To whom?
To God.
To pray to God,—what is the meaning of these words?
Is there an infinite beyond us?
Is that infinite there, inherent, permanent; necessarily substantial, since it is infinite; and because, if it lacked matter it would be bounded; necessarily intelligent, since it is infinite, and because, if it lacked intelligence, it would end there?
Does this infinite awaken in us the idea of essence, while we can attribute to ourselves only the idea of existence?
In other terms, is it not the absolute, of which we are only the relative?
At the same time that there is an infinite without us, is there not an infinite within us?
Are not these two infinites (what an alarming plural!) superposed, the one upon the other?
Is not this second infinite, so to speak, subjacent to the first?
Is it not the latter’s mirror, reflection, echo, an abyss which is concentric with another abyss?
Is this second infinity intelligent also?
Does it think?
Does it love?
Does it will?
If these two infinities are intelligent, each of them has a will principle, and there is an I in the upper infinity as there is an I in the lower infinity.
The I below is the soul; the I on high is God.
To place the infinity here below in contact, by the medium of thought, with the infinity on high, is called praying.
Let us take nothing from the human mind; to suppress is bad.
We must reform and transform.
Certain faculties in man are directed towards the Unknown; thought, reverie, prayer.
The Unknown is an ocean.
What is conscience?
It is the compass of the Unknown.
Thought, reverie, prayer,—these are great and mysterious radiations.
Let us respect them.
Whither go these majestic irradiations of the soul?
Into the shadow; that is to say, to the light.
The grandeur of democracy is to disown nothing and to deny nothing of humanity.
Close to the right of the man, beside it, at the least, there exists the right of the soul.
To crush fanaticism and to venerate the infinite, such is the law.
Let us not confine ourselves to prostrating ourselves before the tree of creation, and to the contemplation of its branches full of stars.
We have a duty to labor over the human soul, to defend the mystery against the miracle, to adore the incomprehensible and reject the absurd, to admit, as an inexplicable fact, only what is necessary, to purify belief, to remove superstitions from above religion; to clear God of caterpillars.
CHAPTER VI—THE ABSOLUTE GOODNESS OF PRAYER
With regard to the modes of prayer, all are good, provided that they are sincere.
Turn your book upside down and be in the infinite.
There is, as we know, a philosophy which denies the infinite.
There is also a philosophy, pathologically classified, which denies the sun; this philosophy is called blindness.
To erect a sense which we lack into a source of truth, is a fine blind man’s self-sufficiency.
The curious thing is the haughty, superior, and compassionate airs which this groping philosophy assumes towards the philosophy which beholds God.
One fancies he hears a mole crying,
“I pity them with their sun!”
There are, as we know, powerful and illustrious atheists.
At bottom, led back to the truth by their very force, they are not absolutely sure that they are atheists; it is with them only a question of definition, and in any case, if they do not believe in God, being great minds, they prove God.
We salute them as philosophers, while inexorably denouncing their philosophy.
Let us go on.
The remarkable thing about it is, also, their facility in paying themselves off with words.
A metaphysical school of the North, impregnated to some extent with fog, has fancied that it has worked a revolution in human understanding by replacing the word Force with the word Will.
To say: “the plant wills,” instead of: “the plant grows”: this would be fecund in results, indeed, if we were to add: “the universe wills.”
Why?