A philosopher worthy of the name has never said more than a single thing: and even then it is something he has tried to say, rather than actually sai… - Henri Bergson

A philosopher worthy of the name has never said more than a single thing: and even then it is something he has tried to say, rather than actually said. And he has said only one thing because he has seen only one point: and at that it was not so much a vision as a contact...

Might not certain vices have the same relation to character that the rigidity of a fixed idea as to intellect? Whether as a moral kink or a crooked twist given to the will, vice has often the appearance of a curvature for the soul. Doubtless there are vices into which the soul plunges deeply with all its pregnant potency, which it rejuvenates and drags along with it into a moving circle of reincarnations. Those are tragic vices. But the vice capable of making us comic is, on the contrary, that which is brought from without, like a ready-made frame into which we are to step. It lends us its own rigidity instead of borrowing from us our flexibility. We do not render it more complicated; on the contrary, it simplifies us. Here, as we shall see later in the concluding section of this study, lies the essential difference between comedy and drama. A drama, even when portraying passions or vices that bear a name, so completely incorporates them that the person is forgotten, their general characteristics effaced, and we no longer think of them at all, but rather of the person in whom they are assimilated; hence, the title of a drama can seldom be anything else than a proper noun. On the other hand, many comedies have a common noun as their title: L'Avare, Le Joueur etc.

Lidský intelekt, tak, jak si jej my představujeme, není nikterak onen, který nám líčil Platón v alegorii o jeskyni. Není právě tak jeho úlohou, aby pozoroval jak míjejí prázdné stíny, jako aby zřel, ohlížeje se za sebe, hvězdu zrak oslňující. Má dělati něco jiného. Zapřaženi jako voli oráčovi do těžké práce, cítíme hru svých svalů a kloubů, tíhu pluhu a odpor půdy: jednati a věděti o sobě, že jednáme, vstupovati ve styk se skutečností a dokonce ji žíti, avšak jen v mezích jejího významu pro dílo, které se dokonává, a pro brázdu, která se táhne, takový jest úkol lidského intelektu. A přece koupeme se v blahodárném fluidu, z něhož čerpáme samu sílu k práci a životu. Z tohoto oceánu života, do něhož jsme ponořeni, vdechujeme ustavičně něco a cítíme, že naše bytost, nebo alespoň intelekt, který ji vede, vytvořil se tu jakýmsi místním ztužením. Filosofie může být jen úsilím, jak znovu rozplynouti se v celku. A intelekt, resorbuje-li se ve svém principu, prožije zas naruby svou vlastní genesi. Avšak takový podnik nebude již moci dovršiti se na ráz; bude nutně hromadný a postupný. Bude záležeti na výměně dojmů, které opravujíce se vzájemně a též na sebe se kladouce, posléze rozšíří v nás lidství a dosáhnou toho, že půjde nad sebe samo.

We say “universe” and the word makes us think of a possible unification of things. One can be a spiritualist, a materialist, a pantheist, just as one can be indifferent to philosophy and satisfied with common sense: the fact remains that one always conceives of one or several simple principles by which the whole of material and moral things might be explained. This is because our intelligence loves simplicity. It seeks to reduce effort, and insists that nature was arranged in such a way as to demand of us, in order to be thought, the least possible labor. It therefore provides itself with the exact minimum of elements and principles with which to recompose the indefinite series of objects and events. But if instead of reconstructing things ideally for the greater satisfaction of our reason we confine ourselves purely and simply to what is given us by experience, we should think and express ourselves in quite another way. While our intelligence with its habits of economy imagines effects as strictly proportioned to their causes, nature, in its extravagance, puts into the cause much more than is required to produce the effect. While our motto is Exactly what is necessary, nature’s motto is More than is necessary, — too much of this, too much of that, too much of everything. Reality, as James sees it, is redundant and superabundant. Between this reality and the one constructed by the philosophers, I believe he would have established the same relation as between the life we live every day and the life which actors portray in the evening on the stage. On the stage, each actor says and does only what has to be said and done; the scenes are clear-cut; the play has a beginning, a middle and an end; and everything is worked out as economically as possible with a view to an ending which will be happy or tragic. But in life, a multitude of useless things are said, many superfluous gestures made, there are no sharply-drawn situations; nothing happens as simply or as completely