The embryonic work of the future is one of the visions of philosophy.
A world in limbo, in the state of f?tus, what an unheard-of spectre!
Saint-Simon, Owen, Fourier, are there also, in lateral galleries.
Surely, although a divine and invisible chain unknown to themselves, binds together all these subterranean pioneers who, almost always, think themselves isolated, and who are not so, their works vary greatly, and the light of some contrasts with the blaze of others.
The first are paradisiacal, the last are tragic.
Nevertheless, whatever may be the contrast, all these toilers, from the highest to the most nocturnal, from the wisest to the most foolish, possess one likeness, and this is it: disinterestedness.
Marat forgets himself like Jesus.
They throw themselves on one side, they omit themselves, they think not of themselves.
They have a glance, and that glance seeks the absolute.
The first has the whole heavens in his eyes; the last, enigmatical though he may be, has still, beneath his eyelids, the pale beam of the infinite.
Venerate the man, whoever he may be, who has this sign—the starry eye.
The shadowy eye is the other sign.
With it, evil commences.
Reflect and tremble in the presence of any one who has no glance at all.
The social order has its black miners.
There is a point where depth is tantamount to burial, and where light becomes extinct.
Below all these mines which we have just mentioned, below all these galleries, below this whole immense, subterranean, venous system of progress and utopia, much further on in the earth, much lower than Marat, lower than Babeuf, lower, much lower, and without any connection with the upper levels, there lies the last mine.
A formidable spot.
This is what we have designated as the le troisieme dessous.
It is the grave of shadows.
It is the cellar of the blind.
Inferi.
This communicates with the abyss.
CHAPTER II—THE LOWEST DEPTHS
There disinterestedness vanishes.
The demon is vaguely outlined; each one is for himself.
The I in the eyes howls, seeks, fumbles, and gnaws.
The social Ugolino is in this gulf.
The wild spectres who roam in this grave, almost beasts, almost phantoms, are not occupied with universal progress; they are ignorant both of the idea and of the word; they take no thought for anything but the satisfaction of their individual desires.
They are almost unconscious, and there exists within them a sort of terrible obliteration.
They have two mothers, both step-mothers, ignorance and misery.
They have a guide, necessity; and for all forms of satisfaction, appetite.
They are brutally voracious, that is to say, ferocious, not after the fashion of the tyrant, but after the fashion of the tiger.
From suffering these spectres pass to crime; fatal affiliation, dizzy creation, logic of darkness.
That which crawls in the social third lower level is no longer complaint stifled by the absolute; it is the protest of matter.
Man there becomes a dragon.
To be hungry, to be thirsty—that is the point of departure; to be Satan—that is the point reached.
From that vault Lacenaire emerges.
We have just seen, in Book Fourth, one of the compartments of the upper mine, of the great political, revolutionary, and philosophical excavation.
There, as we have just said, all is pure, noble, dignified, honest.
There, assuredly, one might be misled; but error is worthy of veneration there, so thoroughly does it imply heroism.
The work there effected, taken as a whole has a name: Progress.
The moment has now come when we must take a look at other depths, hideous depths.
There exists beneath society, we insist upon this point, and there will exist, until that day when ignorance shall be dissipated, the great cavern of evil.
This cavern is below all, and is the foe of all.
It is hatred, without exception.
This cavern knows no philosophers; its dagger has never cut a pen.
Its blackness has no connection with the sublime blackness of the inkstand.
Never have the fingers of night which contract beneath this stifling ceiling, turned the leaves of a book nor unfolded a newspaper.
Babeuf is a speculator to Cartouche; Marat is an aristocrat to Schinderhannes.