The Light of Reason

For the nature of the gods in itself must needs enjoy immortal age in the deepest peace, far removed and parted from our affairs — free from all pain, free from peril, strong in its own resources, needing nothing of us: neither won by good service nor touched by anger.

When human life lay foul before our eyes upon the earth, crushed beneath the weight of Religion, which showed her head from the regions of heaven, hanging over mortals with terrible aspect, first a man of Greece dared to raise mortal eyes against her, and first to stand against her. Him neither tales of gods nor thunderbolts nor heaven with its threatening murmur could quell — but the more they provoked, the more the keen courage of his spirit sharpened, to desire first of all to burst the tight shutters of nature's gates. Therefore the living force of his mind prevailed, and he passed out far beyond the flaming walls of the world and traversed the immeasurable whole in mind and spirit — from which, a victor, he brings us back report of what can arise and what cannot: in a word, how each thing has its power bounded, and its deep-set boundary mark. Therefore Religion in her turn lies crushed beneath our feet, and his victory makes us equal with heaven.

I fear in this matter that you may suppose you are entering the beginning of an unholy course, the path of crime. On the contrary: more often it is Religion that has given birth to wicked and unholy deeds. As at Aulis, when the chosen leaders of the Greeks, the first of men, foully stained the altar of the Virgin Goddess with the blood of Iphianassa. As soon as the ribbon had been bound around the maiden's hair and hung down her cheeks on either side, and she saw her sorrowing father stand before the altars, and near him the attendants hiding the knife, and the citizens pouring out tears at the sight of her — mute with fear she sank on her knees to the ground. Nor did it avail the wretched girl in such an hour that she had been the first to give the king the name of father. For, lifted in men's hands, she was led trembling to the altars — not that after the rite was done she might be attended by the bright hymeneal song, but that in the very season of her wedding, a chaste girl might fall as a foul sacrifice, slain sadly by her own father, to give the fleet a lucky, a prosperous sailing. So much could Religion persuade to evil!

You yourself, at some time, trembling at the words of prophets, will fall away from us. How many dreams they will conjure for you, whose waking fear you must guard against! Not that they will seem to trouble your peace of mind greatly. But if you once give yourself up to them, away go all your plans: fear will set you running from the place where you stand; you will wish to escape — and that is to flee yourself. O unhappy race of men, when they have done such things and confess it! Then a guilt breeds at once for itself by its own deserving: fear of the gods makes men throng to rites and altars — as now at Taormina, at the turning of the year, even as they did of old, the wretched people of the whole city pour out their shepherds' offering to Bacchus, with the noise of horns and the beating of drums, that the goddess may be appeased. Many, too, are the races and peoples that learned this from dreams: they come to the altars, kneel on the ground, shed tears, and raise their hands. And they do not pray to be able to undo the guilt and go unpunished, but only to be able to forget it.

And yet the mere unreason of the thing is often enough to uproot us. As when they lie awake in sleepless nights, and take on the anxieties of a burdened heart, they ask themselves whether they have done any deed that now torments them, and cannot say what it was: they strive to shake off the unaccountable terror, and fear it is still there — for they cannot see what the evil is that they flee. And so they mutter again, and stand still, and are troubled, and dread.

The riddle is solved: a mind unquiet, and the whole of life troubled, strive to change their place, as if they could lay the burden down. The traveler is hardly seated in his hall, and his heart is still abroad. He fancies he is followed: the image of his fear is at his shoulder. He cannot unbend, and the old trouble clings — the trouble the man himself makes. The cup is heavy with the wine, and the man grows more uneasy. He cannot sleep: he tosses from side to side, and strives to find, in words without sense, some easy passage out of a great trouble, like children trying to escape a nightmare. They cannot understand what they are saying, and cannot see through the veil of the trouble they bring upon themselves.

So it is not hard to see why men are afraid. If they saw a clear end to their troubles, they would have strength to despise the fears of religion and the threats of seers. But there is no way out, no end of power: and so they must go on, haunted by a fear that grows forever: for they cannot know what will be, and they cannot see what they must do to escape. And so a man labors for himself, and wastes the hours, and cannot sit quiet, and cannot go away — for his trouble runs with him.

The gods live their own life, by nature: endless years in perfect peace, far away from us, apart from our world. No pain reaches them, no danger. They are strong in their own riches; they need nothing from us. Kindness doesn't win them; anger doesn't touch them.

Human life used to lie disgusting on the ground, crushed under the weight of Religion — that showed its face from the sky, hanging over people, terrifying. The first person to fight back was a Greek: a mortal man who dared raise his eyes against it. Stories of gods, thunder, sky rumbling threats — nothing scared him. Instead his spirit got sharper. He wanted to be the first to smash the locked gates of nature. So the living power of his mind won: he traveled far past the flaming walls of the world, wandering the endless universe in thought. And he came back a winner, and told us what can exist and what can't — in short, how everything has its limits and its deep-set boundary stone. So Religion lies crushed under our feet — his victory makes us equal to the sky.

But here I worry you might think you're stepping onto an unholy road, into crime. It's the other way around: Religion has bred more crimes than anything — wicked, unholy acts. Think of Aulis, where the chosen leaders of the Greeks, the finest men, stained the altar of the maiden goddess with Iphigenia's blood. The ribbon had just been tied around her hair, hanging by her cheeks; she saw her father crying beside the altars, the men hiding the knives, the citizens weeping at the sight of her. She dropped to her knees, frozen with fear. And what good did it do her that she had been the first to call the king "father"? Men picked her up and carried her, shaking, to the altar — not so she could be married with the joyful wedding song, but so that a pure girl could be killed, right at marriage age, by her own grieving father, as a sacrifice for a lucky voyage. That's how much evil Religion can talk people into.

You might yourself, one day, get scared by the prophets' words and leave us. How many dreams they can invent for you! All that waking fear. It might not seem like much — but once you give in to it, everything else goes: fear chases you from where you're standing; you want to run away — which means running from yourself. People are fools to do such things and admit them. The guilt feeds itself: fear of the gods drives crowds to altars. And whole nations learn it from dreams: they crawl to altars, kneel, cry, raise their hands — not praying to undo their guilt and be let off, but just to forget it.

Often the sheer nonsense is enough to ruin us. People lie awake at night, hearts heavy, asking themselves what they did to deserve this torment — and can't name it. They try to shake off the fear without a cause, and it stays — because they can't even see what they're running from. They mutter to themselves, stop, worry, and dread.

Here's the cure: an anxious mind, a whole troubled life, keeps trying to change places — as if the burden could be dropped there. The man is barely home, and his heart is still out on the road. He thinks something is following him: the shadow of his own fear, right at his shoulder. He can't relax. The old worry clings — the one he built himself. Wine fills the cup, and he gets more anxious. He can't sleep; he tosses and turns, mumbling for a way out of a big trouble, like children fighting nightmares. They don't know what they're saying, and they can't see through the fog of the trouble they make themselves.

So it's easy to see why people are afraid. If they saw a clear end to their pain, they'd have the strength to laugh off religion's fears and the priests' threats. But there's no way out, no limit to power — so the fear just grows forever. They don't know what's coming, or what to do about it. So a man works for himself, wastes his hours, can't sit still, can't leave — because his trouble runs with him.