Caesara- (pages 7-8)
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I go to a school. You know what school, that of my bees. I believe that all the ideas floating on the surface of men’s lives are just folds of a mantle on a moving body. They differ from the movement of the body, though created and subjected to it. Let us first consider the state of bees. Such order, art and harmony in it. Were they to have books, papers, universities, you would see men of letters building combinations of genius on the subject of this order and you would think it was the work of intelligence while you are aware that it is not intelligence, but something deeper that settles everything with a steady, infallible instinct. Take their colonies. Every summer we can see two or three generations forming colonies out of the maternal state. The satisfactory element is the absence of phrases and reasons commonly used in human society on the emigration of superfluous population. Then consider the revolutions. Every year there is a revolution against the aristocracy, against the queen’s courtesans, minus the social contract, parliamentary speeches, and arguments in favor of the divine tight or natural right. Cinis et umbra sumus.

But father, you’ll answer, you’re dealing in nature with ideas and concepts on the analogy of human circumstances, you are thus considering animal state organizations just as far as you see them similar to human organization, understanding our world in theirs. Not so. People themselves lead an instinctual life. Customs and institutions on the basis of nature determine the existence of subjective religions, of wicked and miserable deeds though slyly well-planned and accommodated to the narrow-mindedness of most men. It has been like this ever since. You are born, you wed, you father children, and you die, just as the animals do. Yet, instead of a country led by four-legged Don Juans, people have ball-rooms, dance, music, where you may likewise see young monocled monkeys nosing the females. Thus a food bit of time passes, you believe or do not believe the arguments in favor of the excellence of this world, and then you die. No one will then inquire what tiny fly has taught, produced scientific rubbish or, according to circumstances, has preached or fomented republican agitation. Maybe you are sometimes given moments of lucidity when you gaze as if waking from sleep and you suddenly see, in wonder, that you have bee living in a strictly organized state of thing without knowing or wanting it. This mind, which in the troubled and barren striving and fighting in the history of humanity, in the history of an elementary something occasionally experiences a flash of lucidity; should this tiny piece of nonsense have anything to say? Could it have an influence, a meaning, could it stand for anything in nature, it being nothing but a creation of the same natural state? Nothing of the kind.

The great migrations of peoples where the lesser sons abandoned the country while the maternal hive stood its ground offer an analogy with the swarming of the bees. Facts themselves are the truth, not the explanations given to facts.

The positive doctrines, religious, philosophical, legal or institutional are just many ingenious pleadings of this advocatus diaboli’s mind in which the advocate is impelled by will to defend everything by argument. This despicable advocate is forced to present everything in brilliant colors and since life is intrinsically miserable, he is bound to decorate the misery of existence with flowers and with a similitude of profound wisdom, in order to cheat in school and church the young who are just about to step on the stage, lying to them about the value of real like. Honor for public servants, glory for soldiers, magnificence for princes, fame for the scholars, heaven for the stupid, thus one generation deceives another by way of this inherited advocatus diaboli, through this slave forced into cunning and sophistry, who in one place laments as a cleric, in another cuts a serious demeanor as a professor, in a third pleads as a lawyer, or elsewhere puts on miserable faces as a beggar. This last one he acts for the prospect of a glass of wine, another for a nobility title, a third for a sum of money, yet another for a crown, but in each case the reason is essentially the same, a temporary state of intoxication.

That is what I learn from my teachers, the bees, at school with them I see that we are shadows with no will of their own, automatons performing what we have to perform; lest the game would disgust us, we possess a handful of brains who would prove that we actually do what we want to, that we may do a thing or not; this is a self-delusion by which the multiple probabilities are confused with we are forced to do.

The internal life of history is instinctive; the external life, kings, clergymen, scholars are polish and phraseology. Just as judging by a silken garment thrown over a corpse you cannot tell the state of the corpse, so judging by these delusive garments you may not tell the state of history itself.

As concerns myself, thanks to the lessons of nature I have stripped myself of the garb of vanity. I know that you are so far a novice. Do not take orders, my son, do not put on a cassock and a monk’s cowl pretending to be other than what you are, a good young man. I have been a hermit, not a monk. I should like someone to take my place in this hermitage, for I am an old man and the hour of delivery may sound any time. Come then, but only when I am dead. As long as I live, do not trouble me. I need loneliness. Old age is a slow death. How slow my heart beats now! How fast it used to beat before I was sixty! This is the way of the world. One day it will slow down, then cease beating, the oil in the iconlight being burnt out. I know I will not feel the throes of death. It will be a quiet, natural passage that I do not fear. I will fall asleep and hope never to awake again... A kiss upon your brow, sweet soul,


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