By chance, I happened across the following quote by Blaise Pascal soon after posting yesterday:
“The human being is only a reed, the most feeble in nature; but this is a thinking reed. It isn’t necessary for the entire universe to arm itself in order to crush him; a whiff of vapour, a taste of water, suffices to kill him. But when the universe crushes him, the human being becomes still more noble than that which kills him, because he knows that he is dying, and the advantage that the universe has over him. The universe, it does not have a clue.
“All our dignity consists, then, in thought. This is the basis on which we must raise ourselves, and not space and time, which we would not know how to fill. Let us make it our task, then, to think well: here is the principle of morality.”
It’s relevant to what I wrote yesterday, how it is thought, awareness,
I write this, yet even in the hours since I wrote yesterday, I have felt the tingling allure of instinct alone. There’s a rawness that is seductive. It is in thrall to age-old reflex and knowledge that feels pure at times: I feel, and I do as I feel.
In times like these, part of it is that it seems unfiltered, uncensored, and therefore more untainted and honest. There’s a physical form to it, at least my experience of it – though I am a sensualist. I can feel it in my bones and muscles, in the stretch and exertion, the strength and bounce, the latent power in me that, in the end, goes beyond the body.
There’ve been occasions that I’ve felt as if I should return to that self – to the animal inside me. When you’re as thought-addled as I am, something as simple as just being can be intoxicating. And on those occasions, I recall the sense of living – being – within my sensations, shining with my pure self and feeling it all the way to my pits.
I always used to say that my life was ruled by a combination of ascetic thought and excessive indulgence, and it would take turns.
What Lawrence wrote of in his book was not addressed directly to that excess (though I think he knew it well), but rather to the pathway to it. The Australians he wrote of possessed the shining health of working beasts – uncomplicated, casually indifferent, possessed of an easy strength, and without the burden of history. That was then perhaps, and explains why in that war and the one that came after the Anzacs were such good soldiers (I am reading a book of Australian war correspondence currently, which is why this analog comes to mind). It seems to me the characters in his book were an extension of the diggers in the trenches – happy warriors with a ruthless, intimidating edge.
Not all of that is true any longer. Nor is there much use for such a character these days. This returns us to what Pascal said and what he claimed as the basis of morality: thought. It’s thought that elevates us beyond the beast of burden; it’s thought that makes a world for us, now and into the future.
To give way to instinct and passion is tempting, but it’s the thinking man this country needs now – as many other countries do also.