Tag: philosophy

There have been two hundred pages of this “Papus” and I confess to having no idea what was in them. From the very beginning, the endless analogies, the creative mathematics, the subliminal semantics, the pantacles, the tables that follow tables and tables, and I put myself to size up the boredom of the god who planned all this for an investigator like “Papus” to unravel his creation. If this is so, it is certain that this god must have exploded with joy at this “Papus” who, by putting the puzzle together, has freed him from loneliness. It is as if he had found a companion to play with. However, with the impartiality of a psychologist, I would diagnose that this god is one step away from suicide.

I start in Helena Blavatsky,—again, thanks to Pessoa,—I follow on Éliphas Lévi, Max Heindel, A.P. Sinnet, and I arrive now in Gérard Encausse, that “Papus”. What can I say? It is amazing how resistant I am. My enthusiasm for so-called modern occultism has lasted only a few pages. And yet I continue to give credit to the authors, pretending not to be fed up with this vocabulary full of “mysteries,” “keys,” “secrets,” incredibly tedious analogies—not to say stupid… I read them and feel the physical presence of Voltaire, instigating me to sneer at the revelators who hide their own name. No, my friend, I will not… It is interesting to remember that I said recently that I have never experienced the sensation of being in front of the revelation of a truth. Of a lie, however… calm down, very calm down, because we would be committing the injustice of mixing them all in the same bag.

Immersing oneself in problems, there comes a time when it seems necessary to sketch answers. To do otherwise is to give up or, at least, to stop moving forward. Much can be said about the answers that, for example, Dostoevsky’s work culminated in; what cannot be said is that it did not embody a complete cycle. In it, multiple problems are represented in various manifestations, and for all of them, Dostoevsky points to the solution—whether it is accepted or not. There is no escape: although it is possible to postpone the ultimate confrontation, this veiled need always seems to lurk asking, “So what?”—and it seems a matter of honor to present a conclusion to it.

Bothered by not knowing Sanskrit, I pull out an English translation of Patanjali’s Yoga Sutra and a spectacular scene occurs. Naturally, I pull out the Yoga Sutra interested in reading the sutras that compose it. But that is not what happens. I open the book and the translator, after explaining to me how difficult it is to translate Sanskrit, tells me in detail about his entire academic career, making a point of mentioning each of the subjects he has studied and specialized in, each of his published articles, master’s and doctoral theses, then explains to me how rich Indian philosophies are, how stupid are the translators who have not studied as he has, who have not specialized in as many areas as he has, who ignore metaethics, and who do not translate with such a shrewd and diligent method as his. At this, I am dragged through an introduction of an unbelievable sixty pages! Is it over? It is not over. The work begins, and I discover that the translator is also a commentator, and that his comments are not located in the footer or at the end of the text, but interrupting the author’s lines. For each sutra—and there are sutras that are limited to one sentence—the translator then appends to it, not even having the humility to reduce the font size, from one to seven pages of comments! What is this? I ask in all sincerity: how can a work presented in this way be sold under its original title? I followed the commentator until I realized that I was definitely in front of a disfigured work, which generates everything but the impression of the original. To read a book of sutras is to pause after each aphorism and ruminate it in mind. But this is impossible when immediately afterward the translator starts endless chatter! The effect is exactly the opposite: the entire work loses its synthetic character, its density is gone, it turns from a collection of sutras into a long and prolix study of hermeneutics and comparative philosophy. Is this what I pulled off the shelf to read? No, it is not. Regardless of the relevance of the comments, the commentator prohibits me from thinking and absorbing the work directly, diverting my attention and simply preventing the work from speaking in its natural cadence. A sutra ends in a comma, and I find its sequence when I no longer even remember what it was talking about. I open the Yoga Sutra and read the expert on metaethics and philosophy of language; I open the Yoga Sutra and after each aphorism, instead of meditating calmly, I have the impulse to stand up and shout, “Shut up, man! Respect the work and carry your petty personal promotion away from me!” How wonderful… I achieve the feat of frying my nerves with a meditation manual!