himself said but little, but when he had left them, he would
feel troubled and rather ironical. "Are those my thoughts?" he would
say to himself. It is terribly difficult for one soul to communicate
with another, impossible perhaps, and who knows?... Nature is wiser
than we ... it may be that this is for our good.

Is it right, is it even possible for us to utter all our thoughts? We
reach a conclusion slowly, painfully, through a series of trials;
it is the formula of the delicate equilibrium between the inward
elements. Change the elements, their proportions, their nature, the
formula is no longer accurate and will produce different results, and
if you suddenly communicate your whole thought to another, you run the
risk of alarming, not helping him. There are cases in which, if he had
understood, it might have killed him. Nature, however, is prudent and
takes precautions. Your friend does not comprehend you, because he
cannot, his instinct will not let him; all that he gets from your
thought is the shock when it touches his; the ball glances off, but it
is not so easy to tell in what direction.

Men do not listen with their brains alone, but with their dispositions
and their passions, and out of what you offer them, each chooses his
own and rejects the rest, through a deep instinct of self-defence. Our
minds do not throw open the door to every new idea, but rather keep a
wary eye on new-comers through a peep-hole. The lofty thoughts of the
sages, of Jesus, of Socrates; how were they received? In those days
men who spoke such things were killed; twenty years later they were
treated as gods--another way of killing them, in fact, by placing
their thoughts at a distance, in the kingdom of heaven. The world
would indeed come to an end if such ideas were to be put in practice
here and now; and their authors knew this well. Perhaps they showed
the greatness of their souls more by what they did not say than by
what they did; how eloquent were the pathetic silences of Jesus! The
golden veil of the ancient symbols and myths, made to shield our weak
timid sight! Too often, what is for one the breath of life, is for
another death, or worse, murder!

What are we to do, if our hands are full of verities? Shall we spread
them broadcast?--Suppose the seed of thought may spring up in weeds or
poisonous plants ...?

Poor thinker, there is no need to tremble, you are not the master of
Fate, but you form part of it, you are one of i