What is the use of
those mischievous and puerile pranks, of those ghastly graveyard
pleasantries? It must lie then for the mere pleasure of lying;
and our unknown guest, that infinite and doubtless immortal
subconsciousness in which we have placed out last hopes, is after
all but an imbecile, a buffoon or a rank swindler!
5
I do not believe that the truth is as hideous as this. Our
unknown guest does not deceive itself any more than it deceives
us; but it is we who deceive ourselves. It has not the stage to
itself; and its voice is not the voice that sounds in our ears,
which were never made to catch the echoes of a world that is not
like ours. If it could speak to us itself and tell us what it
knows, we should probably at that instant cease to be on this
earth. But we are immersed in our bodies, entombed prisoners with
whom it cannot communicate at will. It roams around the walls, it
utters warning cries. It knocks at every door, but all that
reaches us is a vague disquiet, an indistinct murmur that is
sometimes translated to us by a half-awakened gaoler who, like
ourselves, is a lifelong captive. The gaoler does his best; he
has his own way of speaking, his familiar expressions; he knows,
and, with the aid of the words which he possesses and those which
he hears repeated, he tries to make us understand what he hardly
understands himself.
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