world, and it consists in seeing the world as it is—and in loving it.
The tragedy of destiny presented in the following pages is that of innate suffering, which has its origin at the root of a being, which gnaws it incessantly and will not leave it until its work of destruction is over. It shows us one of the most powerful of the types of that great human race which for nineteen centuries has filled the West with its cries of sorrow and faith—the Christian.
Some day, centuries and centuries ahead (supposing that our earth is still recollected), the people of the future will bend over the abyss into which our race has disappeared, as Dante did on the edge of Malebolge, with mingled feelings of admiration, horror and pity. But who will feel them keener than we have done—we who, as children, have experienced these anguishes; we who have seen those who were dearest to us strive against them; we whose throats know the acrid and intoxicating odour of Christian pessimism; we who, on certain occasions, have had to make an effort in order not to give way, like others, in moments of doubt, to the frenzy of the Divine Nothingness?
God! Eternal life! Refuge of those who do not succeed in living here below! Faith, which is very often but a lack of faith in life, a lack of faith in the future, a lack of faith in oneself, a lack of courage, and a lack of joy! … We are aware of the number of defeats on which your sorrowful victory is based!
