A Confession

by Lev Nikolayevich Tolstoy
Distributed by the Tolstoy Library OnLine

First distributed in Russia in 1882
Distributed by the Tolstoy Library

	I

I was baptized and brought up in the Orthodox Christian 
faith. I was taught it in childhood and throughout my boyhood and 
youth. But when I abandoned the second course of the university 
at the age of eighteen I no longer believed any of the things I 
had been taught.

Judging by certain memories, I never seriously believed 
them, but had merely relied on what I was taught and on what was 
professed by the grown-up people around me, and that reliance was 
very unstable.

I remember that before I was eleven a grammar school pupil, 
Vladimir Milyutin (long since dead), visited us one Sunday and 
announced as the latest novelty a discovery made at his school.  
This discovery was that there is no God and that all we are 
taught about Him is a mere invention (this was in 1838).  I 
remember how interested my elder brothers were in this 
information.  They called me to their council and we all, I 
remember, became very animated, and accepted it as something very 
interesting and quite possible.

I remember also that when my elder brother, Dmitriy, who was 
then at the university, suddenly, in the passionate way natural 
to him, devoted himself to religion and began to attend all the 
Church services, to fast and to lead a pure and moral life, we 
all -- even our elders -- unceasingly held him up to ridicule and 
for some unknown reason called him "Noah".  I remember that 
Musin-Pushkin, the then Curator of Kazan University, when 
inviting us to dance at his home, ironically persuaded my brother 
(who was declining the invitation) by the argument that even 
David danced before the Ark. I sympathized with these jokes made 
by my elders, and drew from them the conclusion that though it is 
necessary to learn the catechism and go to church, one must not 
take such things too seriously.  I remember also that I read 
Voltaire when I was very young, and that his raillery, far from 
shocking me, amused me very much.


My lapse from faith occurred as is usual among people on our 
level of education.  In most cases, I think, it happens thus:  a 
man lives like everybody else, on the basis of principles not 
merely having nothing in common with religious doctrine, but 
generally opposed to it; religious doctrine does not play a part 
in life, in intercourse with others it is never encountered, and 
in a man's own life he never has to reckon with it.  Religious 
doctrine is professed far away from life and independently of it. 
 If it is encountered, it is only as an external phenomenon 
disconnected from life.

Then as now, it was and is quite impossible to judge by a 
man's life and conduct whether he is a believer or not.  If there 
be a difference between a man who publicly professes orthodoxy 
and one who denies it, the difference is not in favor of the 
former. Then as now, the public profession and confession of 
orthodoxy was chiefly met with among people who were dull and 
cruel and who considered themselves very important.  Ability, 
honesty, reliability, good-nature and moral conduct, were often 
met with among unbelievers.

The schools teach the catechism and send the pupils to 
church, and government officials must produce certificates of 
having received communion.  But a man of our circle who has 
finished his education and is not in the government service may 
even now (and formerly it was still easier for him to do so) live 
for ten or twenty years without once remembering that he is 
living among Christians and is himself reckoned a member of the 
orthodox Christian Church.

So that, now as formerly, religious doctrine, accepted on 
trust and supported by external pressure, thaws away gradually 
under the influence of knowledge and experience of life which 
conflict with it, and a man very often lives on, imagining that 
he still holds intact the religious doctrine imparted to him in 
childhood whereas in fact not a trace of it remains.

S., a clever and truthful man, once told me the story of how 
he ceased to believe.  On a hunting expedition, when he was 
already twenty-six, he once, at the place where they put up for 
the night, knelt down in the evening to pray -- a habit retained 
from childhood.  His elder brother, who was at the hunt with him, 
was lying on some hay and watching him.  When S. had finished and 
was settling down for the night, his brother said to him:  "So 
you still do that?"

They said nothing more to one another.  But from that day S. 
ceased to say his prayers or go to church.  And now he has not 
prayed, received communion, or gone to church, for thirty years. 
 And this not because he knows his brother's convictions and has 
joined him in them, nor because he has decided anything in his 
own soul, but simply because the word spoken by his brother was 
like the push of a finger on a wall that was ready to fall by its 
own weight.  The word only showed that where he thought there was 
faith, in reality there had long been an empty space, and that 
therefore the utterance of words and the making of signs of the 
cross and genuflections while praying were quite senseless 
actions. Becoming conscious of their senselessness he could not 
continue them.


So it has been and is, I think, with the great majority of 
people.  I am speaking of people of our educational level who are 
sincere with themselves, and not of those who make the profession 
of faith a means of attaining worldly aims.  (Such people are the 
most fundamental infidels, for if faith is for them a means of 
attaining any worldly aims, then certainly it is not faith.)  
these people of our education are so placed that the light of 
knowledge and life has caused an artificial erection to melt 
away, and they have either already noticed this and swept its 
place clear, or they have not yet noticed it.

The religious doctrine taught me from childhood disappeared 
in me as in others, but with this difference, that as from the 
age of fifteen I began to read philosophical works, my rejection 
of the doctrine became a conscious one at a very early age.  From 
the time I was sixteen I ceased to say my prayers and ceased to 
go to church or to fast of my own volition.  I did not believe 
what had been taught me in childhood but I believed in something. 
 What it was I believed in I could not at all have said.  I 
believed in a God, or rather I did not deny God -- but I could 
not have said what sort of God.  Neither did I deny Christ and 
his teaching, but what his teaching consisted in I again could 
not have said.

Looking back on that time, I now see clearly that my faith -
- my only real faith -- that which apaart from my animal instincts 
gave impulse to my life -- was a belief in perfecting myself.  
But in what this perfecting consisted and what its object was, I 
could not have said.  I tried to perfect myself mentally -- I 
studied everything I could, anything life threw in my way; I 
tried to perfect my will, I drew up rules I tried to follow; I 
perfected myself physically, cultivating my strength and agility 
by all sorts of exercises, and accustoming myself to endurance 
and patience by all kinds of privations.  And all this I 
considered to be the pursuit of perfection.  the beginning of it 
all was of course moral perfection, but that was soon replaced by 
perfection in general:  by the desire to be better not in my own 
eyes or those of God but in the eyes of other people.  And very 
soon this effort again changed into a desire to be stronger than 
others:  to be more famous, more important and richer than 
others.

	II

Some day I will narrate the touching and instructive history 
of my life during those ten years of my youth.  I think very many 
people have had a like experience.  With all my soul I wished to 
be good, but I was young, passionate and alone, completely alone 
when I sought goodness.  Every time I tried to express my most 
sincere desire, which was to be morally good, I met with contempt 
and ridicule, but as soon as I yielded to low passions I was 
praised and encouraged.

Ambition, love of power, covetousness, lasciviousness, 
pride, anger, and revenge -- were all respected.


Yielding to those passions I became like the grown-up folk 
and felt that they approved of me.  The kind aunt with whom I 
lived, herself the purest of beings, always told me that there 
was nothing she so desired for me as that I should have relations 
with a married woman:  'Rien ne forme un juene homme, comme une 
liaison avec une femme comme il faut'.  [Footnote:  Nothing so 
forms a young man as an intimacy with a woman of good breeding.] 
 Another happiness she desired for me was that I should become an 
aide-de-camp, and if possible aide-de-camp to the Emperor.  But 
the greatest happiness of all would be that I should marry a very 
rich girl and so become possessed of as many serfs as possible.

I cannot think of those years without horror, loathing and 
heartache.  I killed men in war and challenged men to duels in 
order to kill them.  I lost at cards, consumed the labor of the 
peasants, sentenced them to punishments, lived loosely, and 
deceived people.  Lying, robbery, adultery of all kinds, 
drunkenness, violence, murder -- there was no crime I did not 
commit, and in spite of that people praised my conduct and my 
contemporaries considered and consider me to be a comparatively 
moral man.

So I lived for ten years.

During that time I began to write from vanity, covetousness, 
and pride.  In my writings I did the same as in my life.  to get 
fame and money, for the sake of which I wrote, it was necessary 
to hide the good and to display the evil.  and I did so.  How 
often in my writings I contrived to hide under the guise of 
indifference, or even of banter, those strivings of mine towards 
goodness which gave meaning to my life!  And I succeeded in this 
and was praised.

At twenty-six years of age [Footnote: He was in fact 27 at 
the time.] I returned to Petersburg after the war, and met the 
writers.  They received me as one of themselves and flattered me. 
 And before I had time to look round I had adopted the views on 
life of the set of authors I had come among, and these views 
completely obliterated all my former strivings to improve -- they 
furnished a theory which justified the dissoluteness of my life.

The view of life of these people, my comrades in authorship, 
consisted in this: that life in general goes on developing, and 
in this development we -- men of thought -- have the chief part; 
and among men of thought it is we -- artists and poets -- who 
have the greatest influence.  Our vocation is to teach mankind.  
And lest the simple question should suggest itself: What do I 
know, and what can I teach? it was explained in this theory that 
this need not be known, and that the artist and poet teach 
unconsciously.  I was considered an admirable artist and poet, 
and therefore it was very natural for me to adopt this theory.  
I, artist and poet, wrote and taught without myself knowing what. 
 For this I was paid money; I had excellent food, lodging, women, 
and society; and I had fame, which showed that what I taught was 
very good.


This faith in the meaning of poetry and in the development 
of life was a religion, and I was one of its priests.  To be its 
priest was very pleasant and profitable.  And I lived a 
considerable time in this faith without doubting its validity.  
But in the second and still more in the third year of this life I 
began to doubt the infallibility of this religion and to examine 
it.  My first cause of doubt was that I began to notice that the 
priests of this religion were not all in accord among themselves. 
 Some said: We are the best and most useful teachers; we teach 
what is needed, but the others teach wrongly.  Others said: No! 
we are the real teachers, and you teach wrongly.  and they 
disputed, quarreled, abused, cheated, and tricked one another.  
There were also many among us who did not care who was right and 
who was wrong, but were simply bent on attaining their covetous 
aims by means of this activity of ours.  All this obliged me to 
doubt the validity of our creed.

Moreover, having begun to doubt the truth of the authors' 
creed itself, I also began to observe its priests more 
attentively, and I became convinced that almost all the priests 
of that religion, the writers, were immoral, and for the most 
part men of bad, worthless character, much inferior to those whom 
I had met in my former dissipated and military life; but they 
were self-confident and self-satisfied as only those can be who 
are quite holy or who do not know what holiness is.  These people 
revolted me, I became revolting to myself, and I realized that 
that faith was a fraud.

But strange to say, though I understood this fraud and 
renounced it, yet I did not renounce the rank these people gave 
me: the rank of artist, poet, and teacher.  I naively imagined 
that I was a poet and artist and could teach everybody without 
myself knowing what I was teaching, and I acted accordingly.

From my intimacy with these men I acquired a new vice: 
abnormally developed pride and an insane assurance that it was my 
vocation to teach men, without knowing what.

To remember that time, and my own state of mind and that of 
those men (though there are thousands like them today), is sad 
and terrible and ludicrous, and arouses exactly the feeling one 
experiences in a lunatic asylum.

We were all then convinced that it was necessary for us to 
speak, write, and print as quickly as possible and as much as 
possible, and that it was all wanted for the good of humanity.  
And thousands of us, contradicting and abusing one another, all 
printed and wrote -- teaching others.  And without noticing that 
we knew nothing, and that to the simplest of life's questions: 
What is good and what is evil? we did not know how to reply, we 
all talked at the same time, not listening to one another, 
sometimes seconding and praising one another in order to be 
seconded and praised in turn, sometimes getting angry with one 
another -- just as in a lunatic asylum.

Thousands of workmen laboured to the extreme limit of their 
strength day and night, setting the type and printing millions of 
words which the post carried all over Russia, and we still went 
on teaching and could in no way find time to teach enough, and 
were always angry that sufficient attention was not paid us.


It was terribly strange, but is now quite comprehensible.  
Our real innermost concern was to get as much money and praise as 
possible.  To gain that end we could do nothing except write 
books and papers.  So we did that.  But in order to do such 
useless work and to feel assured that we were very important 
people we required a theory justifying our activity.  And so 
among us this theory was devised:  "All that exists is 
reasonable.  All that exists develops.  And it all develops by 
means of Culture.  And Culture is measured by the circulation of 
books and newspapers.  And we are paid money and are respected 
because we write books and newspapers, and therefore we are the 
most useful and the best of men."  This theory would have been 
all very well if we had been unanimous, but as every thought 
expressed by one of us was always met by a diametrically opposite 
thought expressed by another, we ought to have been driven to 
reflection.  But we ignored this; people paid us money and those 
on our side praised us, so each of us considered himself 
justified.

It is now clear to me that this was just as in a lunatic 
asylum; but then I only dimly suspected this, and like all 
lunatics, simply called all men lunatics except myself.



	III

So I lived, abandoning myself to this insanity for another 
six years, till my marriage.  During that time I went abroad.  
Life in Europe and my acquaintance with leading and learned 
Europeans [Footnote:  Russians generally make a distinction 
between Europeans and Russians. -- A.M.] confirmed me yet more in 
the faith of striving after perfection in which I believed, for I 
found the same faith among them.  That faith took with me the 
common form it assumes with the majority of educated people of 
our day.  It was expressed by the word "progress".  It then 
appeared to me that this word meant something.  I did not as yet 
understand that, being tormented (like every vital man) by the 
question how it is best for me to live, in my answer, "Live in 
conformity with progress", I was like a man in a boat who when 
carried along by wind and waves should reply to what for him is 
the chief and only question. "whither to steer", by saying, "We 
are being carried somewhere".


I did not then notice this.  Only occasionally -- not by 
reason but by instinct -- I revolted against this superstition so 
common in our day, by which people hide from themselves their 
lack of understanding of life....So, for instance, during my stay 
in Paris, the sight of an execution revealed to me the 
instability of my superstitious belief in progress.  When I saw 
the head part from the body and how they thumped separately into 
the box, I understood, not with my mind but with my whole being, 
that no theory of the reasonableness of our present progress 
could justify this deed; and that though everybody from the 
creation of the world had held it to be necessary, on whatever 
theory, I knew it to be unnecessary and bad; and therefore the 
arbiter of what is good and evil is not what people say and do, 
nor is it progress, but it is my heart and I.  Another instance 
of a realization that the superstitious belief in progress is 
insufficient as a guide to life, was my brother's death.  Wise, 
good, serious, he fell ill while still a young man, suffered for 
more than a year, and died painfully, not understanding why he 
had lived and still less why he had to die.  No theories could 
give me, or him, any reply to these questions during his slow and 
painful dying.  But these were only rare instances of doubt, and 
I actually continued to live professing a faith only in progress. 
 "Everything evolves and I evolve with it:  and why it is that I 
evolve with all things will be known some day."  So I ought to 
have formulated my faith at that time.

On returning from abroad I settled in the country and 
chanced to occupy myself with peasant schools.  This work was 
particularly to my taste because in it I had not to face the 
falsity which had become obvious to me and stared me in the face 
when I tried to teach people by literary means.  Here also I 
acted in the name of progress, but I already regarded progress 
itself critically.  I said to myself:  "In some of its 
developments progress has proceeded wrongly, and with primitive 
peasant children one must deal in a spirit of perfect freedom, 
letting them choose what path of progress they please."  In 
reality I was ever revolving round one and the same insoluble 
problem, which was:  How to teach without knowing what to teach. 
In the higher spheres of literary activity I had realized that 
one could not teach without knowing what, for I saw that people 
all taught differently, and by quarrelling among themselves only 
succeeded in hiding their ignorance from one another.  But here, 
with peasant children, I thought to evade this difficulty by 
letting them learn what they liked.  It amuses me now when I 
remember how I shuffled in trying to satisfy my desire to teach, 
while in the depth of my soul I knew very well that I could not 
teach anything needful for I did not know what was needful.  
After spending a year at school work I went abroad a second time 
to discover how to teach others while myself knowing nothing.

And it seemed to me that I had learnt this abroad, and in 
the year of the peasants' emancipation (1861) I returned to 
Russia armed with all this wisdom, and having become an Arbiter 
[Footnote: To keep peace between peasants and owners.--A.M.] I 
began to teach, both the uneducated peasants in schools and the 
educated classes through a magazine I published.  Things appeared 
to be going well, but I felt I was not quite sound mentally and 
that matters could not long continue in that way.  And I should 
perhaps then have come to the state of despair I reached fifteen 
years later had there not been one side of life still unexplored 
by me which promised me happiness:  that was my marriage.


For a year I busied myself with arbitration work, the 
schools, and the magazine; and I became so worn out -- as a 
result especially of my mental confusion -- and so hard was my 
struggle as Arbiter, so obscure the results of my activity in the 
schools, so repulsive my shuffling in the magazine (which always 
amounted to one and the same thing:  a desire to teach everybody 
and to hide the fact that I did not know what to teach), that I 
fell ill, mentally rather than physically, threw up everything, 
and went away to the Bashkirs in the steppes, to breathe fresh 
air, drink kumys [Footnote: A fermented drink prepared from 
mare's milk.--A. M.], and live a merely animal life.

Returning from there I married.  The new conditions of happy 
family life completely diverted me from all search for the 
general meaning of life.  My whole life was centred at that time 
in my family, wife and children, and therefore in care to 
increase our means of livelihood.  My striving after self-
perfection, for which I had already substituted a striving for 
perfection in general, i.e. progress, was now again replaced by 
the effort simply to secure the best possible conditions for 
myself and my family.

So another fifteen years passed.

In spite of the fact that I now regarded authorship as of no 
importance -- the temptation of immense monetary rewards and 
applause for my insignificant work -- and I devoted myself to it 
as a means of improving my material position and of stifling in 
my soul all questions as to the meaning of my own life or life in 
general.

I wrote:  teaching what was for me the only truth, namely, 
that one should live so as to have the best for oneself and one's 
family.

So I lived; but five years ago something very strange began 
to happen to me.  At first I experienced moments of perplexity 
and arrest of life, and though I did not know what to do or how 
to live; and I felt lost and became dejected.  But this passed 
and I went on living as before.  Then these moments of perplexity 
began to recur oftener and oftener, and always in the same form. 
 They were always expressed by the questions:  What is it for?  
What does it lead to?

At first it seemed to me that these were aimless and 
irrelevant questions.  I thought that it was all well known, and 
that if I should ever wish to deal with the solution it would not 
cost me much effort; just at present I had no time for it, but 
when I wanted to I should be able to find the answer.  The 
questions however began to repeat themselves frequently, and to 
demand replies more and more insistently; and like drops of ink 
always falling on one place they ran together into one black 
blot.


Then occurred what happens to everyone sickening with a 
mortal internal disease.  At first trivial signs of indisposition 
appear to which the sick man pays no attention; then these signs 
reappear more and more often and merge into one uninterrupted 
period of suffering.  The suffering increases, and before the 
sick man can look round, what he took for a mere indisposition 
has already become more important to him than anything else in 
the world -- it is death!

That is what happened to me.  I understood that it was no 
casual indisposition but something very important, and that if 
these questions constantly repeated themselves they would have to 
be answered.  And I tried to answer them.  The questions seemed 
such stupid, simple, childish ones; but as soon as I touched them 
and tried to solve them I at once became convinced, first, that 
they are not childish and stupid but the most important and 
profound of life's questions; and secondly that, occupying myself 
with my Samara estate, the education of my son, or the writing of 
a book, I had to know *why* I was doing it.  As long as I did not 
know why, I could do nothing and could not live.  Amid the 
thoughts of estate management which greatly occupied me at that 
time, the question would suddenly occur:  "Well, you will have 
6,000 desyatinas [Footnote: The desyatina is about 2.75 acres.--
A.M.] of land in Samara Government and 300 horses, and what 
then?" ... And I was quite disconcerted and did not know what to 
think.  Or when considering plans for the education of my 
children, I would say to myself:  "What for?"  Or when 
considering how the peasants might become prosperous, I would 
suddenly say to myself:  "But what does it matter to me?"  Or 
when thinking of the fame my works would bring me, I would say to 
myself, "Very well; you will be more famous than Gogol or Pushkin 
or Shakespeare or Moliere, or than all the writers in the world -
- and what of it?"  And I could find nno reply at all.  The 
questions would not wait, they had to be answered at once, and if 
I did not answer them it was impossible to live.  But there was 
no answer.

I felt that what I had been standing on had collapsed and 
that I had nothing left under my feet.  What I had lived on no 
longer existed, and there was nothing left.


	IV

My life came to a standstill.  I could breathe, eat, drink, 
and sleep, and I could not help doing these things; but there was 
no life, for there were no wishes the fulfillment of which I 
could consider reasonable.  If I desired anything, I knew in 
advance that whether I satisfied my desire or not, nothing would 
come of it.  Had a fairy come and offered to fulfil my desires I 
should not have know what to ask.  If in moments of intoxication 
I felt something which, though not a wish, was a habit left by 
former wishes, in sober moments I knew this to be a delusion and 
that there was really nothing to wish for.  I could not even wish 
to know the truth, for I guessed of what it consisted.  The truth 
was that life is meaningless.  I had as it were lived, lived, and 
walked, walked, till I had come to a precipice and saw clearly 
that there was nothing ahead of me but destruction.  It was 
impossible to stop, impossible to go back, and impossible to 
close my eyes or avoid seeing that there was nothing ahead but 
suffering and real death -- complete annihilation.


It had come to this, that I, a healthy, fortunate man, felt 
I could no longer live: some irresistible power impelled me to 
rid myself one way or other of life.  I cannot say I *wished* to 
kill myself.  The power which drew me away from life was 
stronger, fuller, and more widespread than any mere wish.  It was 
a force similar to the former striving to live, only in a 
contrary direction.  All my strength drew me away from life.  The 
thought of self-destruction now came to me as naturally as 
thoughts of how to improve my life had come formerly.  and it was 
seductive that I had to be cunning with myself lest I should 
carry it out too hastily.   I did not wish to hurry, because I 
wanted to use all efforts to disentangle the matter.  "If I 
cannot unravel matters, there will always be time."  and it was 
then that I, a man favoured by fortune, hid a cord from myself 
lest I should hang myself from the crosspiece of the partition in 
my room where I undressed alone every evening, and I ceased to go 
out shooting with a gun lest I should be tempted by so easy a way 
of ending my life.  I did not myself know what I wanted:  I 
feared life, desired to escape from it, yet still hoped something 
of it.

And all this befell me at a time when all around me I had 
what is considered complete good fortune.  I was not yet fifty; I 
had a good wife who lived me and whom I loved, good children, and 
a large estate which without much effort on my part improved and 
increased.  I was respected by my relations and acquaintances 
more than at any previous time.  I was praised by others and 
without much self-deception could consider that my name was 
famous.  And far from being insane or mentally diseased, I 
enjoyed on the contrary a strength of mind and body such as I 
have seldom met with among men of my kind; physically I could 
keep up with the peasants at mowing, and mentally I could work 
for eight and ten hours at a stretch without experiencing any ill 
results from such exertion.  And in this situation I came to this 
-- that I could not live, and, fearingg death, had to employ 
cunning with myself to avoid taking my own life.

My mental condition presented itself to me in this way:  my 
life is a stupid and spiteful joke someone has played on me.  
Though I did not acknowledge a "someone" who created me, yet such 
a presentation -- that someone had played an evil and stupid joke 
on my by placing me in the world -- was the form of expression 
that suggested itself most naturally to me.

Involuntarily it appeared to me that there, somewhere, was 
someone who amused himself by watching how I lived for thirty or 
forty years:  learning, developing, maturing in body and mind, 
and how, having with matured mental powers reached the summit of 
life from which it all lay before me, I stood on that summit -- 
like an arch-fool -- seeing clearly that there is nothing in 
life, and that there has been and will be nothing.  And *he* was 
amused. ...


But whether that "someone" laughing at me existed or not, I 
was none the better off.  I could give no reasonable meaning to 
any single action or to my whole life.  I was only surprised that 
I could have avoided understanding this from the very beginning -
- it has been so long known to all.  TToday or tomorrow sickness 
and death will come (they had come already) to those I love or to 
me; nothing will remain but stench and worms.  Sooner or later my 
affairs, whatever they may be, will be forgotten, and I shall not 
exist.  Then why go on making any effort? ... How can man fail to 
see this?  And how go on living?  That is what is surprising!  
One can only live while one is intoxicated with life; as soon as 
one is sober it is impossible not to see that it is all a mere 
fraud and a stupid fraud!  That is precisely what it is:  there 
is nothing either amusing or witty about it, it is simply cruel 
and stupid.

There is an Eastern fable, told long ago, of a traveler 
overtaken on a plain by an enraged beast.  Escaping from the 
beast he gets into a dry well, but sees at the bottom of the well 
a dragon that has opened its jaws to swallow him.  And the 
unfortunate man, not daring to climb out lest he should be 
destroyed by the enraged beast, and not daring to leap to the 
bottom of the well lest he should be eaten by the dragon, seizes 
s twig growing in a crack in the well and clings to it.  His 
hands are growing weaker and he feels he will soon have to resign 
himself to the destruction that awaits him above or below, but 
still he clings on.  Then he sees that two mice, a black one and 
a white one, go regularly round and round the stem of the twig to 
which he is clinging and gnaw at it.  And soon the twig itself 
will snap and he will fall into the dragon's jaws.  The traveller 
sees this and knows that he will inevitably perish; but while 
still hanging he looks around, sees some drops of honey on the 
leaves of the twig, reaches them with his tongue and licks them. 
So I too clung to the twig of life, knowing that the dragon of 
death was inevitably awaiting me, ready to tear me to pieces; and 
I could not understand why I had fallen into such torment.  I 
tried to lick the honey which formerly consoled me, but the honey 
no longer gave me pleasure, and the white and black mice of day 
and night gnawed at the branch by which I hung.  I saw the dragon 
clearly and the honey no longer tasted sweet.  I only saw the 
unescapable dragon and the mice, and I could not tear my gaze 
from them.  and this is not a fable but the real unanswerable 
truth intelligible to all.

The deception of the joys of life which formerly allayed my 
terror of the dragon now no longer deceived me.  No matter how 
often I may be told, "You cannot understand the meaning of life 
so do not think about it, but live," I can no longer do it: I 
have already done it too long.  I cannot now help seeing day and 
night going round and bringing me to death.  That is all I see, 
for that alone is true.  All else is false.

The two drops of honey which diverted my eyes from the cruel 
truth longer than the rest: my love of family, and of writing -- 
art as I called it -- were no longer sweet to me.


"Family"...said I to myself.  But my family -- wife and 
children -- are also human.  They are placed just as I am: they 
must either live in a lie or see the terrible truth.  Why should 
they live?  Why should I love them, guard them, bring them up, or 
watch them?  That they may come to the despair that I feel, or 
else be stupid?  Loving them, I cannot hide the truth from them: 
each step in knowledge leads them to the truth.  And the truth is 
death.

"Art, poetry?"...Under the influence of success and the 
praise of men, I had long assured myself that this was a thing 
one could do though death was drawing near -- death which 
destroys all things, including my work and its remembrance; but 
soon I saw that that too was a fraud.  It was plain to me that 
art is an adornment of life, an allurement to life.  But life had 
lost its attraction for me, so how could I attract others?  As 
long as I was not living my own life but was borne on the waves 
of some other life -- as long as I believed that life had a 
meaning, though one I could not express -- the reflection of life 
in poetry and art of all kinds afforded me pleasure:  it was 
pleasant to look at life in the mirror of art.  But when I began 
to seek the meaning of life and felt the necessity of living my 
own life, that mirror became for me unnecessary, superfluous, 
ridiculous, or painful.  I could no longer soothe myself with 
what I now saw in the mirror, namely, that my position was stupid 
and desperate.  It was all very well to enjoy the sight when in 
the depth of my soul I believed that my life had a meaning.  Then 
the play of lights -- comic, tragic, touching, beautiful, and 
terrible -- in life amused me.  No sweetness of honey could be 
sweet to me when I saw the dragon and saw the mice gnawing away 
my support.

Nor was that all.  Had I simply understood that life had no 
meaning I could have borne it quietly, knowing that that was my 
lot.  But I could not satisfy myself with that.  Had I been like 
a man living in a wood from which he knows there is no exit, I 
could have lived; but I was like one lost in a wood who, 
horrified at having lost his way, rushes about wishing to find 
the road.  He knows that each step he takes confuses him more and 
more, but still he cannot help rushing about.

It was indeed terrible.  And to rid myself of the terror I 
wished to kill myself.  I experienced terror at what awaited me -
- knew that that terror was even worsee than the position I was 
in, but still I could not patiently await the end.  However 
convincing the argument might be that in any case some vessel in 
my heart would give way, or something would burst and all would 
be over, I could not patiently await that end.  The horror of 
darkness was too great, and I wished to free myself from it as 
quickly as possible by noose or bullet.  that was the feeling 
which drew me most strongly towards suicide.



	V


"But perhaps I have overlooked something, or misunderstood 
something?" said to myself several times.  "It cannot be that 
this condition of despair is natural to man!"  And I sought for 
an explanation of these problems in all the branches of knowledge 
acquired by men.  I sought painfully and long, not from idle 
curiosity or listlessly, but painfully and persistently day and 
night -- sought as a perishing man seeks for safety -- and I 
found nothing.

I sought in all the sciences, but far from finding what I 
wanted, became convinced that all who like myself had sought in 
knowledge for the meaning of life had found nothing.  And not 
only had they found nothing, but they had plainly acknowledged 
that the very thing which made me despair -- namely the 
senselessness of life -- is the one indubitable thing man can 
know.

I sought everywhere; and thanks to a life spent in learning, 
and thanks also to my relations with the scholarly world, I had 
access to scientists and scholars in all branches of knowledge, 
and they readily showed me all their knowledge, not only in books 
but also in conversation, so that I had at my disposal all that 
science has to say on this question of life.

I was long unable to believe that it gives no other reply to 
life's questions than that which it actually does give.  It long 
seemed to me, when I saw the important and serious air with which 
science announces its conclusions which have nothing in common 
with the real questions of human life, that there was something I 
had not understood.  I long was timid before science, and it 
seemed to me that the lack of conformity between the answers and 
my questions arose not by the fault of science but from my 
ignorance, but the matter was for me not a game or an amusement 
but one of life and death, and I was involuntarily brought to the 
conviction that my questions were the only legitimate ones, 
forming the basis of all knowledge, and that I with my questions 
was not to blame, but science if it pretends to reply to those 
questions.

My question -- that which at the age of fifty brought me to 
the verge of suicide -- was the simplest of questions, lying in 
the soul of every man from the foolish child to the wisest elder: 
it was a question without an answer to which one cannot live, as 
I had found by experience.  It was: "What will come of what I am 
doing today or shall do tomorrow?  What will come of my whole 
life?"

Differently expressed, the question is:  "Why should I live, 
why wish for anything, or do anything?"  It can also be expressed 
thus:  "Is there any meaning in my life that the inevitable death 
awaiting me does not destroy?"

To this one question, variously expressed, I sought an 
answer in science.  And I found that in relation to that question 
all human knowledge is divided as it were into tow opposite 
hemispheres at the ends of which are two poles:  the one a 
negative and the other a positive; but that neither at the one 
nor the other pole is there an answer to life's questions.


The one series of sciences seems not to recognize the 
question, but replies clearly and exactly to its own independent 
questions: that is the series of experimental sciences, and at 
the extreme end of it stands mathematics.  The other series of 
sciences recognizes the question, but does not answer it; that is 
the series of abstract sciences, and at the extreme end of it 
stands metaphysics.

From early youth I had been interested in the abstract 
sciences, but later the mathematical and natural sciences 
attracted me, and until I put my question definitely to myself, 
until that question had itself grown up within me urgently 
demanding a decision, I contented myself with those counterfeit 
answers which science gives.

Now in the experimental sphere I said to myself: "Everything 
develops and differentiates itself, moving towards complexity and 
perfection, and there are laws directing this movement.  You are 
a part of the whole.  Having learnt as far as possible the whole, 
and having learnt the law of evolution, you will understand also 
your place in the whole and will know yourself."  Ashamed as I am 
to confess it, there wa a time when I seemed satisfied with that. 
 It was just the time when I was myself becoming more complex and 
was developing. My muscles were growing and strengthening, my 
memory was being enriched, my capacity to think and understand 
was increasing, I was growing and developing; and feeling this 
growth in myself it was natural for me to think that such was the 
universal law in which I should find the solution of the question 
of my life.  But a time came when the growth within me ceased.  I 
felt that I was not developing, but fading, my muscles were 
weakening, my teeth falling out, and I saw that the law not only 
did not explain anything to me, but that there never had been or 
could be such a law, and that I had taken for a law what I had 
found in myself at a certain period of my life.  I regarded the 
definition of that law more strictly, and it became clear to me 
that there could be no law of endless development; it became 
clear that to say, "in infinite space and time everything 
develops, becomes more perfect and more complex, is 
differentiated", is to say nothing at all.  These are all words 
with no meaning, for in the infinite there is neither complex nor 
simple, neither forward nor backward, nor better or worse.


Above all, my personal question, "What am I with my 
desires?" remained quite unanswered.  And I understood that those 
sciences are very interesting and attractive, but that they are 
exact and clear in inverse proportion to their applicability to 
the question of life: the less their applicability to the 
question of life, the more exact and clear they are, while the 
more they try to reply to the question of life, the more obscure 
and unattractive they become.  If one turns to the division of 
sciences which attempt to reply to the questions of life -- to 
physiology, psychology, biology, sociology -- one encounters an 
appalling poverty of thought, the greatest obscurity, a quite 
unjustifiable pretension to solve irrelevant question, and a 
continual contradiction of each authority by others and even by 
himself.  If one turns to the branches of science which are not 
concerned with the solution of the questions of life, but which 
reply to their own special scientific questions, one is 
enraptured by the power of man's mind, but one knows in advance 
that they give no reply to life's questions.  Those sciences 
simply ignore life's questions.  They say:  "To the question of 
what you are and why you live we have no reply, and are not 
occupied with that; but if you want to know the laws of light, of 
chemical combinations, the laws of development of organisms, if 
you want to know the laws of bodies and their form, and the 
relation of numbers and quantities, if you want to know the laws 
of your mind, to all that we have clear, exact and unquestionable 
replies."

In general the relation of the experimental sciences to 
life's question may be expressed thus:  Question: "Why do I 
live?"  Answer: "In infinite space, in infinite time, infinitely 
small particles change their forms in infinite complexity, and 
when you have under stood the laws of those mutations of form you 
will understand why you live on the earth."

Then in the sphere of abstract science I said to myself:  
"All humanity lives and develops on the basis of spiritual 
principles and ideals which guide it.  Those ideals are expressed 
in religions, in sciences, in arts, in forms of government.  
Those ideals become more and more elevated, and humanity advances 
to its highest welfare.  I am part of humanity, and therefore my 
vocation is to forward the recognition and the realization of the 
ideals of humanity."  And at the time of my weak-mindedness I was 
satisfied with that; but as soon as the question of life 
presented itself clearly to me, those theories immediately 
crumbled away.  Not to speak of the unscrupulous obscurity with 
which those sciences announce conclusions formed on the study of 
a small part of mankind as general conclusions; not to speak of 
the mutual contradictions of different adherents of this view as 
to what are the ideals of humanity; the strangeness, not to say 
stupidity, of the theory consists in the fact that in order to 
reply to the question facing each man:  "What am I?" or "Why do I 
live?" or "What must I do?" one has first to decide the question: 
"What is the life of the whole?" (which is to him unknown and of 
which he is acquainted with one tiny part in one minute period of 
time.  To understand what he is, one man must first understand 
all this mysterious humanity, consisting of people such as 
himself who do not understand one another.


I have to confess that there was a time when I believed 
this.  It was the time when I had my own favourite ideals 
justifying my own caprices, and I was trying to devise a theory 
which would allow one to consider my caprices as the law of 
humanity.  But as soon as the question of life arose in my soul 
in full clearness that reply at once few to dust.  And I 
understood that as in the experimental sciences there are real 
sciences, and semi-sciences which try to give answers to 
questions beyond their competence, so in this sphere there is a 
whole series of most diffused sciences which try to reply to 
irrelevant questions.  Semi-sciences of that kind, the juridical 
and the social-historical, endeavour to solve the questions of a 
man's life by pretending to decide each in its own way, the 
question of the life of all humanity.

But as in the sphere of man's experimental knowledge one who 
sincerely inquires how he is to live cannot be satisfied with the 
reply -- "Study in endless space the mutations, infinite in time 
and in complexity, of innumerable atoms, and then you will 
understand your life" -- so also a sincere man cannot be 
satisfied with the reply: "Study the whole life of humanity of 
which we cannot know either the beginning or the end, of which we 
do not even know a small part, and then you will understand your 
own life." And like the experimental semi-sciences, so these 
other semi-sciences are the more filled with obscurities, 
inexactitudes, stupidities, and contradictions, the further they 
diverge from the real problems.  The problem of experimental 
science is the sequence of cause and effect in material 
phenomena.  It is only necessary for experimental science to 
introduce the question of a final cause for it to become 
nonsensical.  The problem of abstract science is the recognition 
of the primordial essence of life.  It is only necessary to 
introduce the investigation of consequential phenomena (such as 
social and historical phenomena) and it also becomes nonsensical.

Experimental science only then gives positive knowledge and 
displays the greatness of the human mind when it does not 
introduce into its investigations the question of an ultimate 
cause.  And, on the contrary, abstract science is only then 
science and displays the greatness of the human mind when it puts 
quite aside questions relating to the consequential causes of 
phenomena and regards man solely in relation to an ultimate 
cause.  Such in this realm of science -- forming the pole of the 
sphere -- is metaphysics or philosophy.  That science states the 
question clearly:  "What am I, and what is the universe?  And why 
do I exist, and why does the universe exist?"  And since it has 
existed it has always replied in the same way.  Whether the 
philosopher calls the essence of life existing within me, and in 
all that exists, by the name of "idea", or "substance", or 
"spirit", or "will", he says one and the same thing:  that this 
essence exists and that I am of that same essence; but why it is 
he does not know, and does not say, if he is an exact thinker.  I 
ask:  "Why should this essence exist?  What results from the fact 
that it is and will be?" ... And philosophy not merely does not 
reply, but is itself only asking that question.  And if it is 
real philosophy all its labour lies merely in trying to put that 
question clearly.  And if it keeps firmly to its task it cannot 
reply to the question otherwise than thus:  "What am I, and what 
is the universe?"  "All and nothing"; and to the question "Why?" 
by "I do not know".


So that however I may turn these replies of philosophy, I 
can never obtain anything like an answer -- and not because, as 
in the clear experimental sphere, the reply does not relate to my 
question, but because here, though all the mental work is 
directed just to my question, there is no answer, but instead of 
an answer one gets the same question, only in a complex form.


	VI

In my search for answers to life's questions I experienced 
just what is felt by a man lost in a forest.

He reaches a glade, climbs a tree, and clearly sees the 
limitless distance, but sees that his home is not and cannot be 
there; then he goes into the dark wood and sees the darkness, but 
there also his home is not.

So I wandered n that wood of human knowledge, amid the 
gleams of mathematical and experimental science which showed me 
clear horizons but in a direction where there could be no home, 
and also amid the darkness of the abstract sciences where I was 
immersed in deeper gloom the further I went, and where I finally 
convinced myself that there was, and could be, no exit.

Yielding myself to the bright side of knowledge, I 
understood that I was only diverting my gaze from the question.  
However alluringly clear those horizons which opened out before 
me might be, however alluring it might be to immerse oneself in 
the limitless expanse of those sciences, I already understood 
that the clearer they were the less they met my need and the less 
they applied to my question.

"I know," said I to myself, "what science so persistently 
tries to discover, and along that road there is no reply to the 
question as to the meaning of my life."  In the abstract sphere I 
understood that notwithstanding the fact, or just because of the 
fact, that the direct aim of science is to reply to my question, 
there is no reply but that which I have myself already given:  
"What is the meaning of my life?"  "There is none."  Or:  "What 
will come of my life?" "Nothing."  Or:  "Why does everything 
exist that exists, and why do I exist?"  "Because it exists."


Inquiring for one region of human knowledge, I received an 
innumerable quantity of exact replies concerning matters about 
which I had not asked:  about the chemical constituents of the 
stars, about the movement of the sun towards the constellation 
Hercules, about the origin of species and of man, about the forms 
of infinitely minute imponderable particles of ether; but in this 
sphere of knowledge the only answer to my question, "What is the 
meaning of my life?" was: "You are what you call your 'life'; you 
are a transitory, casual cohesion of particles.  The mutual 
interactions and changes of these particles produce in you what 
you call your "life".  That cohesion will last some time; 
afterwards the interaction of these particles will cease and what 
you call "life" will cease, and so will all your questions.  You 
are an accidentally united little lump of something.  that little 
lump ferments.  The little lump calls that fermenting its 'life'. 
 The lump will disintegrate and there will be an end of the 
fermenting and of all the questions."  So answers the clear side 
of science and cannot answer otherwise if it strictly follows its 
principles.

From such a reply one sees that the reply does not answer 
the question.  I want to know the meaning of my life, but that it 
is a fragment of the infinite, far from giving it a meaning 
destroys its every possible meaning.  The obscure compromises 
which that side of experimental exact science makes with abstract 
science when it says that the meaning of life consists in 
development and in cooperation with development, owing to their 
inexactness and obscurity cannot be considered as replies.

The other side of science -- the abstract side -- when it 
holds strictly to its principles, replying directly to the 
question, always replies, and in all ages has replied, in one and 
the same way:  "The world is something infinite and 
incomprehensible part of that incomprehensible 'all'."  Again I 
exclude all those compromises between abstract and experimental 
sciences which supply the whole ballast of the semi-sciences 
called juridical, political, and historical. In those semi-
sciences the conception of development and progress is again 
wrongly introduced, only with this difference, that there it was 
the development of everything while here it is the development of 
the life of mankind.  The error is there as before: development 
and progress in infinity can have no aim or direction, and, as 
far as my question is concerned, no answer is given.

In truly abstract science, namely in genuine philosophy -- 
not in that which Schopenhauer calls "professorial philosophy" 
which serves only to classify all existing phenomena in new 
philosophic categories and to call them by new names -- where the 
philosopher does not lose sight of the essential question, the 
reply is always one and the same -- the reply given by Socrates, 
Schopenhauer, Solomon, and Buddha.

"We approach truth only inasmuch as we depart from life", 
said Socrates when preparing for death.  "For what do we, who 
love truth, strive after in life?  To free ourselves from the 
body, and from all the evil that is caused by the life of the 
body!  If so, then how can we fail to be glad when death comes to 
us?

"The wise man seeks death all his life and therefore death 
is not terrible to him."

And Schopenhauer says:


"Having recognized the inmost essence of the world as 
*will*, and all its phenomena -- from the unconscious working of 
the obscure forces of Nature up to the completely conscious 
action of man -- as only the objectivity of that will, we shall 
in no way avoid the conclusion that together with the voluntary 
renunciation and self-destruction of the will all those phenomena 
also disappear, that constant striving and effort without aim or 
rest on all the stages of objectivity in which and through which 
the world exists; the diversity of successive forms will 
disappear, and together with the form all the manifestations of 
will, with its most universal forms, space and time, and finally 
its most fundamental form -- subject and object.  Without will 
there is no concept and no world.  Before us, certainly, nothing 
remains.  But what resists this transition into annihilation, our 
nature, is only that same wish to live -- *Wille zum Leben* -- 
which forms ourselves as well as our world.  That we are so 
afraid of annihilation or, what is the same thing, that we so 
wish to live, merely means that we are ourselves nothing else but 
this desire to live, and know nothing but it.  And so what 
remains after the complete annihilation of the will, for us who 
are so full of the will, is, of course, nothing; but on the other 
hand, for those in whom the will has turned and renounced itself, 
this so real world of ours with all its suns and milky way is 
nothing."

"Vanity of vanities", says Solomon -- "vanity of vanities -- 
all is vanity.  What profit hath a man of all his labor which he 
taketh under the sun?  One generation passeth away, and another 
generation commeth: but the earth abideth for ever....The thing 
that hath been, is that which shall be; and that which is done is 
that which shall be done: and there is no new thing under the 
sun.  Is there anything whereof it may be said, See, this is new? 
it hath been already of old time, which was before us.  there is 
no remembrance of former things; neither shall there be any 
remembrance of things that are to come with those that shall come 
after.  I the Preacher was King over Israel in Jerusalem.  And I 
gave my heart to seek and search out by wisdom concerning all 
that is done under heaven:  this sore travail hath God given to 
the sons of man to be exercised therewith.  I have seen all the 
works that are done under the sun; and behold, all is vanity and 
vexation of spirit....I communed with my own heart, saying, Lo, I 
am come to great estate, and have gotten more wisdom than all 
they that have been before me over Jerusalem: yea, my heart hath 
great experience of wisdom and knowledge.  And I gave my heart to 
know wisdom, and to know madness and folly: I perceived that this 
also is vexation of spirit.  For in much wisdom is much grief: 
and he that increaseth knowledge increaseth sorrow.


"I said in my heart, Go to now, I will prove thee with 
mirth, therefore enjoy pleasure: and behold this also is vanity. 
I said of laughter, It is mad:  and of mirth, What doeth it?  I 
sought in my heart how to cheer my flesh with wine, and while my 
heart was guided by wisdom, to lay hold on folly, till I might 
see what it was good for the sons of men that they should do 
under heaven the number of the days of their life.  I made me 
great works; I builded me houses; I planted me vineyards; I made 
me gardens and orchards, and I planted trees in them of all kinds 
of fruits: I made me pools of water, to water therefrom the 
forest where trees were reared: I got me servants and maidens, 
and had servants born in my house; also I had great possessions 
of herds and flocks above all that were before me in Jerusalem: I 
gathered me also silver and gold and the peculiar treasure from 
kings and from the provinces: I got me men singers and women 
singers; and the delights of the sons of men, as musical 
instruments and all that of all sorts.  So I was great, and 
increased more than all that were before me in Jerusalem: also my 
wisdom remained with me.  And whatever mine eyes desired I kept 
not from them.  I withheld not my heart from any joy....Then I 
looked on all the works that my hands had wrought, and on the 
labour that I had laboured to do: and, behold, all was vanity and 
vexation of spirit, and there was no profit from them under the 
sun.  And I turned myself to behold wisdom, and madness, and 
folly.... But I perceived that one even happeneth to them all.  
Then said I in my heart, As it happeneth to the fool, so it 
happeneth even to me, and why was I then more wise?  then I said 
in my heart, that this also is vanity.  For there is no 
remembrance of the wise more than of the fool for ever; seeing 
that which now is in the days to come shall all be forgotten.  
And how dieth the wise man? as the fool.  Therefore I hated life; 
because the work that is wrought under the sun is grievous unto 
me: for all is vanity and vexation of spirit.  Yea, I hated all 
my labour which I had taken under the sun: seeing that I must 
leave it unto the man that shall be after me.... For what hath  
man of all his labour, and of the vexation of his heart, wherein 
he hath laboured under the sun?  For all his days are sorrows, 
and his travail grief; yea, even in the night his heart taketh no 
rest.  this is also vanity.  Man is not blessed with security 
that he should eat and drink and cheer his soul from his own 
labour.... All things come alike to all: there is one event to 
the righteous and to the wicked; to the good and to the evil; to 
the clean and to the unclean; to him that sacrificeth and to him 
that sacrificeth not; as is the good, so is the sinner; and he 
that sweareth, as he that feareth an oath.  This is an evil in 
all that is done under the sun, that there is one event unto all; 
yea, also the heart of the sons of men is full of evil, and 
madness is in their heart while they live, and after that they go 
to the dead.  For him that is among the living there is hope: for 
a living dog is better than a dead lion.  For the living know 
that they shall die: but the dead know not any thing, neither 
have they any more a reward; for the memory of them is forgotten. 
also their love, and their hatred, and their envy, is now 
perished; neither have they any more a portion for ever in any 
thing that is done under the sun."

So said Solomon, or whoever wrote those words.  [Footnote: 
tolstoy's version differs slightly in a few places from our own 
Authorized or Revised version.  I have followed his text, for in 
a letter to Fet, quoted on p. 18, vol. ii, of my "Life of 
Tolstoy," he says that "The Authorized English version [of 
Ecclesiastes] is bad." -- A.M.]

And this is what the Indian wisdom tells:


Sakya Muni, a young, happy prince, from whom the existence 
of sickness, old age, and death had been hidden, went out to 
drive and saw a terrible old man, toothless and slobbering.  the 
prince, from whom till then old age had been concealed, was 
amazed, and asked his driver what it was, and how that man had 
come to such a wretched and disgusting condition, and when he 
learnt that this was the common fate of all men, that the same 
thing inevitably awaited him -- the young prince -- he could not 
continue his drive, but gave orders to go home, that he might 
consider this fact.  So he shut himself up alone and considered 
it.  and he probably devised some consolation for himself, for he 
subsequently again went out to drive, feeling merry and happy.  
But this time he saw a sick man.  He saw an emaciated, livid, 
trembling man with dim eyes.  The prince, from whom sickness had 
been concealed, stopped and asked what this was.  And when he 
learnt that this was sickness, to which all men are liable, and 
that he himself -- a healthy and happy prince -- might himself 
fall ill tomorrow, he again was in no mood to enjoy himself but 
gave orders to drive home, and again sought some solace, and 
probably found it, for he drove out a third time for pleasure.  
But this third time he saw another new sight: he saw men carrying 
something.  'What is that?'  'A dead man.'  'What does *dead* 
mean?' asked the prince.  He was told that to become dead means 
to become like that man.  The prince approached the corpse, 
uncovered it, and looked at it.  'What will happen to him now?' 
asked the prince.  He was told that the corpse would be buried in 
the ground.  'Why?'  'Because he will certainly not return to 
life, and will only produce a stench and worms.'  'And is that 
the fate of all men?  Will the same thing happen to me?  Will 
they bury me, and shall I cause a stench and be eaten by worms?' 
 'Yes.'  'Home!  I shall not drive out for pleasure, and never 
will so drive out again!'

And Sakya Muni could find no consolation in life, and 
decided that life is the greatest of evils; and he devoted all 
the strength of his soul to free himself from it, and to free 
others; and to do this so that, even after death, life shall not 
be renewed any more but be completely destroyed at its very 
roots.  So speaks all the wisdom of India.

These are the direct replies that human wisdom gives when it 
replies to life's question.

"The life of the body is an evil and a lie.  Therefore the 
destruction of the life of the body is a blessing, and we should 
desire it," says Socrates.

"Life is that which should not be -- an evil; and the 
passage into Nothingness is the only good in life," says 
Schopenhauer.

"All that is in the world -- folly and wisdom and riches and 
poverty and mirth and grief -- is vanity and emptiness.  Man dies 
and nothing is left of him.  And that is stupid," says Solomon.
"To life in the consciousness of the inevitability of 
suffering, of becoming enfeebled, of old age and of death, is 
impossible -- we must free ourselves from life, from all possible 
life," says Buddha.

And what these strong minds said has been said and thought 
and felt by millions upon millions of people like them.  And I 
have thought it and felt it.


So my wandering among the sciences, far from freeing me from 
my despair, only strengthened it.  One kind of knowledge did not 
reply to life's question, the other kind replied directly 
confirming my despair, indicating not that the result at which I 
had arrived was the fruit of error or of a diseased state of my 
mind, but on the contrary that I had thought correctly, and that 
my thoughts coincided with the conclusions of the most powerful 
of human minds.

It is no good deceiving oneself. It is all -- vanity!  Happy 
is he who has not been born:  death is better than life, and one 
must free oneself from life.


	VII

Not finding an explanation in science I began to seek for it 
in life, hoping to find it among the people around me.  And I 
began to observe how the people around me -- people like myself -
- lived, and what their attitude was tto this question which had 
brought me to despair.

And this is what I found among people who were in the same 
position as myself as regards education and manner of life.

I found that for people of my circle there were four ways 
out of the terrible position in which we are all placed.

The first was that of ignorance. It consists in not knowing, 
not understanding, that life is an evil and an absurdity.  People 
of this sort -- chiefly women, or very young or very dull people 
-- have not yet understood that questiion of life which presented 
itself to Schopenhauer, Solomon, and Buddha.  They see neither 
the dragon that awaits them nor the mice gnawing the shrub by 
which they are hanging, and they lick the drops of honey.  but 
they lick those drops of honey only for a while:  something will 
turn their attention to the dragon and the mice, and there will 
be an end to their licking.  From them I had nothing to learn -- 
one cannot cease to know what one does know.

The second way out is epicureanism.  It consists, while 
knowing the hopelessness of life, in making use meanwhile of the 
advantages one has, disregarding the dragon and the mice, and 
licking the honey in the best way, especially if there is much of 
it within reach.  Solomon expresses this way out thus:  "Then I 
commended mirth, because a man hath no better thing under the 
sun, than to eat, and to drink, and to be merry: and that this 
should accompany him in his labour the days of his life, which 
God giveth him under the sun.

"Therefore eat thy bread with joy and drink thy wine with a 
merry heart.... Live joyfully with the wife whom thou lovest all 
the days of the life of thy vanity...for this is thy portion in 
life and in thy labours which thou takest under the sun.... 
Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy might, for 
there is not work, nor device, nor knowledge, nor wisdom, in the 
grave, whither thou goest."


That is the way in which the majority of people of our 
circle make life possible for themselves.  Their circumstances 
furnish them with more of welfare than of hardship, and their 
moral dullness makes it possible for them to forget that the 
advantage of their position is accidental, and that not everyone 
can have a thousand wives and palaces like Solomon, that for 
everyone who has a thousand wives there are a thousand without a 
wife, and that for each palace there are a thousand people who 
have to build it in the sweat of their brows; and that the 
accident that has today made me a Solomon may tomorrow make me a 
Solomon's slave.  The dullness of these people's imagination 
enables them to forget the things that gave Buddha no peace -- 
the inevitability of sickness, old age, and death, which today or 
tomorrow will destroy all these pleasures.

So think and feel the majority of people of our day and our 
manner of life.  The fact that some of these people declare the 
dullness of their thoughts and imaginations to be a philosophy, 
which they call Positive, does not remove them, in my opinion, 
from the ranks of those who, to avoid seeing the question, lick 
the honey.  I could not imitate these people; not having their 
dullness of imagination I could not artificially produce it in 
myself.  I could not tear my eyes from the mice and the dragon, 
as no vital man can after he has once seen them.

The third escape is that of strength and energy.  It 
consists in destroying life, when one has understood that it is 
an evil and an absurdity.  A few exceptionally strong and 
consistent people act so.  Having understood the stupidity of the 
joke that has been played on them, and having understood that it 
is better to be dead than to be alive, and that it is best of all 
not to exist, they act accordingly and promptly end this stupid 
joke, since there are means:  a rope round one's neck, water, a 
knife to stick into one's heart, or the trains on the railways; 
and the number of those of our circle who act in this way becomes 
greater and greater, and for the most part they act so at the 
best time of their life, when the strength of their mind is in 
full bloom and few habits degrading to the mind have as yet been 
acquired.

I saw that this was the worthiest way of escape and I wished 
to adopt it.

The fourth way out is that of weakness.  It consists in 
seeing the truth of the situation and yet clinging to life, 
knowing in advance that nothing can come of it.  People of this 
kind know that death is better than life, but not having the 
strength to act rationally -- to end the deception quickly and 
kill themselves -- they seem to wait for something.  This is the 
escape of weakness, for if I know what is best and it is within 
my power, why not yield to what is best? ... I found myself in 
that category.


So people of my class evade the terrible contradiction in 
four ways.  Strain my attention as I would, I saw no way except 
those four.  One way was not to understand that life is 
senseless, vanity, and an evil, and that it is better not to 
live.  I could not help knowing this, and when I once knew it 
could not shut my eyes to it.  the second way was to use life 
such as it is without thinking of the future.  And I could not do 
that.  I, like Sakya Muni, could not ride out hunting when I knew 
that old age, suffering, and death exist.  My imagination was too 
vivid.  Nor could I rejoice in the momentary accidents that for 
an instant threw pleasure to my lot.  The third way, having under 
stood that life is evil and stupid, was to end it by killing 
oneself.  I understood that, but somehow still did not kill 
myself.  The fourth way was to live like Solomon and Schopenhauer 
-- knowing that life is a stupid joke  played upon us, and still 
to go on living, washing oneself, dressing, dining, talking, and 
even writing books.  This was to me repulsive and tormenting, but 
I remained in that position.

I see now that if I did not kill myself it was due to some 
dim consciousness of the invalidity of my thoughts.  However 
convincing and indubitable appeared to me the sequence of my 
thoughts and of those of the wise that have brought us to the 
admission of the senselessness of life, there remained in me a 
vague doubt of the justice of my conclusion.

It was like this:  I, my reason, have acknowledged that life 
is senseless.  If there is nothing higher than reason (and there 
is not: nothing can prove that there is), then reason is the 
creator of life for me.  If reason did not exist there would be 
for me no life.  How can reason deny life when it is the creator 
of life?  Or to put it the other way: were there no life, my 
reason would not exist; therefore reason is life's son.  Life is 
all.  Reason is its fruit yet reason rejects life itself!  I felt 
that there was something wrong here.

Life is a senseless evil, that is certain, said I to myself. 
 Yet I have lived and am still living, and all mankind lived and 
lives.  How is that?  Why does it live, when it is possible not 
to live?  Is it that only I and Schopenhauer are wise enough to 
understand the senselessness and evil of life?

The reasoning showing the vanity of life is not so 
difficult, and has long been familiar to the very simplest folk; 
yet they have lived and still live.  How is it they all live and 
never think of doubting the reasonableness of life?

My knowledge, confirmed by the wisdom of the sages, has 
shown me that everything on earth -- organic and inorganic -- is 
all most cleverly arranged -- only my own position is stupid.  
and those fools -- the enormous masses of people -- know nothing 
about how everything organic and inorganic in the world is 
arranged; but they live, and it seems to them that their life is 
very wisely arranged! ...


And it struck me:  "But what if there is something I do not 
yet know?  Ignorance behaves just in that way.  Ignorance always 
says just what I am saying.  When it does not know something, it 
says that what it does not know is stupid.  Indeed, it appears 
that there is a whole humanity that lived and lives as if it 
understood the meaning of its life, for without understanding it 
could not live; but I say that all this life is senseless and 
that I cannot live.

"Nothing prevents our denying life by suicide.  well then, 
kill yourself, and you won't discuss.  If life displeases you, 
kill yourself!  You live, and cannot understand the meaning of 
life -- then finish it, and do not fool about in life, saying and 
writing that you do not understand it.  You have come into good 
company where people are contented and know what they are doing; 
if you find it dull and repulsive -- go away!"

Indeed, what are we who are convinced of the necessity of 
suicide yet do not decide to commit it, but the weakest, most 
inconsistent, and to put it plainly, the stupidest of men, 
fussing about with our own stupidity as a fool fusses about with 
a painted hussy?  For our wisdom, however indubitable it may be, 
has not given us the knowledge of the meaning of our life.  But 
all mankind who sustain life -- millions of them -- do not doubt 
the meaning of life.

Indeed, from the most distant time of which I know anything, 
when life began, people have lived knowing the argument about the 
vanity of life which has shown me its senselessness, and yet they 
lived attributing some meaning to it.

From the time when any life began among men they had that 
meaning of life, and they led that life which has descended to 
me.  All that is in me and around me, all, corporeal and 
incorporeal, is the fruit of their knowledge of life.  Those very 
instruments of thought with which I consider this life and 
condemn it were all devised not be me but by them.  I myself was 
born, taught, and brought up thanks to them.  They dug out the 
iron, taught us to cut down the forests, tamed the cows and 
horses, taught us to sow corn and to live together, organized our 
life, and taught me to think and speak.  And I, their product, 
fed, supplied with drink, taught by them, thinking with their 
thoughts and words, have argued that they are an absurdity!  
"There is something wrong," said I to myself.  "I have blundered 
somewhere."  But it was a long time before I could find out where 
the mistake was.


	VIII


All these doubts, which I am now able to express more or 
less systematically, I could not then have expressed.  I then 
only felt that however logically inevitable were my conclusions 
concerning the vanity of life, confirmed as they were by the 
greatest thinkers, there was something not right about them.  
Whether it was in the reasoning itself or in the statement of the 
question I did not know -- I only felt that the conclusion was 
rationally convincing, but that that was insufficient.  All these 
conclusions could not so convince me as to make me do what 
followed from my reasoning, that is to say, kill myself.  And I 
should have told an untruth had I, without killing myself, said 
that reason had brought me to the point I had reached.  Reason 
worked, but something else was also working which I can only call 
a consciousness of life.  A force was working which compelled me 
to turn my attention to this and not to that; and it was this 
force which extricated me from my desperate situation and turned 
my mind in quite another direction.  This force compelled me to 
turn my attention to the fact that I and a few hundred similar 
people are not the whole of mankind, and that I did not yet know 
the life of mankind.

Looking at the narrow circle of my equals, I saw only people 
who had not understood the question, or who had understood it and 
drowned it in life's intoxication, or had understood it and ended 
their lives, or had understood it and yet from weakness were 
living out their desperate life.  And I saw no others.  It seemed 
to me that that narrow circle of rich, learned, and leisured 
people to which I belonged formed the whole of humanity, and that 
those milliards of others who have lived and are living were 
cattle of some sort -- not real people.

Strange, incredibly incomprehensible as it now seems to me 
that I could, while reasoning about life, overlook the whole life 
of mankind that surrounded me on all sides; that I could to such 
a degree blunder so absurdly as to think that my life, and 
Solomon's and Schopenhauer's, is the real, normal life, and that 
the life of the milliards is a circumstance undeserving of 
attention -- strange as this now is to me, I see that so it was. 
In the delusion of my pride of intellect it seemed to me so 
indubitable that I and Solomon and Schopenhauer had stated the 
question so truly and exactly that nothing else was possible -- 
so indubitable did it seem that all those milliards consisted of 
men who had not yet arrived at an apprehension of all the 
profundity of the question -- that I sought for the meaning of my 
life without it once occurring to me to ask:  "But what meaning 
is and has been given to their lives by all the milliards of 
common folk who live and have lived in the world?"


I long lived in this state of lunacy, which, in fact if not 
in words, is particularly characteristic of us very liberal and 
learned people.  But thanks either to the strange physical 
affection I have for the real labouring people, which compelled 
me to understand them and to see that they are not so stupid as 
we suppose, or thanks to the sincerity of my conviction that I 
could know nothing beyond the fact that the best I could do was 
to hang myself, at any rate I instinctively felt that if I wished 
to live and understand the meaning of life, I must seek this 
meaning not among those who have lost it and wish to kill 
themselves, but among those milliards of the past and the present 
who make life and who support the burden of their own lives and 
of ours also.  And I considered the enormous masses of those 
simple, unlearned, and poor people who have lived and are living 
and I saw something quite different.  I saw that, with rare 
exceptions, all those milliards who have lived and are living do 
not fit into my divisions, and that I could not class them as not 
understanding the question, for they themselves state it and 
reply to it with extraordinary clearness.  Nor could I consider 
them epicureans, for their life consists more of privations and 
sufferings than of enjoyments.  Still less could I consider them 
as irrationally dragging on a meaningless existence, for every 
act of their life, as well as death itself, is explained by them. 
 To kill themselves they consider the greatest evil.  It appeared 
that all mankind had a knowledge, unacknowledged and despised by 
me, of the meaning of life.  It appeared that reasonable 
knowledge does not give the meaning of life, but excludes life: 
while the meaning attributed to life by milliards of people, by 
all humanity, rests on some despised pseudo-knowledge.

Rational knowledge presented by the learned and wise, denies 
the meaning of life, but the enormous masses of men, the whole of 
mankind receive that meaning in irrational knowledge. And that 
irrational knowledge is faith, that very thing which I could not 
but reject.  It is God, One in Three; the creation in six days; 
the devils and angels, and all the rest that I cannot accept as 
long as I retain my reason.

My position was terrible.  I knew I could find nothing along 
the path of reasonable knowledge except a denial of life; and 
there -- in faith -- was nothing but a denial of reason, which 
was yet more impossible for me than a denial of life.  From 
rational knowledge it appeared that life is an evil, people know 
this and it is in their power to end life; yet they lived and 
still live, and I myself live, though I have long known that life 
is senseless and an evil.  By faith it appears that in order to 
understand the meaning of life I must renounce my reason, the 
very thing for which alone a meaning is required.


	IX

A contradiction arose from which there were two exits.  
Either that which I called reason was not so rational as I 
supposed, or that which seemed to me irrational was not so 
irrational as I supposed.  And I began to verify the line of 
argument of my rational knowledge.

Verifying the line of argument of rational knowledge I found 
it quite correct.  The conclusion that life is nothing was 
inevitable; but I noticed a mistake.  The mistake lay in this, 
that my reasoning was not in accord with the question I had put. 
 The question was:  "Why should I live, that is to say, what 
real, permanent result will come out of my illusory transitory 
life -- what meaning has my finite existence in this infinite 
world?"  And to reply to that question I had studied life.

The solution of all the possible questions of life could 
evidently not satisfy me, for my question, simple as it at first 
appeared, included a demand for an explanation of the finite in 
terms of the infinite, and vice versa.


I asked: "What is the meaning of my life, beyond time, 
cause, and space?"  And I replied to quite another question:  
"What is the meaning of  my life within time, cause, and space?" 
 With the result that, after long efforts of thought, the answer 
I reached was: "None."

In my reasonings I constantly compared (nor could I do 
otherwise) the finite with the finite, and the infinite with the 
infinite; but for that reason I reached the inevitable result:  
force is force, matter is matter, will is will, the infinite is 
the infinite, nothing is nothing -- and that was all that could 
result.

It was something like what happens in mathematics, when 
thinking to solve an equation, we find we are working on an 
identity.  the line of reasoning is correct, but results in the 
answer that a equals a, or x equals x, or o equals o.  the same 
thing happened with my reasoning in relation to the question of 
the meaning of my life.  The replies given by all science to that 
question only result in -- identity.

And really, strictly scientific knowledge -- that knowledge 
which begins, as Descartes's did, with complete doubt about 
everything -- rejects all knowledge admitted on faith and builds 
everything afresh on the laws of reason and experience, and 
cannot give any other reply to the question of life than that 
which I obtained: an indefinite reply.  Only at first had it 
seemed to me that knowledge had given a positive reply -- the 
reply of Schopenhauer: that life has no meaning and is an evil.  
But on examining the matter I understood that the reply is not 
positive, it was only my feeling that so expressed it.  Strictly 
expressed, as it is by the Brahmins and by Solomon and 
Schopenhauer, the reply is merely indefinite, or an identity: o 
equals o, life is nothing.  So that philosophic knowledge denies 
nothing, but only replies that the question cannot be solved by 
it -- that for it the solution remains indefinite.

Having understood this, I understood that it was not 
possible to seek in rational knowledge for a reply to my 
question, and that the reply given by rational knowledge is a 
mere indication that a reply can only be obtained by a different 
statement of the question and only when the relation of the 
finite to the infinite is included in the question.  And I 
understood that, however irrational and distorted might be the 
replies given by faith, they have this advantage, that they 
introduce into every answer a relation between the finite and the 
infinite, without which there can be no solution.

In whatever way I stated the question, that relation 
appeared in the answer.  How am I to live? --  According to the 
law of God.  What real result will come of my life?  --  Eternal 
torment or eternal bliss.  What meaning has life that death does 
not destroy?  -- Union with the eternal God: heaven.


So that besides rational knowledge, which had seemed to me 
the only knowledge, I was inevitably brought to acknowledge that 
all live humanity has another irrational knowledge -- faith which 
makes it possible to live.  Faith still remained to me as 
irrational as it was before, but I could not but admit that it 
alone gives mankind a reply to the questions of life, and that 
consequently it makes life possible.  Reasonable knowledge had 
brought me to acknowledge that life is senseless -- my life had 
come to a halt and I wished to destroy myself.  Looking around on 
the whole of mankind I saw that people live and declare that they 
know the meaning of life.  I looked at myself -- I had lived as 
long as I knew a meaning of life and had made life possible.

Looking again at people of other lands, at my contemporaries 
and at their predecessors, I saw the same thing.  Where there is 
life, there since man began faith has made life possible for him, 
and the chief outline of that faith is everywhere and always 
identical.

Whatever the faith may be, and whatever answers it may give, 
and to whomsoever it gives them, every such answer gives to the 
finite existence of man an infinite meaning, a meaning not 
destroyed by sufferings, deprivations, or death.  This means that 
only in faith can we find for life a meaning and a possibility.  
What, then, is this faith?  And I understood that faith is not 
merely "the evidence of things not seen", etc., and is not a 
revelation (that defines only one of the indications of faith, is 
not the relation of man to God (one has first to define faith and 
then God, and not define faith through God); it not only 
agreement with what has been told one (as faith is most usually 
supposed to be), but faith is a knowledge of the meaning of human 
life in consequence of which man does not destroy himself but 
lives.  Faith is the strength of life.  If a man lives he 
believes in something.  If he did not believe that one must live 
for something, he would not live.  If he does not see and 
recognize the illusory nature of the finite, he believes in the 
finite; if he understands the illusory nature of the finite, he 
must believe in the infinite.  Without faith he cannot live.

And I recalled the whole course of my mental labour and was 
horrified.  It was now clear to me that for man to be able to 
live he must either not see the infinite, or have such an 
explanation of the meaning of life as will connect the finite 
with the infinite.  Such an explanation I had had; but as long as 
I believed in the finite I did not need the explanation, and I 
began to verify it by reason.  And in the light of reason the 
whole of my former explanation flew to atoms.  But a time came 
when I ceased to believe in the finite.  And then I began to 
build up on rational foundations, out of what I knew, an 
explanation which would give a meaning to life; but nothing could 
I build.  Together with the best human intellects I reached the 
result that o equals o, and was much astonished at that 
conclusion, though nothing else could have resulted.

What was I doing when I sought an answer in the experimental 
sciences?  I wished to know why I live, and for this purpose 
studied all that is outside me.  Evidently I might learn much, 
but nothing of what I needed.


What was I doing when I sought an answer in philosophical 
knowledge?  I was studying the thoughts of those who had found 
themselves in the same position as I, lacking a reply to the 
question "why do I live?" Evidently I could learn nothing but 
what I knew myself, namely that nothing can be known.

What am I? -- A part of the infinite.  In those few words 
lies the whole problem.

Is it possible that humanity has only put that question to 
itself since yesterday?  And can no one before me have set 
himself that question -- a question so simple, and one that 
springs to the tongue of every wise child?

Surely that question has been asked since man began; and 
naturally for the solution of that question since man began it 
has been equally insufficient to compare the finite with the 
finite and the infinite with the infinite, and since man began 
the relation of the finite to the infinite has been sought out 
and expressed.

All these conceptions in which the finite has been adjusted 
to the infinite and a meaning found for life -- the conception of 
God, of will, of goodness -- we submit to logical examination.  
And all those conceptions fail to stand reason's criticism.

Were it not so terrible it would be ludicrous with what 
pride and self-satisfaction we, like children, pull the watch to 
pieces, take out the spring, make a toy of it, and are then 
surprised that the watch does not go.

A solution of the contradiction between the finite and the 
infinite, and such a reply to the question of life as will make 
it possible to live, is necessary and precious.  And that is the 
only solution which we find everywhere, always, and among all 
peoples:  a solution descending from times in which we lose sight 
of the life of man, a solution so difficult that we can compose 
nothing like it -- and this solution we light-heartedly destroy 
in order again to set the same question, which is natural to 
everyone and to which we have no answer.

The conception of an infinite god, the divinity of the soul, 
the connexion of human affairs with God, the unity and existence 
of the soul, man's conception of moral goodness and evil -- are 
conceptions formulated in the hidden infinity of human thought, 
they are those conceptions without which neither life nor I 
should exist; yet rejecting all that labour of the whole of 
humanity, I wished to remake it afresh myself and in my own 
manner.


I did not then think like that, but the germs of these 
thoughts were already in me.  I understood, in the first place, 
that my position with Schopenhauer and Solomon, notwithstanding 
our wisdom, was stupid:  we see that life is an evil and yet 
continue to live.  That is evidently stupid, for if life is 
senseless and I am so fond of what is reasonable, it should be 
destroyed, and then there would be no one to challenge it.  
Secondly, I understood that all one's reasonings turned in a 
vicious circle like a wheel out of gear with its pinion.  However 
much and however well we may reason we cannot obtain a reply to 
the question; and o will always equal o, and therefore our path 
is probably erroneous.  Thirdly, I began to understand that in 
the replies given by faith is stored up the deepest human wisdom 
and that I had no right to deny them on the ground of reason, and 
that those answers are the only ones which reply to life's 
question.


	X

I understood this, but it made matters no better for me.  I 
was now ready to accept any faith if only it did not demand of me 
a direct denial of reason -- which would be a falsehood.  And I 
studied Buddhism and Mohammedanism from books, and most of all I 
studied Christianity both from books and from the people around 
me.

Naturally I first of all turned to the orthodox of my 
circle, to people who were learned:  to Church theologians, 
monks, to theologians of the newest shade, and even to 
Evangelicals who profess salvation by belief in the Redemption.  
And I seized on these believers and questioned them as to their 
beliefs and their understanding of the meaning of life.

But though I made all possible concessions, and avoided all 
disputes, I could not accept the faith of these people.  I saw 
that what they gave out as their faith did not explain the 
meaning of life but obscured it, and that they themselves affirm 
their belief not to answer that question of life which brought me 
to faith, but for some other aims alien to me.

I remember the painful feeling of fear of being thrown back 
into my former state of despair, after the hope I often and often 
experienced in my intercourse with these people.

The more fully they explained to me their doctrines, the 
more clearly did I perceive their error and realized that my hope 
of finding in their belief an explanation of the meaning of life 
was vain.

It was not that in their doctrines they mixed many 
unnecessary and unreasonable things with the Christian truths 
that had always been near to me: that was not what repelled me.  
I was repelled by the fact that these people's lives were like my 
own, with only this difference -- that such a life did not 
correspond to the principles they expounded in their teachings.  
I clearly felt that they deceived themselves and that they, like 
myself found no other meaning in life than to live while life 
lasts, taking all one's hands can seize.  I saw this because if 
they had had a meaning which destroyed the fear of loss, 
suffering, and death, they would not have feared these things.  
But they, these believers of our circle, just like myself, living 
in sufficiency and superfluity, tried to increase or preserve 
them, feared privations, suffering, and death, and just like 
myself and all of us unbelievers, lived to satisfy their desires, 
and lived just as badly, if not worse, than the unbelievers.


No arguments could convince me of the truth of their faith. 
 Only deeds which showed that they saw a meaning in life making 
what was so dreadful to me -- poverty, sickness, and death -- not 
dreadful to them, could convince me.  And such deeds I did not 
see among the various believers in our circle.  On the contrary, 
I saw such deeds done [Footnote: this passage is noteworthy as 
being one of the few references made by Tolstoy at this period to 
the revolutionary or "Back-to-the-People" movement, in which many 
young men and women were risking and sacrificing home, property, 
and life itself from motives which had much in common with his 
own perception that the upper layers of Society are parasitic and 
prey on the vitals of the people who support them. -- A.M.] by 
people of our circle who were the most unbelieving, but never by 
our so-called believers.

And I understood that the belief of these people was not the 
faith I sought, and that their faith is not a real faith but an 
Epicurean consolation in life.

I understood that that faith may perhaps serve, if not for a 
consolation at least for some distraction for a repentant Solomon 
on his death-bed, but it cannot serve for the great majority of 
mankind, who are called on not to amuse themselves while 
consuming the labour of others but to create life.

For all humanity to be able to live, and continue to live 
attributing a meaning to life, they, those milliards, must have a 
different, a real, knowledge of faith.  Indeed, it was not the 
fact that we, with Solomon and Schopenhauer, did not kill 
ourselves that convinced me of the existence of faith, but the 
fact that those milliards of people have lived and are living, 
and have borne Solomon and us on the current of their lives.


And I began to draw near to the believers among the poor, 
simple, unlettered folk: pilgrims, monks, sectarians, and 
peasants.  The faith of these common people was the same 
Christian faith as was professed by the pseudo-believers of our 
circle.  Among them, too, I found a great deal of superstition 
mixed with the Christian truths; but the difference was that the 
superstitions of the believers of our circle were quite 
unnecessary to them and were not in conformity with their lives, 
being merely a kind of Epicurean diversion; but the superstitions 
of the believers among the labouring masses conformed so with 
their lives that it was impossible to imagine them to oneself 
without those superstitions, which were a necessary condition of 
their life.  the whole life of believers in our circle was a 
contradiction of their faith, but the whole life of the working-
folk believers was a confirmation of the meaning of life which 
their faith gave them.  And I began to look well into the life 
and faith of these people, and the more I considered it the more 
I became convinced that they have a real faith which is a 
necessity to them and alone gives their life a meaning and makes 
it possible for them to live.  In contrast with what I had seen 
in our circle -- where life without faith is possible and where 
hardly one in a thousand acknowledges himself to be a believer -- 
among them there is hardly one unbeliever in a thousand.  In 
contrast with what I had seen in our circle, where the whole of 
life is passed in idleness, amusement, and dissatisfaction, I saw 
that the whole life of these people was passed in heavy labour, 
and that they were content with life.  In contradistinction to 
the way in which people of our circle oppose fate and complain of 
it on account of deprivations and sufferings, these people 
accepted illness and sorrow without any perplexity or opposition, 
and with a quiet and firm conviction that all is good.  In 
contradistinction to us, who the wiser we are the less we 
understand the meaning of life, and see some evil irony in the 
fact that we suffer and die, these folk live and suffer, and they 
approach death and suffering with tranquillity and in most cases 
gladly.  In contrast to the fact that a tranquil death, a death 
without horror and despair, is a very rare exception in our 
circle, a troubled, rebellious, and unhappy death is the rarest 
exception among the people.  and such people, lacking all that 
for us and for Solomon is the only good of life and yet 
experiencing the greatest happiness, are a great multitude.  I 
looked more widely around me.  I considered the life of the 
enormous mass of the people in the past and the present.  And of 
such people, understanding the meaning of life and able to live 
and to die, I saw not two or three, or tens, but hundreds, 
thousands, and millions.  and they all -- endlessly different in 
their manners, minds, education, and position, as they were -- 
all alike, in complete contrast to my ignorance, knew the meaning 
of life and death, laboured quietly, endured deprivations and 
sufferings, and lived and died seeing therein not vanity but 
good.

And I learnt to love these people.  The more I came to know 
their life, the life of those who are living and of others who 
are dead of whom I read and heard, the more I loved them and the 
easier it became for me to live.  So I went on for about two 
years, and a change took place in me which had long been 
preparing and the promise of which had always been in me.  It 
came about that the life of our circle, the rich and learned, not 
merely became distasteful to me, but lost all meaning in my eyes. 
 All our actions, discussions, science and art, presented itself 
to me in a new light.  I understood that it is all merely self-
indulgence, and the to find a meaning in it is impossible; while 
the life of the whole labouring people, the whole of mankind who 
produce life, appeared to me in its true significance.  I 
understood that *that* is life itself, and that the meaning given 
to that life is true: and I accepted it.


	XI


And remembering how those very beliefs had repelled me and 
had seemed meaningless when professed by people whose lives 
conflicted with them, and how these same beliefs attracted me and 
seemed reasonable when I saw that people lived in accord with 
them, I understood why I had then rejected those beliefs and 
found them meaningless, yet now accepted them and found them full 
of meaning.  I understood that I had erred, and why I erred.  I 
had erred not so much because I thought incorrectly as because I 
lived badly.  I understood that it was not an error in my thought 
that had hid truth from me as much as my life itself in the 
exceptional conditions of Epicurean gratification of desires in 
which I passed it.  I understood that my question as to what my 
life is, and the answer -- and evil -- was quite correct.  The 
only mistake was that the answer referred only to my life, while 
I had referred it to life in general.  I asked myself what my 
life is, and got the reply: An evil and an absurdity.  and really 
my life -- a life of indulgence of desires -- was senseless and 
evil, and therefore the reply, "Life is evil and an absurdity", 
referred only to my life, but not to human life in general.  I 
understood the truth which I afterwards found in the Gospels, 
"that men loved darkness rather than the light, for their works 
were evil.  For everyone that doeth ill hateth the light, and 
cometh not to the light, lest his works should be reproved."  I 
perceived that to understand the meaning of life it is necessary 
first that life should not be meaningless and evil, then we can 
apply reason to explain it.  I understood why I had so long 
wandered round so evident a truth, and that if one is to think 
and speak of the life of mankind, one must think and speak of 
that life and not of the life of some of life's parasites.  That 
truth was always as true as that two and two are four, but I had 
not acknowledged it, because on admitting two and two to be four 
I had also to admit that I was bad; and to feel myself to be good 
was for me more important and necessary than for two and two to 
be four.  I came to love good people, hated myself, and confessed 
the truth.  Now all became clear to me.

What if an executioner passing his whole life in torturing 
people and cutting off their heads, or a hopeless drunkard, or a 
madman settled for life in a dark room which he has fouled and 
imagines that he would perish if he left -- what if he asked 
himself: "What is life?"  Evidently he could not other reply to 
that question than that life is the greatest evil, and the 
madman's answer would be perfectly correct, but only as applied 
to himself.  What if I am such a madman?  What if all we rich and 
leisured people are such madmen? and I understood that we really 
are such madmen.  I at any rate was certainly such.


And indeed a bird is so made that it must fly, collect food, 
and build a nest, and when I see that a bird does this I have 
pleasure in its joy.  A goat, a hare, and a wolf are so made that 
they must feed themselves, and must breed and feed their family, 
and when they do so I feel firmly assured that they are happy and 
that their life is a reasonable one.  then what should a man do? 
 He too should produce his living as the animals do, but with 
this difference, that he will perish if he does it alone; he must 
obtain it not for himself but for all.  And when he does that, I 
have a firm assurance that he is happy and that his life is 
reasonable.  But what had I done during the whole thirty years of 
my responsible life?  Far from producing sustenance for all, I 
did not even produce it for myself.  I lived as a parasite, and 
on asking myself, what is the use of my life? I got the reply: 
"No use."  If the meaning of human life lies in supporting it, 
how could I -- who for thirty years had been engaged not on 
supporting life but on destroying it in myself and in others -- 
how could I obtain any other answer than that my life was 
senseless and an evil? ... It was both senseless and evil.

The life of the world endures by someone's will -- by the 
life of the whole world and by our lives someone fulfills his 
purpose.  To hope to understand the meaning of that will one must 
first perform it by doing what is wanted of us.  But if I will 
not do what is wanted of me, I shall never understand what is 
wanted of me, and still less what is wanted of us all and of the 
whole world.

If a naked, hungry beggar has been taken from the cross-
roads, brought into a building belonging to a beautiful 
establishment, fed, supplied with drink, and obliged to move a 
handle up and down, evidently, before discussing why he was 
taken, why he should move the handle, and whether the whole 
establishment is reasonably arranged -- the begger should first 
of all move the handle.  If he moves the handle he will 
understand that it works a pump, that the pump draws water and 
that the water irrigates the garden beds; then he will be taken 
from the pumping station to another place where he will gather 
fruits and will enter into the joy of his master, and, passing 
from lower to higher work, will understand more and more of the 
arrangements of the establishment, and taking part in it will 
never think of asking why he is there, and will certainly not 
reproach the master.

So those who do his will, the simple, unlearned working 
folk, whom we regard as cattle, do not reproach the master; but 
we, the wise, eat the master's food but do not do what the master 
wishes, and instead of doing it sit in a circle and discuss: "Why 
should that handle be moved?  Isn't it stupid?"  So we have 
decided.  We have decided that the master is stupid, or does not 
exist, and that we are wise, only we feel that we are quite 
useless and that we must somehow do away with ourselves.


	XII


The consciousness of the error in reasonable knowledge 
helped me to free myself from the temptation of idle 
ratiocination.  the conviction that knowledge of truth can only 
be found by living led me to doubt the rightness of my life; but 
I was saved only by the fact that I was able to tear myself from 
my exclusiveness and to see the real life of the plain working 
people, and to understand that it alone is real life.  I 
understood that if I wish to understand life and its meaning, I 
must not live the life of a parasite, but must live a real life, 
and -- taking the meaning given to live by real humanity and 
merging myself in that life -- verify it.

During that time this is what happened to me.  During that 
whole year, when I was asking myself almost every moment whether 
I should not end matters with a noose or a bullet -- all that 
time, together with the course of thought and observation about 
which I have spoken, my heart was oppressed with a painful 
feeling, which I can only describe as a search for God.

I say that that search for God was not reasoning, but a 
feeling, because that search proceeded not from the course of my 
thoughts -- it was even directly contrary to them -- but 
proceeded from the heart. It was a feeling of fear, orphanage, 
isolation in a strange land, and a hope of help from someone.

Though I was quite convinced of the impossibility of proving 
the existence of a Deity (Kant had shown, and I quite understood 
him, that it could not be proved), I yet sought for god, hoped 
that I should find Him, and from old habit addressed prayers to 
that which I sought but had not found.  I went over in my mind 
the arguments of Kant and Schopenhauer showing the impossibility 
of proving the existence of a God, and I began to verify those 
arguments and to refute them.  Cause, said I to myself, is not a 
category of thought such as are Time and Space.  If I exist, 
there must be some cause for it, and a cause of causes.  And that 
first cause of all is what men have called "God".  And I paused 
on that thought, and tried with all my being to recognize the 
presence of that cause.  And as soon as I acknowledged that there 
is a force in whose power I am, I at once felt that I could live. 
 But I asked myself: What is that cause, that force?  How am I to 
think of it?  What are my relations to that which I call "God"?  
And only the familiar replies occurred to me:  "He is the Creator 
and Preserver."  This reply did not satisfy me, and I felt I was 
losing within me what I needed for my life.  I became terrified 
and began to pray to Him whom I sought, that He should help me.  
But the more I prayed the more apparent it became to me that He 
did not hear me, and that there was no one to whom to address 
myself.  And with despair in my heart that there is no God at 
all, I said:  "Lord, have mercy, save me!  Lord, teach me!"  But 
no one had mercy on me, and I felt that my life was coming to a 
standstill.

But again and again, from various sides, I returned to the 
same conclusion that I could not have come into the world without 
any cause or reason or meaning; I could not be such a fledgling 
fallen from its nest as I felt myself to be.  Or, granting that I 
be such, lying on my back crying in the high grass, even then I 
cry because I know that a mother has borne me within her, has 
hatched me, warmed me, fed me, and loved me.  Where is she -- 
that mother?  If I have been deserted, who has deserted me?  I 
cannot hide from myself that someone bored me, loving me.  Who 
was that someone?  Again "God"?  He knows and sees my searching, 
my despair, and my struggle."


"He exists," said I to myself.  And I had only for an 
instant to admit that, and at once life rose within me, and I 
felt the possibility and joy of being.  But again, from the 
admission of the existence of a God I went on to seek my relation 
with Him; and again I imagined *that* God -- our Creator in Three 
Persons who sent His Son, the Saviour -- and again *that* God, 
detached from the world and from me, melted like a block of ice, 
melted before my eyes, and again nothing remained, and again the 
spring of life dried up within me, and I despaired and felt that 
I had nothing to do but to kill myself.  And the worst of all 
was, that I felt I could not do it.

Not twice or three times, but tens and hundreds of times, I 
reached those conditions, first of joy and animation, and then of 
despair and consciousness of the impossibility of living.

I remember that it was in early spring: I was alone in the 
wood listening to its sounds.  I listened and thought ever of the 
same thing, as I had constantly done during those last three 
years.  I was again seeking God.

"Very well, there is no God," said I to myself; "there is no 
one who is not my imagination but a reality like my whole life.  
 He does not exist, and no miracles can prove His existence, 
because the miracles would be my imagination, besides being 
irrational.

"But my *perception* of God, of Him whom I seek," I asked 
myself, "where has that perception come from?"  And again at this 
thought the glad waves of life rose within me.  All that was 
around me came to life and received a meaning.  But my joy did 
not last long.  My mind continued its work.

"The conception of God is not God," said I to myself.  "The 
conception is what takes place within me.  The conception of God 
is something I can evoke or can refrain from evoking in myself.  
That is not what I seek.  I seek that without which there can be 
no life."  And again all around me and within me began to die, 
and again I wished to kill myself.

But then I turned my gaze upon myself, on what went on 
within me, and I remembered all those cessations of life and 
reanimations that recurred within me hundreds of times.  I 
remembered that I only lived at those times when I believed in 
God.  As it was before, so it was now; I need only be aware of 
God to live; I need only forget Him, or disbelieve Him, and I 
died.

What is this animation and dying?  I do not live when I lose 
belief in the existence of God.  I should long ago have killed 
myself had I not had a dim hope of finding Him.  I live, really 
live, only when I feel Him and seek Him.  "What more do you 
seek?" exclaimed a voice within me.  "This is He.  He is that 
without which one cannot live.  To know God and to live is one 
and the same thing.  God is life."

"Live seeking God, and then you will not live without God." 
 And more than ever before, all within me and around me lit up, 
and the light did not again abandon me.


And I was saved from suicide.  When and how this change 
occurred I could not say.  As imperceptibly and gradually the 
force of life in me had been destroyed and I had reached the 
impossibility of living, a cessation of life and the necessity of 
suicide, so imperceptibly and gradually did that force of life 
return to me.  And strange to say the strength of life which 
returned to me was not new, but quite old -- the same that had 
borne me along in my earliest days.

I quite returned to what belonged to my earliest childhood 
and youth.  I returned to the belief in that Will which produced 
me and desires something of me.  I returned to the belief that 
the chief and only aim of my life is to be better, i.e. to live 
in accord with that Will.  and I returned to the belief that I 
can find the expression of that Will in what humanity, in the 
distant past hidden from, has produced for its guidance:  that is 
to say, I returned to a belief in God, in moral perfection, and 
in a tradition transmitting the meaning of life.  There was only 
this difference, that then all this was accepted unconsciously, 
while now I knew that without it I could not live.

What happened to me was something like this:  I was put into 
a boat (I do not remember when) and pushed off from an unknown 
shore, shown the direction of the opposite shore, had oars put 
into my unpractised hands, and was left alone.  I rowed as best I 
could and moved forward; but the further I advanced towards the 
middle of the stream the more rapid grew the current bearing me 
away from my goal and the more frequently did I encounter others, 
like myself, borne away by the stream.  There were a few rowers 
who continued to row, there were others who had abandoned their 
oars; there were large boats and immense vessels full of people. 
 Some struggled against the current, others yielded to it.  And 
the further I went the more, seeing the progress down the current 
of all those who were adrift, I forgot the direction given me.  
In the very centre of the stream, amid the crowd of boats and 
vessels which were being borne down stream, I quite lost my 
direction and abandoned my oars.  Around me on all sides, with 
mirth and rejoicing, people with sails and oars were borne down 
the stream, assuring me and each other that no other direction 
was possible.  And I believed them and floated with them.  And I 
was carried far; so far that I heard the roar of the rapids in 
which I must be shattered, and I saw boats shattered in them.  
And I recollected myself.  I was long unable to understand what 
had happened to me.  I saw before me nothing but destruction, 
towards which I was rushing and which I feared.  I saw no safety 
anywhere and did not know what to do; but, looking back, I 
perceived innumerable boats which unceasingly and strenuously 
pushed across the stream, and I remembered about the shore, the 
oars, and the direction, and began to pull back upwards against 
the stream and towards the whore.

That shore was God; that direction was tradition; the oars 
were the freedom given me to pull for the shore and unite with 
God.  And so the force of life was renewed in me and I again 
began to live.


	XIII

I turned from the life of our circle, acknowledging that 
ours is not life but a simulation of life -- that the conditions 
of superfluity in which we live deprive us of the possibility of 
understanding life, and that in order to understand life I must 
understand not an exceptional life such as our who are parasites 
on life, but the life of the simple labouring folk -- those who 
make life -- and the meaning which they attribute to it.  The 
simplest labouring people around me were the Russian people, and 
I turned to them and to the meaning of life which they give.  
That meaning, if one can put it into words, was as follows:  
Every man has come into this world by the will of God.  And God 
has so made man that every man can destroy his soul or save it.  
The aim of man in life is to save his soul, and to save his soul 
he must live "godly" and to live "godly" he must renounce all the 
pleasures of life, must labour, humble himself, suffer, and be 
merciful.  That meaning the people obtain from the whole teaching 
of faith transmitted to them by their pastors and by the 
traditions that live among the people.  This meaning was clear to 
me and near to my heart.  But together with this meaning of the 
popular faith of our non-sectarian folk, among whom I live, much 
was inseparably bound up that revolted me and seemed to me 
inexplicable: sacraments, Church services, fasts, and the 
adoration of relics and icons.  The people cannot separate the 
one from the other, nor could I.  And strange as much of what 
entered into the faith of these people was to me, I accepted 
everything, and attended the services, knelt morning and evening 
in prayer, fasted, and prepared to receive the Eucharist: and at 
first my reason did not resist anything.  The very things that 
had formerly seemed to me impossible did not now evoke in me any 
opposition.

My relations to faith before and after were quite different. 
Formerly life itself seemed to me full of meaning and faith 
presented itself as the arbitrary assertion of propositions to me 
quite unnecessary, unreasonable, and disconnected from life.  I 
then asked myself what meaning those propositions had and, 
convinced that they had none, I rejected them.  Now on the 
contrary I knew firmly that my life otherwise has, and can have, 
no meaning, and the articles of faith were far from presenting 
themselves to me as unnecessary --  on the contrary I had been 
led by indubitable experience to the conviction that only these 
propositions presented by faith give life a meaning.  formerly I 
looked on them as on some quite unnecessary gibberish, but now, 
if I did not understand them, I yet knew that they had a meaning, 
and I said to myself that I must learn to understand them.


I argued as follows, telling myself that the knowledge of 
faith flows, like all humanity with its reason, from a mysterious 
source.  That source is God, the origin both of the human body 
and the human reason.  As my body has descended to me from God, 
so also has my reason and my understanding of life, and 
consequently the various stages of the development of that 
understanding of life cannot be false.  All that people sincerely 
believe in must be true; it may be differently expressed but it 
cannot be a lie, and therefore if it presents itself to me as a 
lie, that only means that I have not understood it.  Furthermore 
I said to myself, the essence of every faith consists in its 
giving life a meaning which death does not destroy.  Naturally 
for a faith to be able to reply to the questions of a king dying 
in luxury, of an old slave tormented by overwork, of an 
unreasoning child, of a wise old man, of a half-witted old woman, 
of a young and happy wife, of a youth tormented by passions, of 
all people in the most varied conditions of life and education -- 
if there is one reply to the one eternal question of life:  "Why 
do I live and what will result from my life?" -- the reply, 
though one in its essence, must be endlessly varied in its 
presentation; and the more it is one, the more true and profound 
it is, the more strange and deformed must it naturally appear in 
its attempted expression, conformably to the education and 
position of each person.  But this argument, justifying in my 
eyes the queerness of much on the ritual side of religion, did 
not suffice to allow me in the one great affair of life -- 
religion -- to do things which seemed to me questionable.  With 
all my soul I wished to be in a position to mingle with the 
people, fulfilling the ritual side of their religion; but I could 
not do it.  I felt that I should lie to myself and mock at what 
was sacred to me, were I to do so.  At this point, however, our 
new Russian theological writers came to my rescue.

According to the explanation these theologians gave, the 
fundamental dogma of our faith is the infallibility of the 
Church.  From the admission of that dogma follows inevitably the 
truth of all that is professed by the Church.  The Church as an 
assembly of true believers united by love and therefore possessed 
of true knowledge became the basis of my belief.  I told myself 
that divine truth cannot be accessible to a separate individual; 
it is revealed only to the whole assembly of people united by 
love.  To attain truth one must not separate, and in order not to 
separate one must love and must endure things one may not agree 
with.

Truth reveals itself to love, and if you do not submit to 
the rites of the Church you transgress against love; and by 
transgressing against love you deprive yourself of the 
possibility of recognizing the truth.  I did not then see the 
sophistry contained in this argument.  I did not see that union 
in love may give the greatest love, but certainly cannot give us 
divine truth expressed in the definite words of the Nicene Creed. 
I also did not perceive that love cannot make a certain 
expression of truth an obligatory condition of union.  I did not 
then see these mistakes in the argument and thanks to it was able 
to accept and perform all the rites of the Orthodox Church 
without understanding most of them.  I then tried with all 
strength of my soul to avoid all arguments and contradictions, 
and tried to explain as reasonably as possible the Church 
statements I encountered.


When fulfilling the rites of the Church I humbled my reason 
and submitted to the tradition possessed by all humanity.  I 
united myself with my forefathers: the father, mother, and 
grandparents I loved. They and all my predecessors believed and 
lived, and they produced me.  I united myself also with the 
missions of the common people whom I respected.  Moveover, those 
actions had nothing bad in themselves ("bad" I considered the 
indulgence of one's desires).  When rising early for Church 
services I knew I was doing well, if only because I was 
sacrificing my bodily ease to humble my mental pride, for the 
sake of union with my ancestors and contemporaries, and for the 
sake of finding the meaning of life.  It was the same with my 
preparations to receive Communion, and with the daily reading of 
prayers with genuflections, and also with the observance of all 
the fasts.  However insignificant these sacrifices might be I 
made them for the sake of something good.  I fasted, prepared for 
Communion, and observed the fixed hours of prayer at home and in 
church.  During Church service I attended to every word, and gave 
them a meaning whenever I could.  In the Mass the most important 
words for me were: "Let us love one another in conformity!"  The 
further words, "In unity we believe in the Father, the Son, and 
Holy Ghost", I passed by, because I could not understand them.


	XIV

In was then so necessary for me to believe in order to live 
that I unconsciously concealed from myself the contradictions and 
obscurities of theology.  but this reading of meanings into the 
rites had its limits.  If the chief words in the prayer for the 
Emperor became more and more clear to me, if I found some 
explanation for the words "and remembering our Sovereign Most-
Holy Mother of God and all the Saints, ourselves and one another, 
we give our whole life to Christ our God", if I explained to 
myself the frequent repetition of prayers for the Tsar and his 
relations by the fact that they are more exposed to temptations 
than other people and therefore are more in need of being prayed 
for -- the prayers about subduing our enemies and evil under our 
feet (even if one tried to say that *sin* was the enemy prayed 
against), these and other prayers, such as the "cherubic song" 
and the whole sacrament of oblation, or "the chosen Warriors", 
etc. -- quite two-thirds of all the services -- either remained 
completely incomprehensible or, when I forced an explanation into 
them, made me feel that I was lying, thereby quite destroying my 
relation to God and depriving me of all possibility of belief.


I felt the same about the celebration of the chief holidays. 
 To remember the Sabbath, that is to devote one day to God, was 
something I could understand.  But the chief holiday was in 
commemoration of the Resurrection, the reality of which I could 
not picture to myself or understand.  And that name of 
"Resurrection" was also given the weekly holiday.   [Footnote: In 
Russia Sunday was called Resurrection-day. -- A. M.]  And on 
those days the Sacrament of the Eucharist was administered, which 
was quite unintelligible to me.  The rest of the twelve great 
holidays, except Christmas, commemorated miracles -- the things I 
tried not to think about in order not to deny: the Ascension, 
Pentecost, Epiphany, the Feast of the Intercession of the Holy 
Virgin, etc.  At the celebration of these holidays, feeling that 
importance was being attributed to the very things that to me 
presented a negative importance, I either devised tranquillizing 
explanations or shut my eyes in order not to see what tempted me.

Most of all this happened to me when taking part in the most 
usual Sacraments, which are considered the most important: 
baptism and communion.  There I encountered not incomprehensible 
but fully comprehensible doings: doings which seemed to me to 
lead into temptation, and I was in a dilemma -- whether to lie or 
to reject them.

Never shall I forge the painful feeling I experienced the 
day I received the Eucharist for the first time after many years. 
The service, confession, and prayers were quite intelligible and 
produced in me a glad consciousness that the meaning of life was 
being revealed to me.  The Communion itself I explained as an act 
performed in remembrance of Christ, and indicating a purification 
from sin and the full acceptance of Christ's teaching.  If that 
explanation was artificial I did not notice its artificiality: so 
happy was I at humbling and abasing myself before the priest -- a 
simple, timid country clergyman -- turning all the dirt out of my 
soul and confessing my vices, so glad was I to merge in thought 
with the humility of the fathers who wrote the prayers of the 
office, so glad was I of union with all who have believed and now 
believe, that I did not notice the artificiality of my 
explanation.  But when I approached the altar gates, and the 
priest made me say that I believed that what I was about to 
swallow was truly flesh and blood, I felt a pain in my heart: it 
was not merely a false note, it was a cruel demand made by 
someone or other who evidently had never known what faith is.

I now permit myself to say that it was a cruel demand, but I 
did not then think so: only it was indescribably painful to me.  
I was no longer in the position in which I had been in youth when 
I thought all in life was clear; I had indeed come to faith 
because, apart from faith, I had found nothing, certainly 
nothing, except destruction; therefore to throw away that faith 
was impossible and I submitted.  And I found in my soul a feeling 
which helped me to endure it.  This was the feeling of self-
abasement and humility.  I humbled myself, swallowed that flesh 
and blood without any blasphemous feelings and with a wish to 
believe.  But the blow had been struck and, knowing what awaited 
me, I could not go a second time.


I continued to fulfil the rites of the Church and still 
believed that the doctrine I was following contained the truth, 
when something happened to me which I now understand but which 
then seemed strange.

I was listening to the conversation of an illiterate 
peasant, a pilgrim, about God, faith, life, and salvation, when a 
knowledge of faith revealed itself to me.  I drew near to the 
people, listening to their opinions of life and faith, and I 
understood the truth more and more.  So also was it when I read 
the Lives of Holy men, which became my favourite books.  Putting 
aside the miracles and regarding them as fables illustrating 
thoughts, this reading revealed to me life's meaning.  There were 
the lives of Makarius the Great, the story of Buddha, there were 
the words of St. John Chrysostom, and there were the stories of 
the traveller in the well, the monk who found some gold, and of 
Peter the publican.  There were stories of the martyrs, all 
announcing that death does not exclude life, and there were the 
stories of ignorant, stupid men, who knew nothing of the teaching 
of the Church but who yet were saves.

But as soon as I met learned believers or took up their 
books, doubt of myself, dissatisfaction, and exasperated 
disputation were roused within me, and I felt that the more I 
entered into the meaning of these men's speech, the more I went 
astray from truth and approached an abyss.


	XV

How often I envied the peasants their illiteracy and lack of 
learning!  Those statements in the creeds which to me were 
evident absurdities, for them contained nothing false; they could 
accept them and could believe in the truth -- the truth I 
believed in.  Only to me, unhappy man, was it clear that with 
truth falsehood was interwoven by finest threads, and that I 
could not accept it in that form.

So I lived for about three years.  At first, when I was only 
slightly associated with truth as a catechumen and was only 
scenting out what seemed to me clearest, these encounters struck 
me less.  When I did not understand anything, I said, "It is my 
fault, I am sinful";  but the more I became imbued with the 
truths I was learning, the more they became the basis of my life, 
the more oppressive and the more painful became these encounters 
and the sharper became the line between what I do not understand 
because I am not able to understand it, and what cannot be 
understood except by lying to oneself.


In spite of my doubts and sufferings I still clung to the 
Orthodox Church.  But questions of life arose which had to be 
decided; and the decision of these questions by the Church -- 
contrary to the very bases of the belief by which I lived -- 
obliged me at last to renounce communion with Orthodoxy as 
impossible.  These questions were:  first the relation of the 
Orthodox Eastern Church to other Churches -- to the Catholics and 
to the so-called sectarians.  At that time, in consequence of my 
interest in religion, I came into touch with believers of various 
faiths:  Catholics, protestants, Old-Believers, Molokans 
[Footnote:  A sect that rejects sacraments and ritual.],  and 
others.  And I met among them many men of lofty morals who were 
truly religious.  I wished to be a brother to them.  And what 
happened?  That teaching which promised to unite all in one faith 
and love -- that very teaching, in the person of its best 
representatives, told me that these men were all living a lie; 
that what gave them their power of life was a temptation of the 
devil; and that we alone possess the only possible truth.  And I 
saw that all who do not profess an identical faith with 
themselves are considered by the Orthodox to be heretics, just as 
the Catholics and others consider the Orthodox to be heretics.  
And i saw that the Orthodox (though they try to hide this) regard 
with hostility all who do not express their faith by the same 
external symbols and words as themselves; and this is naturally 
so; first, because the assertion that you are in falsehood and I 
am in truth, is the most cruel thing one man can say to another; 
and secondly, because a man loving his children and brothers 
cannot help being hostile to those who wish to pervert his 
children and brothers to a false belief.  And that hostility is 
increased in proportion to one's greater knowledge of theology.  
And to me who considered that truth lay in union by love, it 
became self-evident that theology was itself destroying what it 
ought to produce.


This offence is so obvious to us educated people who have 
lived in countries where various religions are professed and have 
seen the contempt, self-assurance, and invincible contradiction 
with which Catholics behave to the Orthodox Greeks and to the 
Protestants, and the Orthodox to Catholics and Protestants, and 
the Protestants to the two others, and the similar attitude of 
Old-Believers, Pashkovites (Russian Evangelicals), Shakers, and 
all religions -- that the very obviousness of the temptation at 
first perplexes us.  One says to oneself: it is impossible that 
it is so simple and that people do not see that if two assertions 
are mutually contradictory, then neither of them has the sole 
truth which faith should possess.  There is something else here, 
there must be some explanation.  I thought there was, and sought 
that explanation and read all I could on the subject, and 
consulted all whom I could.  And no one gave me any explanation, 
except the one which causes the Sumsky Hussars to consider the 
Sumsky Hussars the best regiment in the world, and the Yellow 
Uhlans to consider that the best regiment in the world is the 
Yellow Uhlans.  The ecclesiastics of all the different creeds, 
through their best representatives, told me nothing but that they 
believed themselves to have the truth and the others to be in 
error, and that all they could do was to pray for them.  I went 
to archimandrites, bishops, elders, monks of the strictest 
orders, and asked them; but none of them made any attempt to 
explain the matter to me except one man, who explained it all and 
explained it so that I never asked any one any more about it.  I 
said that for every unbeliever turning to a belief (and all our 
young generation are in a position to do so) the question that 
presents itself first is, why is truth not in Lutheranism nor in 
Catholicism, but in Orthodoxy?  Educated in the high school he 
cannot help knowing what the peasants do not know -- that the 
Protestants and Catholics equally affirm that their faith is the 
only true one.  Historical evidence, twisted by each religion in 
its own favour, is insufficient.  Is it not possible, said I, to 
understand the teaching in a loftier way, so that from its height 
the differences should disappear, as they do for one who believes 
truly?  Can we not go further along a path like the one we are 
following with the Old-Believers?  They emphasize the fact that 
they have a differently shaped cross and different alleluias and 
a different procession round the altar.  We reply:  You believe 
in the Nicene Creed, in the seven sacraments, and so do we.  Let 
us hold to that, and in other matters do as you pease.  We have 
united with them by placing the essentials of faith above the 
unessentials.  Now with the Catholics can we not say:  You 
believe in so and so and in so and so, which are the chief 
things, and as for the Filioque clause and the Pope -- do as you 
please.  Can we not say the same to the Protestants, uniting with 
them in what is most important?

My interlocutor agreed with my thoughts, but told me that 
such conceptions would bring reproach o the spiritual authorities 
for deserting the faith of our forefathers, and this would 
produce a schism; and the vocation of the spiritual authorities 
is to safeguard in all its purity the Greco-Russian Orthodox 
faith inherited from our forefathers.

And I understood it all.  I am seeking a faith, the power of 
life; and they are seeking the best way to fulfil in the eyes of 
men certain human obligations.  and fulfilling these human 
affairs they fulfil them in a human way.  However much they may 
talk of their pity for their erring brethren, and of addressing 
prayers for them to the throne of the Almighty -- to carry out 
human purposes violence is necessary, and it has always been 
applied and is and will be applied.  If of two religions each 
considers itself true and the other false, then men desiring to 
attract others to the truth will preach their own doctrine.  And 
if a false teaching is preached to the inexperienced sons of 
their Church -- which as the truth -- then that Church cannot but 
burn the books and remove the man who is misleading its sons.  
What is to be done with a sectarian -- burning, in the opinion of 
the Orthodox, with the fire of false doctrine -- who in the most 
important affair of life, in faith, misleads the sons of the 
Church?  What can be done with him except to cut off his head or 
to incarcerate him?  Under the Tsar Alexis Mikhaylovich people 
were burned at the stake, that is to say, the severest method of 
punishment of the time was applied, and in our day also the 
severest method of punishment is applied -- detention in solitary 
confinement.  [Footnote:  At the time this was written capital 
punishment was considered to be abolished in Russia. -- A.M.] 


The second relation of the Church to a question of life was 
with regard to war and executions.

At that time Russia was at war.  And Russians, in the name 
of Christian love, began to kill their fellow men.  It was 
impossible not to think about this, and not to see that killing 
is an evil repugnant to the first principles of any faith.  Yet 
prayers were said in the churches for the success of our arms, 
and the teachers of the Faith acknowledged killing to be an act 
resulting from the Faith.  And besides the murders during the 
war, I saw, during the disturbances which followed the war, 
Church dignitaries and teachers and monks of the lesser and 
stricter orders who approved the killing of helpless, erring 
youths.  And I took note of all that is done by men who profess 
Christianity, and I was horrified.


	XVI

And I ceased to doubt, and became fully convinced that not 
all was true in the religion I had joined.  Formerly I should 
have said that it was all false, but I could not say so now.  The 
whole of the people possessed a knowledge of the truth, for 
otherwise they could not have lived.  Moreover, that knowledge 
was accessible to me, for I had felt it and had lived by it.  But 
I no longer doubted that there was also falsehood in it.  And all 
that had previously repelled me now presented itself vividly 
before me.  And though I saw that among the peasants there was a 
smaller admixture of the lies that  repelled me than among the 
representatives of the Church, I still saw that in the people's 
belief also falsehood was mingled with the truth.

But where did the truth and where did the falsehood come 
from?  Both the falsehood and the truth were contained in the so-
called holy tradition and in the Scriptures.  Both the falsehood 
and the truth had been handed down by what is called the Church.

And whether I liked or not, I was brought to the study and 
investigation of these writings and traditions -- which till now 
I had been so afraid to investigate.


And I turned to the examination of that same theology which 
I had once rejected with such contempt as unnecessary.  Formerly 
it seemed to me a series of unnecessary absurdities, when on all 
sides I was surrounded by manifestations of life which seemed to 
me clear and full of sense; now I should have been glad to throw 
away what would not enter a health head, but I had nowhere to 
turn to.  On this teaching religious doctrine rests, or at least 
with it the only knowledge of the meaning of life that I have 
found is inseparably connected.  However wild it may seem too my 
firm old mind, it was the only hope of salvation.  It had to be 
carefully, attentively examined in order to understand it, and 
not even to understand it as I understand the propositions of 
science:  I do not seek that, nor can I seek it, knowing the 
special character of religious knowledge.  I shall not seek the 
explanation of everything.  I know that the explanation of 
everything, like the commencement of everything, must be 
concealed in infinity.  But I wish to understand in a way which 
will bring me to what is inevitably inexplicable.  I wish to 
recognize anything that is inexplicable as being so not because 
the demands of my reason are wrong (they are right, and apart 
from them I can understand nothing), but because I recognize the 
limits of my intellect.  I wish to understand in such a way that 
everything that is inexplicable shall present itself to me as 
being necessarily inexplicable, and not as being something I am 
under an arbitrary obligation to believe.

That there is truth in the teaching is to me indubitable, 
but it is also certain that there is falsehood in it, and I must 
find what is true and what is false, and must disentangle the one 
from the other.  I am setting to work upon this task.  What of 
falsehood I have found in the teaching and what I have found of 
truth, and to what conclusions I came, will form the following 
parts of this work, which if it be worth it and if anyone wants 
it, will probably some day be printed somewhere.

1879.

The foregoing was written by me some three years ago, and 
will be printed.

Now a few days ago, when revising it and returning to the 
line of thought and to the feelings I had when I was living 
through it all, I had a dream.  This dream expressed in condensed 
form all that I had experienced and described, and I think 
therefore that, for those who have understood me, a description 
of this dream will refresh and elucidate and unify what has been 
set forth at such length in the foregoing pages.  The dream was 
this:


I saw that I was lying on a bed.  I was neither comfortable 
nor uncomfortable: I was lying on my back.  But I began to 
consider how, and on what, I was lying -- a question which had 
not till then occurred to me.  And observing my bed, I saw I was 
lying on plaited string supports attached to its sides: my feet 
were resting on one such support, by calves on another, and my 
legs felt uncomfortable.  I seemed to know that those supports 
were movable, and with a movement of my foot I pushed away the 
furthest of them at my feet -- it seemed to me that it would be 
more comfortable so.  But I pushed it away too far and wished to 
reach it again with my foot, and that movement caused the next 
support under my calves to slip away also, so that my legs hung 
in the air.  I made a movement with my whole body to adjust 
myself, fully convinced that I could do so at once; but the 
movement caused the other supports under me to slip and to become 
entangled, and I saw that matters were going quite wrong: the 
whole of the lower part of my body slipped and hung down, though 
my feet did not reach the ground.  I was holding on only by the 
upper part of my back, and not only did it become uncomfortable 
but I was even frightened.  And then only did I ask myself about 
something that had not before occurred to me.  I asked myself:  
Where am I and what am I lying on? and I began to look around and 
first of all to look down in the direction which my body was 
hanging and whiter I felt I must soon fall.  I looked down and 
did not believe my eyes.  I was not only at a height comparable 
to the height of the highest towers or mountains, but at a height 
such as I could never have imagined.

I could not even make out whether I saw anything there 
below, in that bottomless abyss over which I was hanging and 
whiter I was being drawn.  My heart contracted, and I experienced 
horror.  To look thither was terrible.  If I looked thither I 
felt that I should at once slip from the last support and perish. 
 And I did not look.  But not to look was still worse, for I 
thought of what would happen to me directly I fell from the last 
support.  And I felt that from fear I was losing my last 
supports, and that my back was slowly slipping lower and lower.  
Another moment and I should drop off.  And then it occurred to me 
that this cannot e real.  It is a dream.  Wake up! I try to 
arouse myself but cannot do so.  What am I to do?  What am I to 
do?  I ask myself, and look upwards.  Above, there is also an 
infinite space.  I look into the immensity of sky and try to 
forget about the immensity below, and I really do forget it.  The 
immensity below repels and frightens me; the immensity above 
attracts and strengthens me.  I am still supported above the 
abyss by the last supports that have not yet slipped from under 
me; I know that I am hanging, but I look only upwards and my fear 
passes.  As happens in dreams, a voice says: "Notice this, this 
is it!"  And I look more and more into the infinite above me and 
feel that I am becoming calm.  I remember all that has happened, 
and remember how it all happened; how I moved my legs, how I hung 
down, how frightened I was, and how I was saved from fear by 
looking upwards.  And I ask myself: Well, and now am I not 
hanging just the same?  And I do not so much look round as 
experience with my whole body the point of support on which I am 
held.  I see that I no longer hang as if about to fall, but am 
firmly held.  I ask myself how I am held: I feel about, look 
round, and see that under me, under the middle of my body, there 
is one support, and that when I look upwards I lie on it in the 
position of securest balance, and that it alone gave me support 
before.  And then, as happens in dreams, I imagined the mechanism 
by means of which I was held; a very natural intelligible, and 
sure means, though to one awake that mechanism has no sense.  I 
was even surprised in my dream that I had not understood it 
sooner.  It appeared that at my head there was a pillar, and the 
security of that slender pillar was undoubted though there was 
nothing to support it.  From the pillar a loop hung very 
ingeniously and yet simply, and if one lay with the middle of 
one's body in that loop and looked up, there could be no question 
of falling.  This was all clear to me, and I was glad and 
tranquil.  And it seemed as if someone said to me:  "See that you 
remember."

And I awoke.
1882.

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