The man reaches the apex of his humorous vocation in revolt. The best clown is the one who best simulates irritation. Whether it is the absurdity of petty everyday events, or impotence in the face of the universe, revolt springs up and essentially exposes the ridiculousness of his condition. All humor arises from a contrast: revolt arouses laughter because it is painful and absolutely useless. I say and go into the inevitable: is there anything funnier than blasphemies? An insect indignant at a god… He cries out, screams, fries his nerves in vain. In his rage, he resorts to offense, risking eternal punishment. For the pleasure of judging to scratch, in an instant, the reputation of an infinitely superior being, he places himself, vulnerable, as a candidate for the target of a terrible wrath. It has been said that all blasphemy is, at the bottom, a manifestation of dignity. Maybe this is right… What is laughable is that it is of no use at all.
Inevitable Prejudice
My prejudice against philosophical systems borders on the irrational. I have, beforehand, all the arguments against the applicability of any temple erected to reasoning. Logic lacks life, lacks the real. To isolate reasoning, to take it as an autonomous entity is to deprive it of its usefulness, of the important role it plays within a subjective and complex conjuncture. Reduce reality to a logical schematization, subjugate it to the rational, endow it with order, sequence, justification: these seem to me to be the essential errors of any system. A system can only be assertive when it talks about itself or about other systems, i.e., when it revels in its particular world. As an analyst of reality, unfortunately, it is useless: reality laughs at any systematization.
Melancholy…
Melancholy, so frequent in artists, raw material of almost all poetic work, classified by Poe as “the most legitimate of all the poetical tones,” seems strange to my nature. I fall into melancholy, if I may put it that way, only when I am distracted by everyday issues. Taking melancholy, of course, with sadness among its manifestations. If taken as a general disenchantment—which does not necessarily result in sadness—then I am as close to it as a brother. Affliction, psychological torture, endless mental conflict: these are as natural to me as day and night. I do not know where this psychological disposition comes from, but through sadness I do not feel united to any of the great poets.
It Is Necessary the Vocation of Freedom to Recognize Oneself as a Slave
In the foreground, the practical world; then, thought itself. Ties, shackles everywhere. A very limited field of action and a role to fulfill, by necessity. Wherever reasoning directs its lens, there are the claws of convenience. And none of this frightens, all of this is nothing but normality. A few—madmen—awaken, however. They manifest themselves through revolt. To them, due to blasphemy, all the ferocity with which an animal reacts when it feels threatened. And there remains rebellion, therefore, inadvisable—for those who follow advice. And for the few, the happiness of knowing they are not the majority. As Fernando Savater said, it is necessary the vocation of freedom to recognize oneself as a slave.