ife. Scholastic-Aristotelian philosophy
fabricated in the interest of life a teleologic-evolutionist system,
rational in appearance, which might serve as a support for our vital
longing. This philosophy, the basis of the orthodox Christian
supernaturalism, whether Catholic or Protestant, was, in its essence,
merely a trick on the part of life to force reason to lend it its
support. But reason supported it with such pressure that it ended by
pulverizing it.

I have read that the ex-Carmelite, Hyacinthe Loyson, declared that he
could present himself before God with tranquillity, for he was at peace
with his conscience and with his reason. With what conscience? If with
his religious conscience, then I do not understand. For it is a truth
that no man can serve two masters, and least of all when, though they
may sign truces and armistices and compromises, these two are enemies
because of their conflicting interests.

To all this someone is sure to object that life ought to subject itself
to reason, to which we will reply that nobody ought to do what he is
unable to do, and life cannot subject itself to reason. "Ought,
therefore can," some Kantian will retort. To which we shall demur:
"Cannot, therefore ought not." And life cannot submit itself to reason,
because the end of life is living and not understanding.

Again, there are those who talk of the religious duty of resignation to
mortality. This is indeed the very summit of aberration and insincerity.
But someone is sure to oppose the idea of veracity to that of sincerity.
Granted, and yet the two may very well be reconciled. Veracity, the
homage I owe to what I believe to be rational, to what logically we
call truth, moves me to affirm, in this case, that the immortality of
the individual soul is a contradiction in terms, that it is something,
not only irrational, but contra-rational; but sincerity leads me to
affirm also my refusal to resign myself to this previous affirmation and
my protest against its validity. What I feel is a truth, at any rate as
much a truth as what I see, touch, hear, or what is demonstrated to
me--nay, I believe it is more of a truth--and sincerity obliges me not
to hide what I feel.

And life, quick to defend itself, searches for the weak point in reason
and finds it in scepticism, which it straightway fastens upon, seeking
to save itself by means of this stranglehold. It needs the weakness of
its adversary.

Nothing is sure. Everything is