No, my longing is not
to be submerged in the vast All, in an infinite and eternal Matter or
Energy, or in God; not to be possessed by God, but to possess Him, to
become myself God, yet without ceasing to be I myself, I who am now
speaking to you. Tricks of monism avail us nothing; we crave the
substance and not the shadow of immortality.
Materialism, you say? Materialism? Without doubt; but either our spirit
is likewise some kind of matter or it is nothing. I dread the idea of
having to tear myself away from my flesh; I dread still more the idea of
having to tear myself away from everything sensible and material, from
all substance. Yes, perhaps this merits the name of materialism; and if
I grapple myself to God with all my powers and all my senses, it is that
He may carry me in His arms beyond death, looking into these eyes of
mine with the light of His heaven when the light of earth is dimming in
them for ever. Self-illusion? Talk not to me of illusion--let me live!
They also call this pride--"stinking pride" Leopardi called it--and they
ask us who are we, vile earthworms, to pretend to immortality; in virtue
of what? wherefore? by what right? "In virtue of what?" you ask; and I
reply, In virtue of what do we now live? "Wherefore?"--and wherefore do
we now exist? "By what right?"--and by what right are we? To exist is
just as gratuitous as to go on existing for ever.
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