CHAPTER 14. THE MAELSTROM OF REALITY

April 14, 1912.

“...Having deliberately tested my own fundamental principles, ideals, and values with a series of sharp-fanged doubts, I suddenly felt how most of them began to swiftly slip from the vast depths of my nature, limited by time, consciousness, and feeling—to slip away like a unique idea from the being of an extraordinarily inspired writer or artist; to slip away like a warm summer evening from the all-encompassing canvas of this sublunary world; to slip away like a proudly rejected object of adoration from the eyes of a seemingly incurably in-love person. It is highly probable that most of those who would ever read the lines just created by my pen would, quite naturally, attribute ethereal and ephemeral properties, signs, and characteristics to those principles, ideals, and values—but would they not be right? Is something truly strong if it can be utterly destroyed, in this specific case by the somehow destructively wayward gusts of a relatively moderate wind of doubts? Precisely! The question is formulated correctly in this givenness—the reason for the destruction of principles, ideals, and values should be sought not in objective factors, but in the subjective peculiarities of their construction: at times, even a drop can destroy something that has been built for millennia, and at times, hail cannot destroy what was created in a single day. Consciously subjecting my own fundamental beliefs to doubt, I could not have assumed that from the very first moment of this process, my nature unconsciously launched a procedure for the liquidation and destruction of what constituted its fundamental basis—all my principles, ideals, and values turned out to be a small, light-winged butterfly that swiftly fluttered out of my hands when, in the name of self-knowledge, I barely touched its delicate and transparent wings.

"With the loss of beliefs, I became lifeless—I became callous and empty. At twenty-seven, having lost everything that my nature had so painstakingly acquired through intellectual and emotional labor, I once again, as a quarter of a century ago, felt myself to be a helpless and defenseless child, even though in my consciousness, unlike that previously mentioned time, the wonderfully moving melody of Gabriel Fauré's 'Pavane' now plays—having lost my cornerstone beliefs, I stopped understanding and accepting this world, the properties of relationships within its confines, and the connection and nature of things within it. Having thoroughly studied my very self, which was founded on the soil of civilization's achievements and results, I deliberately tested myself with the double-edged dagger of deep doubts—having fully comprehended this world, and harmoniously ordered it within my being, I, by conducting an appropriate test upon it, plunged it into the incomprehensibility of chaos, where there are no definitions or boundaries: I felt like a newborn in this world, even though my being had lived within its spaces for twenty-seven years—I experienced what, without a doubt, almost all elderly people experience before death; I lived an entire life path in such a short period of time. My mind, which was once a completely inscribed Egyptian manuscript, again, like many years ago, in a single moment became tabula rasa—there are no more thoughts in it, just as there are no feelings in my heart: my nature is now entirely filled with emptiness—and emptiness contains neither positive nor negative. Having overcome all boundaries and destroyed all limitations, I stopped seeing people's qualities—communication with people became equally indifferent to me: be they the best or the worst—a stone does not care who honors its nature with their presence, be it a beetle, a hawk, or a wild boar. From this moment on, every word, every gesture, every movement of mine—all of it is a kind of theatrical performance, necessary only to exist relatively well within the confines of now-existing society: I am a human, and as a social animal, despite my desires and aspirations, I am not able to avoid being in the waters of this river.

"Having consciously renounced my former beliefs, at twenty-seven, I decided to build a new system of principles, ideals, and values for my nature, and consequently, to study anew what lies above human thoughts and feelings—gradually, unconsciously, subconsciously, I am already comprehending human nature in its new aspects for me, but old ones for itself, aspects that are beyond thought and feeling: on such a foundation is the structure of my new 'I' being built—there is no good in it, nor is there bad, only givenness. Nature never builds harmony on a foundation of harmony—it always needs chaos, for without primary destruction, subsequent creation is impossible: how can I act otherwise, being nothing more and nothing less than the most natural particle of the truly living nature of this world? I will build my new world on a new foundation—ants never look for a home, they build it themselves, with their own efforts: they create harmony from chaos, even if in the first stages of their process that harmony has the appearance of chaos. No longer did my consciousness, with the help of, indeed, an all-powerful imagination, create ghostly images in my being—the sharp peaks of rough mountains were no longer hidden by the snow-white airiness of fluffy clouds: from now on, this world was in my eyes as it was created, and not as I had previously imagined it. The human imagination is the most hypocritical and deeply devoted to its own idea liar, for it is capable of transporting human thoughts anywhere and transforming them into anything—it is capable of turning the voices of birds into the singing of angels in the blink of an eye, rainwater into the tears of saints, and an unremarkable, ordinary woman into a goddess. In this vision was the most important happiness, the most important pleasure in my new life—in it was also the most important tragedy, the most important sorrow of it: on such a foundation was built that very Universe inside me, which I myself had recently become—a world where there is no family, friends, love, or evil; a world where only its creator, God, exists, and consequently, the one who is capable in a single moment of both destroying the essence and limits of it, and of making it maximally full. Rejected, betrayed, and persecuted by myself, now existing with a completely destroyed, entirely incinerated world within me, at this moment I was not needed by anyone, and most of all—by myself: in the objective world of reality, after the destruction of my subjective world, there was not a single being whose heart would be even slightly troubled by me at that moment—only by being in absolute solitude did I fully manage to know all its facets and definitions, all its depths and heights, all its charms and plainness, all its virtues and vices. In the minutes I am describing, the flame of solitude frantically beckoned me to its nature, as fire attracts a light-winged moth with the nature of its own light—at the same time, the nature of that same fire burns the moth's essence, for such are its physical properties and characteristics: the world is diverse, and therefore within its confines, what gives light can often, in the very same moment, fatally burn. But can I not fly to this light? Should I approach it gradually, guided only by reason? Certainly not. Instinct, a certain invisible and immeasurable thirst, permanently urges me to do precisely this and no other action—if only reason were to guide me, what pleasure would I be able to derive from the fact that my being was born and resides within the limits of this sublunary world? With the loss of principles, ideals, and values, I lost everything—my enemies had nowhere to strike me, since there were no weak spots in me, just as there were no strong ones. In my nature, the interpretation of such cornerstone definitions and concepts as love, beauty, faith, hatred, envy, and malice completely disappeared—is this not confirmation that objective love, beauty, faith, hatred, envy, and malice as such do not and never have existed in this world? Each of our feelings, each of our thoughts—is the result of the creation of only our own nature, and no objective factors are capable of influencing their creation: at the very moment when one, while among the Tuscan fields, will shed tears of happiness and admiration due to seeing such beauty, another, upon seeing them, will not even be stirred either in soul or mind... But... the philosopher inside me is indignant! Are the blind able to awaken such feelings in themselves, being among the Tuscan fields or among the streets of Rome? Do they experience, do they realize, do they feel their greatness without seeing it? Are the blind incapable of high feelings? When besieged by bold, albeit sometimes absurd, questions, even the greatest concepts can fall, and the deepest theories can be destroyed... Now, before my eyes, a field of blue-faced eastern hyacinths has spread out—each of them continuously radiates an invisible beauty unique in its nature and strength: being at the other end of the globe, not being on the land surface of this sublunary world, I see this charm, unlike those who will never visit these amazing places, and consequently will never learn about the existence of such elegance and sophistication of nature... No! Enough! I must not lie to myself anymore! I should not care about what was yesterday or what will be tomorrow—my nature is here now, and not somewhere there, in non-existent time: let my thoughts and feelings help me in this moment—my tomorrow will still come to me, and my yesterday will no longer catch up with me. Why should I ponder the past if I cannot change it? Why should I worry about the future when I cannot see it in the foreseeable space? I no longer think about time, for we, people, not fully realizing its properties and meaning, can only judge its nature from the point of view of a mayfly butterfly... Enough about the past! Enough about the burdensome past! Even on trampled paths, grass is capable of growing—no one predicted that it would grow there, but it grew there. A small spider never thinks about the fact that it should weave a web tomorrow, nor does it think about what a charming and unique web it wove yesterday—it is diligently weaving it now, it is diligently protecting it now, it is living now. Now! Jacob Harris! Do not look now at the roads of others—do not stray from your own path now. The sun warms the body, love warms the soul—find your sun and your love. My eyes are closing... Jacob Harris, are you falling asleep? In your understanding, this world falls asleep with you, sinks into sleep with you and wakes up with you at dawn—there is a grain of truth in your words, Jacob Harris!.. Even a wounded tree is capable of blooming!"