No.
Shall I exist after death?
No.
What am I?
A little dust collected in an organism.
What am I to do on this earth?
The choice rests with me: suffer or enjoy.
Whither will suffering lead me?
To nothingness; but I shall have suffered.
Whither will enjoyment lead me?
To nothingness; but I shall have enjoyed myself.
My choice is made.
One must eat or be eaten.
I shall eat.
It is better to be the tooth than the grass.
Such is my wisdom.
After which, go whither I push thee, the grave-digger is there; the Pantheon for some of us: all falls into the great hole.
End.
Finis.
Total liquidation.
This is the vanishing-point.
Death is death, believe me.
I laugh at the idea of there being any one who has anything to tell me on that subject.
Fables of nurses; bugaboo for children; Jehovah for men.
No; our to-morrow is the night.
Beyond the tomb there is nothing but equal nothingness.
You have been Sardanapalus, you have been Vincent de Paul—it makes no difference.
That is the truth.
Then live your life, above all things.
Make use of your I while you have it.
In truth, Bishop, I tell you that I have a philosophy of my own, and I have my philosophers.
I don’t let myself be taken in with that nonsense.
Of course, there must be something for those who are down,—for the barefooted beggars, knife-grinders, and miserable wretches.
Legends, chim?ras, the soul, immortality, paradise, the stars, are provided for them to swallow.
They gobble it down.
They spread it on their dry bread.
He who has nothing else has the good God.
That is the least he can have.
I oppose no objection to that; but I reserve Monsieur Naigeon for myself.
The good God is good for the populace.”
The Bishop clapped his hands.
“That’s talking!” he exclaimed.
“What an excellent and really marvellous thing is this materialism!
Not every one who wants it can have it.
Ah! when one does have it, one is no longer a dupe, one does not stupidly allow one’s self to be exiled like Cato, nor stoned like Stephen, nor burned alive like Jeanne d’Arc.
Those who have succeeded in procuring this admirable materialism have the joy of feeling themselves irresponsible, and of thinking that they can devour everything without uneasiness,—places, sinecures, dignities, power, whether well or ill acquired, lucrative recantations, useful treacheries, savory capitulations of conscience,—and that they shall enter the tomb with their digestion accomplished.
How agreeable that is!
I do not say that with reference to you, senator. Nevertheless, it is impossible for me to refrain from congratulating you.
You great lords have, so you say, a philosophy of your own, and for yourselves, which is exquisite, refined, accessible to the rich alone, good for all sauces, and which seasons the voluptuousness of life admirably.
This philosophy has been extracted from the depths, and unearthed by special seekers.