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First
of
all
,
Bergson
is
right
.
Life
can
not
be
explained
in
intellectual
terms
.
As
Confucius
said
long
ago
:
"
When
we
are
so
ignorant
of
life
,
can
we
know
death
?
"
And
ignorant
of
life
we
truly
are
when
we
can
not
explain
it
in
terms
of
the
understanding
.
We
know
life
only
phenomenally
,
as
a
savage
may
know
a
dynamo
;
but
we
know
nothing
of
life
noumenonally
,
nothing
of
the
nature
of
the
intrinsic
stuff
of
life
.
Secondly
,
Marinetti
is
wrong
when
he
claims
that
matter
is
the
only
mystery
and
the
only
reality
.
I
say
and
as
you
,
my
reader
,
realize
,
I
speak
with
authority
--
I
say
that
matter
is
the
only
illusion
.
Comte
called
the
world
,
which
is
tantamount
to
matter
,
the
great
fetich
,
and
I
agree
with
Comte
.
It
is
life
that
is
the
reality
and
the
mystery
.
Life
is
vastly
different
from
mere
chemic
matter
fluxing
in
high
modes
of
notion
.
Life
persists
.
Life
is
the
thread
of
fire
that
persists
through
all
the
modes
of
matter
.
I
know
.
I
am
life
.
I
have
lived
ten
thousand
generations
.
I
have
lived
millions
of
years
.
I
have
possessed
many
bodies
.
I
,
the
possessor
of
these
many
bodies
,
have
persisted
.
I
am
life
.
I
am
the
unquenched
spark
ever
flashing
and
astonishing
the
face
of
time
,
ever
working
my
will
and
wreaking
my
passion
on
the
cloddy
aggregates
of
matter
,
called
bodies
,
which
I
have
transiently
inhabited
.
For
look
you
.
This
finger
of
mine
,
so
quick
with
sensation
,
so
subtle
to
feel
,
so
delicate
in
its
multifarious
dexterities
,
so
firm
and
strong
to
crook
and
bend
or
stiffen
by
means
of
cunning
leverages
--
this
finger
is
not
I.
Cut
it
off
.
I
live
.
The
body
is
mutilated
.
I
am
not
mutilated
.
The
spirit
that
is
I
is
whole
.
Very
well
.
Cut
off
all
my
fingers
.
I
am
I
.
The
spirit
is
entire
.
Cut
off
both
hands
.
Cut
off
both
arms
at
the
shoulder-sockets
.
Cut
off
both
legs
at
the
hip-sockets
.
And
I
,
the
unconquerable
and
indestructible
I
,
survive
.
Am
I
any
the
less
for
these
mutilations
,
for
these
subtractions
of
the
flesh
?
Certainly
not
.
Clip
my
hair
.
Shave
from
me
with
sharp
razors
my
lips
,
my
nose
,
my
ears
--
ay
,
and
tear
out
the
eyes
of
me
by
the
roots
;
and
there
,
mewed
in
that
featureless
skull
that
is
attached
to
a
hacked
and
mangled
torso
,
there
in
that
cell
of
the
chemic
flesh
,
will
still
be
I
,
unmutilated
,
undiminished
.
Oh
,
the
heart
still
beats
.
Very
well
.
Cut
out
the
heart
,
or
,
better
,
fling
the
flesh-remnant
into
a
machine
of
a
thousand
blades
and
make
mincemeat
of
it
--
and
I
,
I
,
do
n't
you
understand
,
all
the
spirit
and
the
mystery
and
the
vital
fire
and
life
of
me
,
am
off
and
away
.
I
have
not
perished
.
Only
the
body
has
perished
,
and
the
body
is
not
I.
I
believe
Colonel
de
Rochas
was
correct
when
he
asserted
that
under
the
compulsion
of
his
will
he
sent
the
girl
Josephine
,
while
she
was
in
hypnotic
trance
,
back
through
the
eighteen
years
she
had
lived
,
back
through
the
silence
and
the
dark
ere
she
had
been
born
,
back
to
the
light
of
a
previous
living
when
she
was
a
bedridden
old
man
,
the
ex-artilleryman
,
Jean-Claude
Bourdon
.
And
I
believe
that
Colonel
de
Rochas
did
truly
hypnotize
this
resurrected
shade
of
the
old
man
and
,
by
compulsion
of
will
,
send
him
back
through
the
seventy
years
of
his
life
,
back
into
the
dark
and
through
the
dark
into
the
light
of
day
when
he
had
been
the
wicked
old
woman
,
Philomène
Carteron
.
Already
,
have
I
not
shown
you
,
my
reader
,
that
in
previous
times
,
inhabiting
various
cloddy
aggregates
of
matter
,
I
have
been
Count
Guillaume
de
Sainte-Maure
,
a
mangy
and
nameless
hermit
of
Egypt
,
and
the
boy
Jesse
,
whose
father
was
captain
of
forty
wagons
in
the
great
westward
emigration
.
And
,
also
,
am
I
not
now
,
as
I
write
these
lines
,
Darrell
Sanding
,
under
sentence
of
death
in
Folsom
Prison
and
one
time
professor
of
agronomy
in
the
College
of
Agriculture
of
the
University
of
California
?
Matter
is
the
great
illusion
.
That
is
,
matter
manifests
itself
in
form
,
and
form
is
apparitional
.
Where
,
now
,
are
the
crumbling
rock-cliffs
of
old
Egypt
where
once
I
laired
me
like
a
wild
beast
while
I
dreamed
of
the
City
of
God
?
Where
,
now
,
is
the
body
of
Guillaume
de
Sainte-Maure
that
was
thrust
through
on
the
moonlit
grass
so
long
ago
by
the
flame-headed
Guy
de
Villehardouin
?
Where
,
now
,
are
the
forty
great
wagons
in
the
circle
at
Nephi
,
and
all
the
men
and
women
and
children
and
lean
cattle
that
sheltered
inside
that
circle
?
All
such
things
no
longer
are
,
for
they
were
forms
,
manifestations
of
fluxing
matter
ere
they
melted
into
the
flux
again
.
They
have
passed
and
are
not
.
