Читать книгу My Individualism and the Philosophical Foundations of Litera - Natsume Soseki - Страница 10

My Individualism

This is the first time I have been in this Gakushūin. It is not very different from what I have long imagined it. However, what I was imagining was a little vague.

As Mr Okada so kindly mentioned in his introduction, he asked me last spring to give a lecture or something similar. However, something stopped me from doing so at the time. Mr Okada seems to remember the reason better than I, and I found the explanations he has just provided amply sufficient to clarify the situation. Whatever the case, I was forced to decline the offer provisionally. However, not wanting to be rude, instead of refusing outright, I offered to give the lecture during the following session. This time, to be on the safe side, I asked Mr Okada when that new session would take place. He replied that it would take place in October this year. Then, mentally calculating the number of days left between April and October, I told myself that I could easily find something to say since I had so much time. “That suits me,” I said, thus confirming my agreement. However, luckily or unluckily for me, I don’t know which, I fell ill and was confined to my bed all through September. When October arrived, the month to which I was committed, I was no longer bedridden, but I was still unsteady on my legs and I would have had difficulty in giving a lecture. On the other hand, I could not ignore the promise I had given and the thought that someone would pester me some day to fulfill it was a source of anxiety.

The unsteadiness in my legs soon disappeared, but the end of the month arrived without my receiving any news of the lecture I was to give at the Gakushōin. It goes without saying that I had not told anyone about my illness, but, as two or three newspapers had broached the subject, I thought that my situation was probably appreciated and that a replacement had been found. This thought reassured me. Then Mr Okada suddenly appeared before me in flesh and blood. He was wearing boots for the purpose (of course, the fact that it had rained that day had something to do with it). He came right to the edge of the Waseda district to give me the following message: the lecture was postponed to the end of November, by which time he was sure I would be able to keep my promise. As I had assumed that I was excused from the commitment, I was, I admit, somewhat taken aback. However, there was still a month left, and I told myself that I would easily find something to say. So I responded to his suggestion by renewing my agreement with him.

In light of what I have just told you, you will assume that between last spring and October, and then between October and November 25th, I had enough time to find enough ideas to make up a coherent lecture. But I was unwell and thinking about such things was painful and stressful for me. So, until November 25th arrived, I did not worry about it and lazed around. The days passed, one after another. Finally, when there were only two or three days left and the deadline was near, I had a vague notion that I should think about preparing for the lecture. But this was such an unpleasant prospect that in the end I spent the day painting.

Perhaps you will think I have a talent for painting. In fact, I contented myself with scrawling childish things on the canvas; I put the picture on the wall and spent a couple of days contemplating my work and daydreaming. Yesterday—yes, I think it was yesterday—someone came to see me and told me that my painting was very interesting. More precisely, it was not the picture itself that was interesting, but it was like something else I had painted when I had been in an exceptional frame of mind. I told my visitor I had painted the picture not because I felt happy, but because I was sad.

I began to explain my state of mind: just as certain artists bubbling over with happiness paint pictures, do calligraphy, write poetry or prose, others, because they are in the midst of cares and worry, take a brush to do calligraphy, paint a canvas or compose a work of literature, hoping in that way to attain happiness. Although it may seem strange, when we look at the results of these two different psychological states, we realize that they are often identical. However, although I am taking advantage, completely incidentally, of this occasion to point out this phenomenon to you, it is irrelevant to the subject I have chosen for my lecture. I will not therefore pursue it. So, anyway, I contented myself with looking at this strange picture and passing the time without worrying about preparing for my lecture.

Finally the 25th arrived—the day I had to appear in public and give my lecture whether I wanted to or not. So this morning I have tried to bring together my ideas a little, but I feel that I am inadequately prepared. As this lecture will not leave you completely satisfied, with this prospect in mind I ask you kindly to be patient.

I do not know when your club began its activities, but personally I do not see any problem in your calling on outside people to give lectures. However, looking at it from another point of view, it seems to me that, whoever you invite, there is not much chance that you will hear a lecture that fulfills your needs. Is what interests you perhaps rather the novelty of someone from outside, someone different?

Here is an ironic tale that a Rakugo storyteller told me. Two noblemen were once hunting a falcon near Meguro. After riding about all over the place, they grew hungry. Unfortunately, no meal had been prepared for them, and as their servants were far away it was impossible for them to satisfy their appetite. The only thing they could do was go to a squalid farm nearby and ask the people there for something to eat. An old peasant and his wife, taking pity on them, grilled a samma, a sort of mackerel, which they had to hand and served it with rice mixed with barley. The two noblemen made a hearty meal of the fish and left the farm. The next day, the strong smell of samma lingered in their noses and they could not forget its delicious taste. So one of the noblemen invited the other to dinner and promised him a samma. The servants were astonished by the order, but as it came from the master, there was no question of opposing it. On their command, the cook, with the aid of a pair of tweezers, removed all the little bones from the fish one by one, soaked it in rice wine, grilled it and served it to the nobleman and his guest. But they were no longer hungry, and the ridiculous care which had been taken in the preparation of the samma had made it lose its taste. They took a few mouthfuls of this strange meal with their chopsticks, but it was failure. They looked at one another and said, “To savor a samma, we must go to Meguro!” These words, which may seem strange to you, are the conclusion of the story.

You who are in this excellent institution, the Gakushōin, are constantly in contact with excellent teachers. So now that a person like me has been asked to come and give a lecture, will you not, having waited from spring until the end of autumn for me, be disgusted by the delicious party dishes that are served here and would you not, consequently, like to taste the Meguro samma?

I see Professor Ōmori sitting in this room. We left university more or less at the same time—one year apart, I think. Mr Ōmori once told me that his pupils did not listen attentively to his lectures and that he found this irritating. They were also not conscientious and this was very annoying. I remember that his criticism was not of pupils at the Gakushōin but of those at some private school. I responded to him in a way that was, at the least, discourteous.

I am ashamed to repeat it here, but I said to him, “Is there, in any country anywhere, a student who wants to listen to your lectures or even those of anybody else?” Perhaps Mr Ōmori did not fully understood my point at the time, so I am taking the opportunity today to dispel the misunderstanding, if there was one. When we were students and were the same age as you—we may have been older—we were much lazier than you. It would be no exaggeration to say that we never attended the professors’ lectures. I am, of course, only talking about my own experience and what my friends were doing: it may not apply to others. However, when I look back at the past today, it seems to me there is some truth in all this.

As for myself, I gave the impression of being docile, but I was not at all an attentive student: I just lazed about. With such recollections in mind, I never have the courage to criticize, like Mr Ōmori, the conscientious students I see today. And it was in wishing to express this feeling that I made such a thoughtless suggestion to Mr Ōmori. In coming here, I had no intention of making excuses for my conduct towards Mr Ōmori, but I am taking the opportunity to make amends to you all.

I have wandered off on to an unanticipated topic, so I am going to try to return to my speech.

You are in a famous institution. Famous professors are constantly guiding you in your studies. Every day you are taught by them, in general or specialized subjects. I suppose you have intentionally invited someone like me to come from outside and lecture to you because you wanted to try something new, exactly as the two nobles wanted to eat the Meguro samma. But in truth, I think that the lectures by the professors you see every day are much more useful to you and much more interesting than anything someone like me can say to you. If I were a teacher in this establishment, my suggestions would not be stimulating because of their novelty. Such a large audience would not be assembled and my lecture would not give rise to such enthusiasm, nor such curiosity, it seems to me. What do you think?

Why am I making such suppositions? Well, to tell you the whole story, many years ago I wanted to teach at the Gakushōin. It was not I who made the first move: a friend who worked here recommended me. At the time, I was a scatterbrain who had no idea what direction to take after university to earn my daily bread. Now, when you set out on life, if you just fold your arms and do nothing, the money to pay your rent does not simply turn up out of nowhere. I did not question whether or not I was qualified to be a teacher: it was absolutely necessary for me to fit in somewhere. When my friend told me he had recommended me, I got in touch with your school and took the first steps towards putting in my application. At that moment, another candidate appeared, but my friend told me that my application was going well and there was nothing to worry about. Thinking that my appointment was no longer in doubt, I enquired what a professor should wear. He told me that a jacket was necessary for classes, so, before my appointment had been confirmed, I ordered a jacket. At the same time, I had only a very vague notion of where the Gakushōin was.

It is very odd, but, when the jacket was ready and against all predictions, my application was refused. The other professor was chosen for the post of English professor. I have now completely forgotten his name, but the resentment I felt was probably not too intense: I think it was someone who had just come back from the United States. If this person had not been appointed, if I had become, by a stroke of luck, a professor in the Gakushōin and had taught here up to today, perhaps I would not have received your kind invitation and I would not have had the chance of addressing you from this platform. Does not the fact that you waited to hear my lecture from spring until November prove that, even though I failed to get into the Gakushōin, you see something novel in me, as if I were the Meguro samma?

I should like to say a few words to you about what happened to me after my application to the Gakushōin had been rejected. It does not logically follow from what I have just said, but it is a very important part of the lecture I am giving today. I would therefore like you to listen carefully to my words on this matter.

I had been refused. I had nothing left but the jacket I was wearing. Apart from that, I had no other Western clothes. That was how it was! Where do you think I was going in those clothes? In those times, unlike today, it was very easy to find a job, probably because there was a lack of available employees at the time. Wherever I turned there were suitable vacancies. In my own case, I received two offers simultaneously: one was from First Higher Secondary School and the other was from the University Teacher Training College. I half agreed with the plan of my professor friend, who had recommended me to the Higher Secondary School, but at the same time I had thoughtlessly made polite inquiries at the Teacher Training College. So I was in a fine mess. I was young, so I made mistakes and was careless. It was clear that I would have to face the music, but I really did feel at a total loss.

I was summoned by my professor friend, an experienced teacher in the Higher Secondary School, who gave me a dressing down:

“You say that you are coming here. At the same time you contact another establishment. So I, acting as your intermediary here, am in a very difficult situation!”

Pushing stupidity to the point of anger, because I was young, I told myself it would be better to refuse both posts at the same time and began to take steps in this direction. Then I received a message from Mr Kuhara, who was at the time headmaster of the Higher Secondary School and is now president of the Kyoto University of Sciences. He asked me to go and see him at his institution. I hurried over and found the headmaster of the University Teacher Training College, Mr Kanō Jigorō, in his office together with my professor friend who had presented my application. Mr Kuhara informed me that an arrangement had been made: I had no need to be embarrassed as regards the secondary school and it was preferable that I should work in the Teacher Training College. Under the circumstances, I could not refuse and I replied that I would accept the suggestion, but I could not help feeling that I was in an irritating situation. I must tell you that at the time I did not think much of the Teacher Training College. Of course, when I think about this today, it seems completely unjustified.

Even though I was only meeting Mr Kanō for the first time, I tried to be evasive, saying:

“According to your own account you are looking for teachers to serve as instructors, to be a model to the students. I am completely unqualified for such a position.”

Mr Kanō responded:

“You are a competent person. When I hear you reject my suggestion with such honesty, I want you to come and work with us even more.”

He would not let me refuse the job, and, although I was not by nature an acquisitive type who would want to teach in two schools at the same time, I had caused trouble for several people through my lack of maturity. So in the end I decided to go and teach at the Teacher Training College.

However, it was clear at the outset that I did not have the qualifications to be a good teacher, and I am sorry to say that I was very ill at ease. Mr Kanō said it was a pity that I was so honest, and perhaps it would have been better if I had been more devious. However, I could not help thinking that the post did not suit me; to speak plainly, I felt like a fish out of water.

Finally, one year later, I was appointed to a college in the country. It was a college at Matsuyama,1 in Iyo province. I see that you laugh at my mention of Matsuyama College. You have no doubt read my work Botchan. In that novel there is a character whose nickname is “Red Shirt,” and at the time I was asked who this person might be. At that period, I was the only teacher who had a degree, so if we want to find real people behind every character in Botchan, well, it must have been me hiding behind “Red Shirt.” I want to tell you that this is very lucky for me.

I lived in Matsuyama only for a year. The prefect asked me to stay there, but since I had already given my word to another establishment I could not accede to his request and I moved on to somewhere else. This time I went to Kumamoto2 high school. Looking at it chronologically, I acquired my teaching experience at the college, the high school, and then at the university. I have yet to try a primary school or a girls’ school.

I lived in Kumamoto for a long time. Then, I unexpectedly received a confidential note from the Ministry of Education. They were offering to send me to London for studies. I had spent quite a few years in Kumamoto, had I not? At the time I was thinking of refusing the offer: after all, I told myself, what use to the nation would it be for me to go abroad with no particular objective? However, the principal professor, who was the intermediary who informed me of the secret plans of the Ministry, said, “It is they who make the assessment. It isn’t up to you to assess yourself. In any case it’s best for you to go.” So, as I had no reason to refuse, I obeyed the Minister’s order and went to England. But as I had expected, I had nothing to do there.

To explain this to you, I must tell you what I did before I went abroad. The story I am going to tell you is part of the lecture I am giving today and I ask you to listen carefully.

At university I specialized in English literature. Perhaps you are going to ask me exactly what I mean by “English literature.” For me, after three years of study, it was as hazy as a dream. Dixon3 was my professor: he made us read poems and prose extracts aloud in class; he made us write essays; he snarled at us when we forgot articles, and got himself into a temper when we made mistakes in pronunciation. In the examination he asked us for the dates of the birth and death of Wordsworth, the number of pages in Shakespeare’s manuscripts, and even a chronological list of the works of Walter Scott. That is the only type of question he set for us.

However young you may be, you can doubtless understand what I am saying. When I wondered what English literature was, and when I wondered first what literature itself was, temporarily leaving aside English literature, I of course had no answer to the question. If I had been told “You only have to read it yourself to understand!,” I would have retorted that that would be like a blind man looking through a fence. I could not find anything in the library that caught my eye, however long I browsed over the shelves. This was not simply because of a lack of willingness on my part, but also because the available resources were poor in the field of English literature. In any case, I studied for three years, and at the end of it I had understood nothing about literature. And I am forced to admit to you that this was the source of the torments I was to suffer.

I set out on my working life with this ambivalent attitude. Rather than say that I became a teacher, it would be better to say that circumstances led me into that profession. By good luck, as my linguistic skills were not strong, the different subterfuges I used every day managed to keep me out of trouble. However, in my heart I had a profound sense of emptiness. In fact, if it had been genuine emptiness, I would have been able to deal with it, but the deep dissatisfaction I felt, tainted with irresolution and ambiguity, was unbearable; to crown it all, I was not in the least interested in my adopted profession of teacher. From the outset I knew that I did not have the right temperament to be a teacher. Teaching in class already bored me. How could I help it? I felt turned in on myself, as if I were getting ready to disappear into my own world. But did that world exist, yes or no? No matter in which direction I looked, I didn’t dare disappear anywhere.

“Since I was born into this world, I must do something in it,” I told myself, but I had not the faintest idea of what was good for me. I remained paralyzed, like an isolated being surrounded by mist. I expected at least one ray of sunshine to penetrate the darkness, or, even better, I would have liked to have a searchlight so that I could see clearly before me. But a single ray would have been enough. Unfortunately, no matter where I looked, everything was indistinct, confused. I had the impression of being trapped in a bag which I could not get out of. “If I had a gimlet I could make a hole in this bag and escape from it,” I thought, impatient in the extreme to get out of it. But, alas, no one gave me a gimlet and I was incapable of finding one myself. I spent dark days within myself speculating on what was to become of me.

In the grip of this anguish, I graduated from the university. Spurred on by it, I moved from Matsuyama to Kumamoto and then I left Japan with the same anxiety. As soon as you begin to study outside your own country you become aware of new responsibilities. I worked as hard as I could and did my utmost to achieve something. But, whatever book I read, I never managed to come out of the bag. However much I paced the city of London in search of a gimlet to rip the bag, I would never have discovered one, I believe. In my room in the boarding house, I began to reflect. The situation was absurd. “There is no point in reading all these books,” I told myself, and then I gave up. I no longer saw any reason to read the books.

At that moment, I understood for the first time that I had no hope of finding salvation if I did not formulate my own basic concept of what literature was. Until then I had floated at random, like a rootless aquatic plant, relying entirely on the opinions of others. At last I became aware that I had reached an impasse. When I say that I based myself on the opinions of others, I mean that I was an imitator, like someone who makes others drink his liquor, then asks them their opinion on it and makes it his own, even if it is wrong. It must seem odd to you when I put it like this, and you may doubt that there are such imitators in reality. In fact, there really are.

Recently, Westerners have been talking a great deal about Bergson4 and Eucken.5The Japanese also, behaving like Panurge’s sheep,6 are making a good deal of fuss about them. In my time, it was even worse. If you came across any suggestion from a Westerner, whatever it might be, you adopted the point of view blindly and with great affectation. Whatever the occasion, people littered their speech with foreign words, recommended them to their neighbors, and considered themselves very intelligent in so doing. Everyone, or almost everyone, wanted to do the same thing. I am not maligning other people: in fact, I have behaved like this myself. For example, if I read a critique by a Westerner of a book written by a Westerner, I would spread the ideas all over the place, whether or not I understood them, not thinking at all about the proper merits of the judgement. I would stroll around arrogantly talking about some subject which was foreign to me, which was not in any sense my own, deriving from my own being. It did not worry me that I had swallowed it whole, and if I acquired knowledge mechanically, that did not bother me either.

Nevertheless, however much people praised me because I was strutting around wearing other people’s clothes, deep down inside me were the early stirrings of anxiety. I wore peacock feathers easily and strutted around proudly, but I began to understand that if I did not abandon the borrowed plumes, that if I did not go back to something more authentic, the anxiety within me would never disappear.

For example, a Westerner may well say that a poem is magnificent, that the style is remarkable, and that is his opinion as a Westerner, even if I happen to mention it. If I did not agree, I was not obliged to adopt his ideas. I was an independent Japanese. I was never the servant of England. As part of the Japanese nation, I owed it to myself to make my own judgement. Besides, from the moral perspective—in which honesty is central and a virtue that is prized by all the countries in the world—I had to stay faithful to my personal opinion.

That, however, does not prevent me from specializing in English literature. I found that I generally became annoyed when I disagreed with the ideas of a native English critic. I had to ask myself what was the cause of the disagreement. Was it due to a difference in customs, feelings or habits? If we went deeper into it, we would attribute this disagreement to national character. But the average scholars, confusing literature and science, would conclude that what suits country A could not but give his admiration in country B, and would be seriously mistaken. I must say that I myself was mistaken on this point. If I find it impossible to reconcile myself with English critics, I must be able to explain why. Simply by formulating this explanation, I can throw some light on the world of literature. At the period I am speaking of, I understood this for the first time. That was extremely late. But it is the straight truth, and I will not distort the facts for you.

From that moment, in order to support my positions in relation to literature—in fact, it would be better to say in order to develop new convictions—I began to read works which had nothing to do with great literature. In short, I ended up pondering on the expression “self-centered”7 and, to test this concentration on myself, I plunged into the reading of scientific and philosophical works. Now times have changed, and people who have any sense at all must understand the problem I have been talking about. But at that time, I had the intellectual level of a child and the world around me was hardly more advanced. In fact, I had no other way out.

I gained a great deal of strength from this period of introspection and it prompted me to ask who these Westerners were. In fact, this concentration on myself set me in motion—I who up to then had remained stuck in one place, disorientated— and pointed out the way to me.

I must admit that this marked a new departure in life for me. When we imitate Westerners and make a lot of noise about nothing, it only brings us anxiety. So if I endeavored to explain to people why they should not let themselves be thus influenced, telling them it was better that they should not act like Westerners, not only would I feel I was doing the right thing but they too would benefit greatly. That is what I thought. Then I decided to dedicate my life’s work to carrying out this plan by writing books and in other ways.

At that moment, my anxiety disappeared completely and I began to explore the city of London with a light heart. To put it metaphorically, my pickaxe had finally struck a rich seam. Let me add, at the risk of repeating myself that the path I had to take, which until then had been shrouded in mist, was now clear to me.

By the time this light dawned within me, more than a year of my stay in England had passed. It was impossible for me to accomplish my plan while I was still abroad, so I resolved to collect as much material as I could and to complete my work when I returned to Japan. By pure chance, I would return to my country with a strength that I did not have when I left it.

However, as soon as I arrived back in Japan, I had to take steps to ensure that I could earn a living. I started giving lessons in a Postgraduate School and I also taught at the university. As this still left me without enough money, I also worked in a private school. To crown it all, I lost my nerve and I was forced in the end to publish trivial articles in magazines. Because of the burden of these various tasks, I had to abandon a project that I was halfway through. The Theory of Literature that I had published seemed not so much to represent the work I wanted to accomplish as to be the remnants of a defeat. It was like a deformed child, or, rather, it was like the ruins of an unfinished city which had been destroyed by an earthquake before it had been completely built.

However, that idea of concentration on myself, which appeared at the time I have spoken of, never left me for one moment. Indeed, as the years passed, it grew stronger. The plan to create my life’s work had met with failure. However, the conviction that I acquired at that time, that the Ego is the essential ingredient and that others are merely secondary, brings me today great self-confidence and a deep feeling of peace. It seems as if this is what allows me, even now, to continue to live. In fact, it is perhaps thanks to this strength that I can stand on this platform and give you this lecture.

Up to now, I have really only summarized my experience for you, but, in an excess of concern for you, the idea behind my story is that you should identify in it some relationship to your own situation. You will all leave this establishment and go out into the world. For many of you, this will not be for some time; several of you will soon start to work in society. But I presume that you are all likely to repeat my experience; that is to say, you yourselves will feel the same anguish that I once endured (even if it is of a different nature). I think there must be many among you who are very angry because you want to find an opening somewhere but cannot; you would like to grasp something firmly but you grip only a smooth bald head.

If some of you have already found an opening in some way, you must be exceptional cases. There are also those who satisfy themselves by following a traditional path, and I would not say that there is anything wrong with that, if it brings them inner peace and confidence in themselves. But if you have no support, you must go on whatever the cost until you reach the place where, as you dig with your pickaxe, you discover a seam. You must go on, because if you do not find the seam, you will spend all your life in an uncomfortable situation, treading water, not knowing what to do. If I lay so much stress on my own example, it is so that you will not be plunged into perplexity: it is not in any way to propose myself as a model. However normal I may seem, I know that I have managed to make my own way, and if you think my way is absurd, your observations and criticisms will not harm me. I think that I am satisfied with the path I have chosen, but let there be no misunderstanding between us! This path has given me satisfaction and peace of mind, and has enabled me to have confidence in myself, but I do not at all believe that, because of this, the path that I have followed can act as a model for you.

In any case, I can certainly detect in you the same type of anxiety that I experienced. Is that true? If it is, ten years, twenty years, sometimes a whole lifetime will be needed to find something tangible at last. “There it is! I have finally found the way that I should follow! I have finally reached my destination!” When these exclamations are yours, you should find peace of mind. When you utter these words, an infallible confidence in yourself will make you hold your head up high. Perhaps a number of you have already reached this stage. But if there are some among you who are tormented by the mist and thick fog that have risen in your path, whatever sacrifice you are driven to, you will be satisfied, I think, when you reach your destination. It is not a question of working only for the good of the country or of your family; it is something that is absolutely essential for happiness.

If you have already taken a similar path to mine, what I have to say will be of little use to you, but if any obstacle appears in your path you must overcome it, or otherwise, regrettably, you will fail. Of course, the mere fact of going forward does not mean that you have taken the right direction. There is nothing else to do but walk until you find something tangible. I have no desire to remonstrate with you, but as I think that your future happiness depends on this process, I cannot remain silent on the subject. I am giving this speech because it seems to me that it would be unpleasant for you to find yourselves in a situation where you felt like you were floating between two currents, with your nerves as weak as sea cucumbers, making you completely irresolute and preventing you from understanding your problems in depth. If you tell me that it is not unpleasant for you to experience such a state, then I have nothing to add, and if you tell me that you have successfully passed through this unpleasant trial, that is also very good. I pray with all my strength that you will pass these tests successfully.

However, as far as I am concerned, after I left university I did not manage to extricate myself honorably from this situation until I was thirty. Obviously this caused me inevitable suffering, and it persisted year after year. That is why, if anyone among you is affected by a condition similar to my own, I cannot help hoping with all my heart that he will valiantly follow his chosen path. I permit myself to say this because, when you reach your final destination, you will finally discover a place of which you can say, “I can truly rest peacefully here!”; you will have peace of mind and you will gain confidence in yourself for your whole life.

What I have told you up to now constitutes the first part of this lecture. Let us now embark on the second part. The Gakushōin is generally considered to be an institution that receives people who have the benefit of a comfortable social position, and that is certainly the strict truth. If, according to my assumption, the great mass of poor people do not enter this establishment but, rather, children from good families, or from the upper classes, are assembled here, the first thing that is appropriate to mention, of all the aspects of your life in the years to come, concerns the exercise of power. In other words, when you get a job, you will clearly have more power at your disposal than poor people.

I said earlier that you must persevere until you reach, thanks to your efforts, a destination that brings you happiness and peace of mind. However, why do we thus strive for happiness and peace of mind? Well, in all probability, you will reach that stage when you find your chosen way and find yourself for the first time confronted by your individuality, which has been yours since your birth. Once you have found your path, if you pursue it with determination your individuality will develop little by little. When your individuality and your professional activity are in perfect harmony, you may say for the first time that you are satisfied with your life.

When I analyze this notion of “power,” which I mentioned, I realize that what we call “power” is an instrument that allows us to infiltrate ourselves to some extent into the head of someone else. If the fact of describing power as an “instrument” seems too blunt to you, let us say that is something that can be used as an instrument.

The power of money accompanies power in the strict sense of the term. It is inevitable, ladies and gentlemen, that you hold this power too, and in a much more clearly defined manner, than poor people. If I look at the power of money within the same framework that I used to analyze power in general, well, this seems to me to be an extremely useful instrument in enlarging the field of one’s own individuality by seducing or suborning others.

We must thus consider that power in general, and the power of money, are extremely useful instruments which allow those who possess them to impose their own individuality on others or to cajole others to go in their desired direction, and they can do this with infinitely more ease than poor people. Those who have this strength may seem to be remarkable people. In fact, they are extremely dangerous. I have already told you that, in the general context of studies, literature, “liberal arts” and leisure, individuality can develop only when our Ego has fulfilled itself. However, to be frank, the application of this principle can be effected in a wider sense and is not limited to the arts and sciences.

I know two brothers: the younger is happy to stay in the house and read books, while the elder is a fanatical angler. The timorous behavior of the younger brother, who does nothing but shut himself up in the house, disgusts the elder brother profoundly. Finally, believing that his brother has been steeped in misanthropy because he does not want to trouble the fish, the elder drags the younger off on a fishing trip. The sport deeply displeases the younger brother and he finds it intolerable. However, as the elder brother pushes him to accompany him to the fish pond and to carry the fishing rods and basket, he gives way, hoping that he will not catch anything. However, he spends the day pulling roach out of the water against his will and returns home completely disgusted.