I feel that I am dying, and
yet I cannot realize that I am dying. Is it madness already? No, it is
human nature taken in the act; it is life itself which is a
contradiction, for life means an incessant death and a daily
resurrection; it affirms and it denies, it destroys and constructs, it
gathers and scatters, it humbles and exalts at the same time. To live is
to die partially--to feel one's self in the heart of a whirlwind of
opposing forces--to be an enigma.
If the invisible type molded by these two contradictory currents--if
this form which presides over all my changes of being--has itself
general and original value, what does it matter whether it carries on
the game a few months or years longer, or not? It has done what it had
to do, it has represented a certain unique combination, one particular
expression of the race. These types are shadows--_manes_. Century after
century employs itself in fashioning them. Glory--fame--is the proof
that one type has seemed to the other types newer, rarer, and more
beautiful than the rest. The common types are souls too, only they have
no interest except for the Creator, and for a small number of
individuals.
To feel one's own fragility is well, but to be indifferent to it is
better. To take the measure of one's own misery is profitable, but to
understand its _raison d'etre_ is still more profitable.
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