"--_Les Caracteres_, etc., "_Des Ouvrages
del'Esprit_."]--because they have no _grasp_ of reality in its
fullness, and therefore either cramp and limit me or awaken my distrust.
The French lack that intuitive faculty to which the living unity of
things is revealed, they have very little sense of what is sacred, very
little penetration into the mysteries of being. What they excel in is
the construction of special sciences; the art of writing a book, style,
courtesy, grace, literary models, perfection and urbanity; the spirit of
order, the art of teaching, discipline, elegance, truth of detail, power
of arrangement; the desire and the gift for proselytism, the vigor
necessary for practical conclusions. But if you wish to travel in the
"Inferno" or the "Paradiso" you must take other guides. Their home is on
the earth, in the region of the finite, the changing, the historical,
and the diverse. Their logic never goes beyond the category of mechanism
nor their metaphysic beyond dualism. When they undertake anything else
they are doing violence to themselves.
April 24th. (_Noon_).--All around me profound peace, the silence of the
mountains in spite of a full house and a neighboring village. No sound
is to be heard but the murmur of the flies. There is something very
striking in this calm.
Pages:
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236
237
238
239
240
241
242
243
244
245
246
247
248
249
250