Chapter VII

Conversation with men.

"O intelligent atoms, in whom the Eternal Being has been pleased to display his skill and power, you must surely enjoy the purest joys on your globe. Having so little matter, and seeming all mind, you must spend your lives in love and thought: that is the true life of minds. Nowhere have I seen true happiness, but surely it is here." At these words all the philosophers shook their heads; and one, franker than the others, honestly confessed that, apart from a small number of inhabitants held in very little esteem, all the rest were a collection of madmen, villains, and unhappy people. "We have more matter than we need," he said, "to do a great deal of harm, if evil comes from matter, and too much mind, if evil comes from mind. Do you know, for example, that at this very moment a hundred thousand madmen of our species, wearing hats, are killing a hundred thousand other animals wearing turbans, or being massacred by them, and that almost everywhere on Earth this has been the practice since time immemorial?" The Sirian shuddered and asked what could be the cause of these horrible quarrels among such puny animals. "It concerns," said the philosopher, "some heap of mud the size of your heel. Not that any of those millions of men who have themselves slaughtered lays claim to a straw on that heap of mud. The sole question is whether it shall belong to a certain man called Sultan or another called, I do not know why, Caesar. Neither has ever seen or will ever see the little patch of ground in question; and scarcely one of these animals slaughtering one another has ever seen the animal for whose sake he is slaughtered."

"Oh, wretches!" cried the Sirian indignantly. "Can one conceive of such excesses of frantic rage? I feel like taking three steps and crushing this whole anthill of ridiculous murderers with three kicks." "Do not trouble yourself," he was answered. "They do quite enough to ruin themselves. You should know that at the end of ten years not a hundredth of these wretches ever remains; you should know that even if they had never drawn a sword, hunger, exhaustion, or excess carry off nearly all of them. Besides, it is not they who should be punished, but those sedentary barbarians who, from the depths of their studies, order the massacre of a million men while digesting their dinner, then have solemn thanks offered to God for it." The traveler felt pity stir in him for the little human race, in which he was discovering such astonishing contrasts. "Since you are among the few wise men," he said to these gentlemen, "and apparently kill no one for money, tell me, please, how you occupy yourselves." "We dissect flies," said the philosopher. "We measure lines and put numbers together. We agree on two or three points we understand and dispute two or three thousand we do not." The Sirian and the Saturnian at once took it into their heads to question these thinking atoms and learn what things they agreed on. "What distance do you reckon," asked the latter, "from the Dog Star to the great star of the Twins?" They all answered at once, "Thirty-two and a half degrees." "What distance do you reckon from here to the moon?" "Sixty of Earth's semidiameters, in round numbers." "How much does your air weigh?" He thought he would catch them out, but all told him that air weighs about nine hundred times less than an equal volume of the lightest water and nineteen thousand times less than ducat gold. The little dwarf of Saturn, astonished at their answers, was tempted to take for sorcerers the very people to whom he had denied a soul a quarter of an hour before.

At last Micromegas said, "Since you know so well what lies outside you, you surely know even better what is within. Tell me what your soul is and how you form your ideas." The philosophers all spoke at once, as before, but all held different opinions. The oldest cited Aristotle; another pronounced the name of Descartes; this one, Malebranche; that one, Leibniz; another, Locke. An old Peripatetic declared loudly and confidently, "The soul is an entelechy, and a reason by which it has the power to be what it is. Aristotle expressly states this on page 633 of the Louvre edition." He quoted the passage. "I do not understand Greek very well," said the giant. "Neither do I," said the philosophical mite. "Why, then," the Sirian resumed, "do you quote a certain Aristotle in Greek?" "Because," replied the scholar, "one must surely quote what one does not understand at all in the language one understands least."

The Cartesian spoke up. "The soul is a pure spirit which received all its metaphysical ideas in its mother's womb, and which, on emerging, is obliged to go to school and learn all over again what it knew so well and will no longer know." "Then it was hardly worth the trouble," replied the animal eight leagues tall, "for your soul to be so learned in your mother's womb, only to be so ignorant when you have a beard on your chin. But what do you mean by spirit?" "What a question!" said the reasoner. "I have no idea of it. They say it is not matter." "But do you at least know what matter is?" "Perfectly well," the man answered. "This stone, for example, is gray, has a certain shape and its three dimensions; it is heavy and divisible." "Well," said the Sirian, "this thing that seems to you divisible, heavy, and gray—can you tell me what it is? You see some attributes; but do you know the thing itself at bottom?" "No," said the other. "Then you do not know what matter is."

Mr. Micromegas then turned to another sage whom he held on his thumb and asked him what his soul was and what it did. "Nothing at all," said the follower of Malebranche. "God does everything for me. I see everything in him; I do everything in him. He does everything without my interfering." "One might as well not exist," replied the sage of Sirius. "And you, my friend," he said to a follower of Leibniz standing there, "what is your soul?" "It is," the Leibnizian replied, "a hand pointing to the hours while my body chimes; or, if you prefer, it chimes while my body tells the time; or else my soul is the mirror of the universe, and my body the mirror's frame. All this is clear."

A little partisan of Locke stood close by, and when he was at last addressed, he said, "I do not know how I think, but I know I have never thought except in response to my senses. That there are immaterial and intelligent substances I do not doubt; but that it is impossible for God to impart thought to matter I doubt very much. I revere the eternal power; it is not for me to limit it. I affirm nothing; I am content to believe that more things are possible than people think."

The animal from Sirius smiled: he did not find this one the least wise. The dwarf of Saturn would have embraced the follower of Locke but for the extreme disparity in their size. Unfortunately, however, a little animalcule in a square cap was there, who interrupted all the other philosophical animalcules. He said that he knew the whole secret, that it was all to be found in the Summa of Saint Thomas. He looked the two celestial inhabitants up and down and assured them that their persons, their worlds, their suns, their stars—everything—had been made solely for man. At this speech our two travelers fell against one another, choking with that inextinguishable laughter which, according to Homer, is the privilege of the gods. Their shoulders and bellies heaved back and forth, and in these convulsions the ship on the Sirian's nail fell into a pocket of the Saturnian's breeches. The two good souls searched a long time; at last they found the crew again and set everything neatly to rights. The Sirian took up the little mites once more and spoke to them with great kindness, though in his heart he was a little vexed to see the infinitely small possessed of almost infinitely great pride. He promised to make them a fine book of philosophy, written very small for their use, in which they would see the ultimate truth of things. And indeed he gave them this volume before his departure. It was taken to Paris, to the Academy of Sciences; but when the old secretary opened it, he saw only a book of blank pages. "Ah!" he said. "I rather suspected as much."

A conversation with humans.

"Intelligent atoms, in whom the Eternal Being has chosen to display his skill and power, you must surely enjoy very pure pleasures on your globe. You have so little matter and seem almost entirely mind. You must spend your lives loving and thinking. That is the true life of minds. I've never seen real happiness anywhere, but surely it is here." At this speech all the philosophers shook their heads. One, more open than the others, honestly admitted that apart from a small number of inhabitants who received very little respect, all the rest were a collection of fools, wicked people, and unhappy people. "We have more than enough matter to do a great deal of harm, if harm comes from matter," he said, "and too much intelligence, if harm comes from intelligence. Do you know, for instance, that as I speak to you a hundred thousand fools of our species wearing hats are killing a hundred thousand other animals wearing turbans, or being slaughtered by them? And that this has been the way of doing things almost everywhere on Earth since time began?" The Sirian shuddered and asked what could cause these horrible quarrels between such puny animals. "It's about a heap of mud as big as your heel," the philosopher said. "Not that any of the millions of men getting their throats cut claims even a straw on that heap of mud. The only question is whether it will belong to a certain man called Sultan or another called, I don't know why, Caesar. Neither has ever seen or will ever see the little corner of land in question. And almost none of these animals cutting one another's throats has ever seen the animal he is getting himself killed for."

"Oh, you miserable creatures!" the Sirian cried indignantly. "Can anyone imagine such insane fury? I feel like taking three steps and crushing this whole anthill of ridiculous murderers with three kicks." "Don't trouble yourself," they answered. "They do enough to destroy themselves. You should know that after ten years not one hundredth of these wretches is ever left. Even if they never drew a sword, hunger, exhaustion, or excessive indulgence would carry off almost all of them. Besides, they aren't the ones who should be punished. It's those stay-at-home barbarians who, sitting in their offices digesting a meal, order a million men to be massacred and then have solemn thanks offered to God for it." The traveler felt pity for the little human race, in which he was finding such astonishing contradictions. "Since you're among the small number of wise people," he told these gentlemen, "and apparently don't kill anyone for money, please tell me what you do." "We dissect flies," the philosopher said. "We measure lines and put numbers together. We agree on two or three things we understand and argue over two or three thousand we don't." The Sirian and Saturnian immediately wanted to question these thinking atoms to find out what they agreed on. "What distance do you calculate," the Saturnian asked, "from the Dog Star to the great star in Gemini?" They all answered at once, "Thirty-two and a half degrees." "What distance do you calculate from here to the moon?" "Sixty Earth radii, in round numbers." "How much does your air weigh?" He thought he would catch them out. But they all said that air weighs about nine hundred times less than an equal volume of the lightest water, and nineteen thousand times less than ducat gold. Astonished by their answers, the little dwarf from Saturn was tempted to take for sorcerers the very people he had refused a soul a quarter of an hour earlier.

Finally Micromegas said, "Since you know so much about what is outside you, you must know even more about what is inside. Tell me what your soul is and how you form your ideas." The philosophers all spoke at once, as before, but they all had different opinions. The oldest quoted Aristotle. Another mentioned Descartes, another Malebranche, another Leibniz, and another Locke. An old follower of Aristotle said loudly and confidently, "The soul is an entelechy and a reason through which it has the power to be what it is. Aristotle expressly states this on page 633 of the Louvre edition." He quoted the passage. "I don't understand Greek very well," the giant said. "Neither do I," said the philosophical mite. "Then why," the Sirian asked, "are you quoting a certain Aristotle in Greek?" "Because," the scholar replied, "we must quote what we don't understand at all in the language we understand least."

The follower of Descartes spoke up. "The soul is a pure spirit that received all metaphysical ideas in its mother's womb. When it comes out, it has to go to school and learn all over again what it knew so well and will no longer know." "Then it wasn't worth the trouble," the eight-league animal answered, "for your soul to be so learned in your mother's womb, only to be so ignorant when you had a beard on your chin. But what do you mean by spirit?" "What a question to ask me!" the reasoner said. "I have no idea. People say it isn't matter." "But do you at least know what matter is?" "Very well," the man answered. "For example, this stone is gray. It has a particular shape and three dimensions. It has weight and can be divided." "Well," the Sirian said, "can you tell me what this thing is that seems to you divisible, heavy, and gray? You see some properties, but do you know what the thing itself is?" "No," the other said. "Then you don't know what matter is."

Mr. Micromegas then turned to another wise man whom he was holding on his thumb and asked what his soul was and what it did. "Nothing at all," said this follower of Malebranche. "God does everything for me. I see everything in him and do everything in him. He's the one who does everything, without my having anything to do with it." "You might as well not exist," the wise man from Sirius replied. "And you, my friend," he said to a follower of Leibniz standing nearby, "what is your soul?" "It's a clock hand showing the hours while my body chimes," the follower of Leibniz answered. "Or, if you prefer, it's the soul that chimes while my body shows the time. Or my soul is the mirror of the universe and my body is the mirror's frame. All of that is clear."

A little supporter of Locke stood close by. When they finally spoke to him, he said, "I don't know how I think. But I know I've never thought except in response to my senses. I don't doubt that there are intelligent beings without matter. But I very much doubt that it's impossible for God to give matter the ability to think. I respect the eternal power. It's not for me to limit it. I assert nothing. I'm content to believe that more things are possible than people think."

The animal from Sirius smiled. He did not find this man the least wise of them. The dwarf from Saturn would have embraced Locke's follower if their sizes had not been so different. Unfortunately, a tiny animal in a square cap was there. He interrupted all the other philosophical animalcules and said he knew the whole secret: it was all in the Summa of Saint Thomas. He looked the two residents of the heavens up and down and insisted that their persons, their worlds, their suns, their stars—everything—had been made solely for humans. At this, our two travelers fell against each other, choking with the unending laughter that Homer says belongs to the gods. Their shoulders and bellies shook back and forth. In these convulsions, the ship on the Sirian's nail fell into a pocket in the Saturnian's breeches. The two good fellows searched for it for a long time. At last they found the crew and put everything neatly back in order. The Sirian picked up the little mites again and spoke to them very kindly, although deep down he was a little annoyed to find that the infinitely small had an almost infinitely large pride. He promised to make them a fine philosophy book, written very small for their use. In it, he said, they would see the ultimate explanation of things. He did give them this volume before leaving. It was taken to the Academy of Sciences in Paris. But when the old secretary opened it, he saw only a book of blank pages. "Ah!" he said. "I rather suspected as much."