I believe it was Paracelsus who said that, in order to develop spiritually, man must spend at least half an hour every day in seclusion, in silence, and without thinking about anything. In other words, man must cultivate the habit of meditation. It is curious that the recommendation comes from a Westerner who lived in a time when there were no good translations of Eastern texts. Therefore, it is to be assumed that Paracelsus came to such conclusions through experience, the same experience that is indispensable to validate what has been taught for so many centuries in the East. There is no denying it: meditation, if practiced regularly, proves to be undoubtedly beneficial. With time, it is possible to notice ostensible differences between the days when one meditates and the days when the practice is postponed. The exercise of establishing one’s own will over the mind, i.e., the exercise of silencing, annulling, and controlling it, greatly strengthens not only self-control, but also the ability to choose. Not to mention the sensations that come from the mental state induced by deep meditation, and the doors that are opened by continuous effort. In short, the wise alchemist knew what he was talking about and was, without a doubt, a superior man.
Vigny and I
Much of what Vigny says about himself I could attribute to me without changing a comma. I have, like Vigny, this “besoin éternel
d’organization”, without which I cannot move; I am, like him, “seul”, “exempt de tout fanatisme”; life has also taken care to endow me with this “sévérité froide et un peu sombre” which is not innate; as for the creative method, identically I conceive, plan, mold, and let cool down before the final execution; I could also say with all my soul that “l’indépendance fut toujours mon désir”; I also share Vigny’s repugnance to futility, fruit of someone who, being “toujours en conversation avec moi-même”, finds in the hindrance of interruptions always a reason for frustrations… and the list could go on. Vigny, however, makes the point: “Aimer, inventer, admirer, voilà ma vie.” Ah, Monsieur! Regrettably, these words of yours I can no longer subscribe to…. But it is okay: God gave me the sense of humor.
If the Sorrow and the Character Are Truly Great
If the sorrow and the character are truly great, the result is silence. The tongue is never allowed to articulate a word about the wound: this is nothing but respect for oneself and one’s past. The mind, however, which makes use of ethics only when it is convenient, tries to eternalize the hurt by regular evocations. And so, unable to stop it, the spirit has to get used to this double reality, always careful not to betray itself by allowing what should remain hidden to escape. It takes a lot of practice and patience to deal with this dark area independent of the will.
It Is Impossible for a Moralist Not to Look Bitter
It is impossible for a moralist not to look bitter to ordinary minds, because the conclusions he reaches are extremely bitter when the moral sense that pulsates through him is set against worldly reality. Being a moralist necessarily entails this predisposition to unpleasant remarks. All his work is an effort to face and scrutinize that which an ordinary mind avoids; and if he advances, he does so only out of a desire for clarification and a duty of sincerity. This is why, if one day he finally slows down, if his lines exhibit an almost beatific serenity, he deserves our admiration and recognition: this will never happen unless he has conquered the problems on which he has focused.