D — Destin

Of all the books that have reached us, Homer is the oldest. There we find the manners of profane antiquity: crude heroes, crude gods made in man’s image. But there too we find the seeds of philosophy, and above all the idea of destiny, master of the gods as the gods are masters of the world.

Jupiter wishes in vain to save Hector. He consults the fates; he weighs Hector’s and Achilles’ destinies in a balance; he finds that the Trojan must absolutely be killed by the Greek. He cannot oppose it, and from that moment Apollo, Hector’s guardian spirit, is obliged to abandon him. (Iliad, book 22.) Not that Homer does not often lavish entirely contrary ideas on his poem, by the privilege of antiquity; but after all, he is the first in whom we find the notion of destiny. It was therefore very fashionable in his time.

The Pharisees among the little Jewish people adopted destiny only several centuries later. For these Pharisees themselves, the first learned men among the Jews, were very new. At Alexandria they mixed some Stoic doctrines with the old Jewish ideas. St. Jerome even maintains that their sect scarcely predates our common era.

Philosophers never needed either Homer or the Pharisees to persuade themselves that everything happens through immutable laws, that everything is arranged, that everything is a necessary effect.

Either the world subsists by its own nature, through its physical laws, or a Supreme Being formed it according to his supreme laws. In either case these laws are immutable; in either case everything is necessary. Heavy bodies tend toward the earth’s center, unable to tend toward remaining suspended in the air. Pear trees can never bear pineapples. A spaniel’s instinct cannot be an ostrich’s. Everything is arranged, meshed, and limited.

Man can have only a certain number of teeth, hairs, and ideas. A time comes when he necessarily loses his teeth, his hair, and his ideas.

It is contradictory for what was yesterday not to have been, for what is today not to be; it is equally contradictory for what must be to be able not to be.

If you could disrupt a fly’s destiny, there would be no reason to prevent you from determining the destiny of all other flies, all other animals, all men, all nature; in the end you would find yourself more powerful than God.

Fools say, “My doctor pulled my aunt through a fatal illness; he made my aunt live ten years longer than she ought to have lived.” Other fools, playing the clever man, say, “The prudent man makes his own destiny.”

No divinity is absent where prudence is present; but we,Fortune, make you a goddess and set you in heaven.

Profound statesmen assure us that if Cromwell, Ludlow, Ireton, and a dozen other parliamentarians had been assassinated eight days before Charles I was beheaded, that king might have lived longer and died in his bed. They are right; they may also add that if all England had been swallowed by the sea, this monarch would not have perished on a scaffold beside Whitehall, beside the white hall. But things were arranged so that Charles had to have his head cut off.

Cardinal d’Ossat was doubtless more prudent than a madman in the asylum; but is it not evident that wise d’Ossat’s organs were made differently from that lunatic’s, just as a fox’s organs differ from those of a crane or a lark?

Your doctor saved your aunt; but certainly in doing so he did not contradict the order of nature: he followed it. Clearly your aunt could not help being born in a certain town; she could not help having a certain illness at a certain time; the doctor could not be anywhere but the town where he was; your aunt had to call him; he had to prescribe the drugs that cured her.

A peasant thinks it hailed on his field by chance; but the philosopher knows there is no chance, and that in the constitution of this world it was impossible for hail not to fall that day in that place.

Some people, frightened by this truth, concede half of it, like debtors offering their creditors half and asking time for the rest. There are necessary events, they say, and others that are not necessary. It would be amusing if one part of this world were arranged and the other not; if some of what happens had to happen, and some of what happens did not have to happen. Look closely, and you see that the doctrine contrary to destiny is absurd. But many people are destined to reason badly, others not to reason at all, others to persecute those who reason.

You ask me what will become of liberty? I do not understand you. I do not know what this liberty is that you speak of. You have argued about its nature for so long that you certainly do not know it. If you wish—or rather, if you can—to examine quietly with me what it is, turn to the letter L.

Homer is the oldest of all the books that have reached us. It shows us the ways of the ancient pagan world. The heroes are crude, and so are the gods, made in our image. But it also holds the beginnings of philosophy. Above all, it gives us fate, which rules the gods as they rule the world.

Jupiter wants to save Hector, but can’t. He consults the fates and weighs Hector’s and Achilles’s destinies on a scale. He finds that the Greek must kill the Trojan. There’s no way around it, and he can’t prevent it. From that moment Apollo, Hector’s guardian spirit, has to abandon him. (Iliade liv. 22.) Of course, Homer often fills his poem with completely opposite ideas. Ancient writers had that privilege. Still, he’s the first writer to give us the idea of fate. So it must have been very popular in his time.

The Pharisees in the small Jewish nation accepted fate only several centuries later. They were the Jews’ first learned men, but their group was very new. In Alexandria they mixed some Stoic teachings with ancient Jewish ideas. Saint Jerome even claims their sect began not long before our common era.

Philosophers never needed Homer or the Pharisees to convince them of this. Everything follows unchanging laws. Everything is arranged. Every effect must follow as it does.

Either the world exists by its own nature, through its physical laws. Or a Supreme Being made it according to his supreme laws. Either way, the laws don’t change. Either way, everything must happen as it does. Heavy bodies tend toward the earth’s center. They can’t tend to rest in the air. Pear trees can never grow pineapples. A spaniel can’t have an ostrich’s instinct. Everything has its place, fits together, and has its limits.

A person can have only a certain number of teeth, hairs, and ideas. The time comes when he must lose his teeth, his hair, and his ideas.

You contradict yourself if you say what existed yesterday didn’t exist. Or that what exists today doesn’t exist. You contradict yourself just as much if you say what must happen might not have to happen.

Suppose you could upset one fly’s destiny. What could stop you from making every other fly’s destiny too? Then every other animal’s, every person’s, and all nature’s? You’d end up more powerful than God.

Fools say, “My doctor saved my aunt from a deadly illness. He made her live ten years longer than she was supposed to.” Other fools act as if they know what they’re talking about. “A man with good judgment makes his own destiny,” they say.

When we use good judgment, no god is absent. But weMake you, Fortune, a goddess and put you in heaven.

Deep political thinkers give us this assurance. Suppose Cromwell, Ludlow, Ireton, and a dozen other Parliamentarians had been assassinated. Suppose it happened eight days before Charles I was beheaded. The king could then have lived longer and died in bed. They’re right. They could also suppose the sea had swallowed the whole of England. Then this king wouldn’t have died on a scaffold beside Whitehall, beside the white hall. But things were arranged so that Charles had to lose his head.

Cardinal d’Ossat certainly had better judgment than a madman in the Petites-Maisons asylum. But surely wise d’Ossat’s organs were made differently from that scatterbrain’s? A fox’s organs differ from a crane’s or a lark’s in the same way.

Your doctor saved your aunt. But he certainly didn’t go against nature’s order by doing it. He followed it. Clearly, your aunt couldn’t help being born in that particular town. She couldn’t help having a particular illness at a particular time. The doctor couldn’t be anywhere but in the town where he was. Your aunt had to call him, and he had to prescribe the medicines that cured her.

A peasant thinks hail fell on his field by chance. But the philosopher knows there’s no chance. Given the way this world is made, hail had to fall there that day.

This truth frightens some people, so they accept half of it. They’re like debtors offering their creditors half the money. They ask for more time to pay the rest. “Some events are necessary,” they say, “and others aren’t.” What a strange arrangement! In one part of this world, everything would be fixed in advance. Elsewhere it wouldn’t be. Some things that happen would have to happen. Other things that happen wouldn’t have to happen. Look closely, and you’ll see how absurd the belief against fate is. But many people are destined to reason badly. Others are destined not to reason at all. Others are destined to persecute people who reason.

You ask me what will become of freedom? I don’t understand you. I don’t know what you mean by this freedom you talk about. You’ve argued about its nature for so long, you certainly don’t know what it is. Do you want to examine it calmly with me? Or rather, can you? Then turn to the letter L.