, 2014

The profound and terrible poetry of all these primitive terrors ...


May 23, 1855.—Every hurtful passion draws us to it, as an abyss does, by a kind of vertigo. Feebleness of will brings about weakness of head, and the abyss in spite of its horror, comes to fascinate us, as though it were a place of refuge. Terrible danger! For this abyss is within us; this gulf, open like the vast jaws of an infernal serpent bent on devouring us, is in the depth of our own being, and our liberty floats over this void, which is always seeking to swallow it up. Our only talisman lies in that concentration of moral force which we call conscience, that small inextinguishable flame of which the light is duty and the warmth love. This little flame should be the star of our life; it alone can guide our trembling ark across the tumult of the great waters; it alone can enable us to escape the temptations of the sea, the storms and the monsters which are the offspring of night and the deluge. Faith in God, in a holy, merciful, fatherly God, is the divine ray which kindles this flame.

How deeply I feel the profound and terrible poetry of all these primitive terrors from which have issued the various theogonies of the world, and how it all grows clear to me, and becomes a symbol of the one great unchanging thought, the thought of God about the universe! How present and sensible to my inner sense is the unity of everything! It seems to me that I am able to pierce to the sublime motive which, in all the infinite spheres of existence, and through all the modes of space and time, every created form reproduces and sings within the bond of an eternal harmony. From the infernal shades I feel myself mounting toward the regions of light; my flight across chaos finds its rest in paradise. Heaven, hell, the world, are within us. Man is the great abyss.

Amiel's Journal

The temple of the infinite


For nearly two hours have I been lost in the contemplation of this magnificent spectacle. I felt myself in the temple of the infinite, in the presence of the worlds, God's guest in this vast nature. The stars wandering in the pale ether drew me far away from earth. What peace beyond the power of words, what dews of life eternal, they shed on the adoring soul! I felt the earth floating like a boat in this blue ocean. Such deep and tranquil delight nourishes the whole man, it purifies and ennobles. I surrendered myself, I was all gratitude and docility.

April 21, 1855.—I have been reading a great deal: ethnography, comparative anatomy, cosmical systems. I have traversed the universe from the deepest depths of the empyrean to the peristaltic movements of the atoms in the elementary cell. I have felt myself expanding in the infinite, and enfranchised in spirit from the bounds of time and space, able to trace back the whole boundless creation to a point without dimensions, and seeing the vast multitude of suns, of milky ways, of stars, and nebulae, all existent in the point. And on all sides stretched mysteries, marvels and prodigies, without limit, without number, and without end. I felt the unfathomable thought of which the universe is the symbol live and burn within me; I touched, proved, tasted, embraced my nothingness and my immensity; I kissed the hem of the garments of God, and gave Him thanks for being Spirit and for being life. Such moments are glimpses of the divine. They make one conscious of one's immortality; they bring home to one that an eternity is not too much for the study of the thoughts and works of the eternal; they awaken in us an adoring ecstasy and the ardent humility of love.

Amiel's Journal

Nauseous vacuum


Tedium, yes, is boredom with the world, the nagging discomfort of living, the weariness of having lived; tedium is indeed the carnal sensation of endless emptiness of things. But tedium, even more than all that, is a boredom with other worlds, whether real or imaginary; the discomfort of having to keep living, albeit as someone else in some other way, in some other world; weariness not only of yesterday and today but also of tomorrow and of eternity, if such exists, or of nothingness, if that's what eternity is. It's not only the emptiness of things and living beings that troubles the soul afflicted by tedium, it's also the emptiness of the very soul that feels this vacuum, that feels itself to be this vacuum, and that within this vacuum is nauseated and repelled by its own self.

Fernando Pessoa
The Book of Disquiet
translation: Richard Zenith
p. 316

Journey of the mind through matter


Life is an experimental journey that we make involuntarily. It is a journey of the mind through matter, and since it is the mind that journeys, that is where we live. And so there are contemplative souls who have lived more intensely, more widely and more turbulently than those who live externally. The end result is what counts. What was felt is what was lived. A dream can tire us as much as physical labour. We never live as hard as when we've thought a great deal.

Fernando Pessoa
The Book of Disquiet
translation: Richard Zenith
p. 309

Sunday, March 16, 2014

Nicolás Gómez Dávila – Selected Aphorisms


To compromise is to sacrifice a distant good to an immediate urgency. (I, 13)

With God there are only individuals. (I, 16)

Every goal other than God dishonors us. (I, 18)

An “ideal society” would be the graveyard of human greatness. (I, 19)

Democratic parliaments are not places where debate occurs but where popular
absolutism registers its edicts. (I, 20)

Love of the people is an aristocratic calling. The democrat only loves the people at election time. (I, 21)

The individual shrinks in proportion as the state grows. (I, 21)

The authenticity of the feeling depends on the clarity of the thought. (I, 24)

To refuse to wonder is the mark of the beast. (I, 25)

The one who renounces seems weak to the one incapable of renunciation. (I, 25)

Genuine allegiance to an idea surpasses every psychological or social motivation. (I, 28)

Vulgarity consists in pretending to be what we are not. (I, 37)

The incoherent interlocutor is more irritating than the hostile one. (I, 39)

The genuine coherence of our ideas does not come from the reasoning that ties them together, but from the spiritual impulse that gives rise to them. (I, 40)

Confused ideas and muddy ponds appear deep. (I, 40)

A philosopher who adopts scientific notions predetermines his conclusions. (I, 47)

To think like our contemporaries is a recipe for prosperity and stupidity. (I, 53)

All literature is contemporary to the reader who knows how to read. (I, 57)

A happy existence is as much of a model as a virtuous one. (I, 62)

To depend on God alone is our true autonomy. (I, 65)

Violence is not necessary to destroy a civilization. Each civilization dies from
indifference toward the unique values which created it. (I, 70)

Perfection is the point where what we can do and what we want to do coincide with
what we ought to do. (I, 113)

Modern man does not love, but seeks refuge in love; does not hope, but seeks refuge
in hope; does not believe, but seeks refuge in a dogma. (I, 212)

Every marriage of an intellectual with the communist party ends in adultery. (I, 237)

Modern man destroys more when he builds than when he destroys. (I, 251)

Contemporary literature, in each and every epoch, is the worst enemy of culture. A
reader’s limited time is wasted in reading a thousand books that blunt his critical sense and damage his literary sensibility. (I, 258)

The Biblical prophet doesn’t predict the future, but bears witness to the presence of God in history. (I, 262)

Civilization is a poorly fortified encampment in the midst of rebellious tribes. (I, 268)

In an age in which the media broadcast countless pieces of foolishness, the educated man is defined not by what he knows, but by what he doesn’t know.

Contemporary political ideologies are false in what they affirm and true in what they deny. (I, 275)

Ritual is an instrument of the sacred. Every innovation is a profanation. (I, 299)

The supreme aristocrat is not the feudal lord in his castle but the contemplative monk in his cell. (I, 306)

All epochs exhibit the same vices, but not all show the same virtues. In every age there are hovels, but only in some are there palaces. (I, 308)

The modern tragedy is not the tragedy of reason defeated but of reason triumphant. (I, 308)

Philosophy is a literary genre. (I, 312)

The study of myths belongs to metaphysics, not to psychology. (I, 314)

The writer who loves or hates is less persuasive than the one who loves and hates. (I, 315)

Modern man is a prisoner who thinks he is free because he refrains from touching the walls of his dungeon. (I, 315)

To have opinions is the best way to escape the obligation of thinking. (I, 324)

God is a nuisance for modern man. (I, 332)

The “ivory tower” has a bad reputation only among the inhabitants of intellectual
hovels. (I, 338)

The Church founders without the ballast of “average Christians.” (I, 347)

I distrust every idea that doesn’t seem obsolete and grotesque to my contemporaries. (I, 353)

The Church used to absolve sinners; today it has the gall to absolve sins. (I, 378)

There are not a few French historians who think that the history of the world is an episode in the history of France. (I, 386)

Many love humanity only in order to forget God with a clear conscience. (I, 388)

Nothing multiplies the number of fools so much as the example of celebrities. (I, 393)

Civilization seems to be the invention of a species now extinct. (I, 398)

In the Christian obsessed with “social justice” it isn’t easy to discern whether charity is flourishing or faith is expiring. (I, 403)

Egalitarian ideas distort our perception of the present and, in addition, mutilate our vision of the past. (I, 448)

The punishment of the idealist consists in the triumph of his cause. (II, 22)

To be civilized is to be able to criticize what we believe without ceasing to believe in it.
(II, 25)

Philosophy’s aim is not to paint new objects but to give their true color to familiar objects. (II, 31)

Those who proclaim that the noble is despicable end up by proclaiming that the
despicable is noble. (II, 36)

Poetry is the fingerprint of God in human clay. (II, 45)

Every solution seems trivial to the one who does not understand the problem. (II, 47)

The cultured man has the obligation to be intolerant. (II, 58)

The stupidity of an old man imagines itself to be wisdom; that of an adult, experience; that of a youth, genius. (II, 64)

Stupid ideas are immortal. Each new generation invents them anew. (II, 80)

He who speaks of his “generation” admits that he’s part of a herd. (II, 81)

For the myth of a past golden age, present day humanity substitutes the myth of a
future plastic age. (II, 88)

To be authentically modern is, in each and every age, a sign of mediocrity. (II, 88)

Only the problems of his time seem important to the fool. (II, 101)

Nations and individuals, with rare exceptions, comport themselves with decency only when circumstances permit no other choice. (II, 105)

Many things seem defensible, until we look at their defenders. (II, 115)

Of God one doesn’t speak with any precision or seriousness except in poetry. (II, 125)

The imagination is the only place in the universe where it is possible to live. (II, 132)

Optimism is never faith in progress, but hope for a miracle. (II, 135)

The importance of an event is inversely proportional to the space which the
newspapers devote to it. (II, 140)

An individual declares himself a member of some group or other with the goal of
demanding in its name what he is ashamed to claim in his own name. (II, 142)

Politics is the pastime of empty souls. (II, 145)

To have a dialog with those who do not share our basic premises is nothing more than a stupid way to kill time. (II, 158)

Faith is not knowledge of an object but communion with it. (II, 169)

Poetry has died, asphyxiated by metaphors. (II, 175)

It is unjust to reproach the writers of today with bad taste, when the very notion of taste is dead. (II, 175)

If we believe in God, we should not say “I believe in God,” but “God believes in me.”

It is easier to forgive certain dislikes than to share certain enthusiasms. (II, 190)

The anger of imbeciles is less frightening than their benevolence. (II, 191)

Total freedom of expression does not compensate for lack of talent. (II, 194)

A cultivated soul is one where the din of the living does not drown out the music of the dead. (II, 195)

“To be useful to society” is the ambition, or excuse, of a prostitute. (II, 196)

Whoever betrays us never forgives us for his act of betrayal. (II, 197)

Every non-hierarchical society is divided in two. (II, 201)

The modern world seems invincible. Like the extinct dinosaurs. (II, 226)

Progress is hubris and nemesis fused together. (II, 226)

To be intelligent without ideas is the privilege of the artist. (II, 345)

There is nothing more common than transforming a duty which inconveniences us
into an “ethical problem.” (II, 380)

The enemies of myth are not the friends of reality but of triviality. (II, 395)

The racist is annoyed because he secretly suspects that the races are equal. The anti-racist is annoyed because he secretly suspects that they are not. (II, 396)

Hierarchies are celestial. In hell all are equal. (II, 396)

Imperatives, ethical or esthetic, should be negative. Positive imperatives increase imposture. (II, 399)

The itch to be original is an affectation caused by a lack of talent. (II, 400)

The liturgy can only be spoken definitively in Latin. In a vulgar tongue it is vulgar. (II, 406)

The modern soul is a lunar landscape. (II, 410)

In the idiom of modern architecture nothing complicated can be said. (II, 417)

The wealthy man’s sin isn’t his wealth but the importance he attaches to it. (II, 418)

The number of votes which elect a ruler is not a measure of his legitimacy but of his mediocrity. (II, 425)

Ideas of the left give birth to revolutions. Revolutions give birth to ideas of the right. (II, 431)

Imitation, in the arts, is less harmful than rules. (II, 437)

Truth is so subtle that it never inspires as much confidence as an erroneous thesis. (II, 438)

Agricultural prosperity ennobles; industrial prosperity vulgarizes. (II, 445)

Adaptation to the modern world requires sclerosis of sensibility and degradation of character. (II, 445)

Nowadays public opinion is not the sum of private opinions. On the contrary, private opinions are an echo of public opinion. (II, 446)

Excess of politeness paralyzes; the lack of it brutalizes. (II, 449)

To be unaware of the putrefaction of the modern world is a symptom of contagion by
it. (II, 451)

Intellectual vulgarity attracts voters like flies. (II, 454)

No public cause deserves the unlimited allegiance of an intelligent man. (II, 459)

History is a series of nights and days. Short days and protracted nights. (II, 468)

There is an illiteracy of the soul that no diploma cures. (II, 469)

God prefers an uncircumcised heart to a castrated mind. (II, 471)

The genuine reader is the one who reads for pleasure the books that others only study. (II, 486)

The function of revolutions is to destroy the illusions that created them. (II, 498)

This selection is drawn from Volume I of his 1977 book “Scholia on an Implicit Text”; the translation is by Michael Gilleland.

Love never reached that valley, which is why life was happy there


My domain of old was in deep valleys. The water that trickled in my dreams was never tainted with blood. The trees' foliage that forgets life was always green in my forgetting. The moon was fluid like water between stones. Love never reached that valley, which is why life was happy there. Neither love, nor dreams, nor gods in temples – and we walked in the breeze and the indivisible hour without any nostalgia for drunken, useless beliefs.

Fernando Pessoa
The Book of Disquiet
translation: Richard Zenith
p. 303