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To penetrate its mysteries and appreciate its charms； conscientious
application is required； and as with every path of knowledge； the way
is thorny and forbidding at the outset。 The great pleasures of
humanity are hedged about with formidable obstacles； not its single
enjoyments； but enjoyment as a system； a system which establishes
seldom experienced sensations and makes them habitual； which
concentrates and multiplies them for us； creating a dramatic life
within our life； and imperatively demanding a prompt and enormous
expenditure of vitality。 War； Power； Art； like Debauch； are all forms
of demoralization； equally remote from the faculties of humanity；
equally profound； and all are alike difficult of access。 But when man
has once stormed the heights of these grand mysteries； does he not
walk in another world？ Are not generals； ministers； and artists
carried； more or less； towards destruction by the need of violent
distractions in an existence so remote from ordinary life as theirs？
〃War； after all； is the Excess of bloodshed； as the Excess of self…
interest produces Politics。 Excesses of every sort are brothers。 These
social enormities possess the attraction of the abyss； they draw
towards themselves as St。 Helena beckoned Napoleon； we are fascinated；
our heads swim； we wish to sound their depths though we cannot account
for the wish。 Perhaps the thought of Infinity dwells in these
precipices； perhaps they contain some colossal flattery for the soul
of man； for is he not； then； wholly absorbed in himself？
〃The wearied artist needs a complete contrast to his paradise of
imaginings and of studious hours； he either craves； like God； the
seventh day of rest； or with Satan； the pleasures of hell； so that his
senses may have free play in opposition to the employment of his
faculties。 Byron could never have taken for his relaxation to the
independent gentleman's delights of boston and gossip； for he was a
poet； and so must needs pit Greece against Mahmoud。
〃In war； is not man an angel of extirpation； a sort of executioner on
a gigantic scale？ Must not the spell be strong indeed that makes us
undergo such horrid sufferings so hostile to our weak frames；
sufferings that encircle every strong passion with a hedge of thorns？
The tobacco smoker is seized with convulsions； and goes through a kind
of agony consequent upon his excesses； but has he not borne a part in
delightful festivals in realms unknown？ Has Europe ever ceased from
wars？ She has never given herself time to wipe the stains from her
feet that are steeped in blood to the ankle。 Mankind at large is
carried away by fits of intoxication； as nature has its accessions of
love。
〃For men in private life； for a vegetating Mirabeau dreaming of storms
in a time of calm； Excess comprises all things； it perpetually
embraces the whole sum of life； it is something better stillit is a
duel with an antagonist of unknown power； a monster； terrible at first
sight； that must be seized by the horns； a labor that cannot be
imagined。
〃Suppose that nature has endowed you with a feeble stomach or one of
limited capacity； you acquire a mastery over it and improve it； you
learn to carry your liquor； you grow accustomed to being drunk； you
pass whole nights without sleep； at last you acquire the constitution
of a colonel of cuirassiers； and in this way you create yourself
afresh； as if to fly in the face of Providence。
〃A man transformed after this sort is like a neophyte who has at last
become a veteran； has accustomed his mind to shot and shell and his
legs to lengthy marches。 When the monster's hold on him is still
uncertain； and it is not yet known which will have the better of it；
they roll over and over； alternately victor and vanquished； in a world
where everything is wonderful； where every ache of the soul is laid to
sleep； where only the shadows of ideas are revived。
〃This furious struggle has already become a necessity for us。 The
prodigal has struck a bargain for all the enjoyments with which life
teems abundantly； at the price of his own death； like the mythical
persons in legends who sold themselves to the devil for the power of
doing evil。 For them； instead of flowing quietly on in its monotonous
course in the depths of some counting…house or study； life is poured
out in a boiling torrent。
〃Excess is； in short； for the body what the mystic's ecstasy is for
the soul。 Intoxication steeps you in fantastic imaginings every whit
as strange as those of ecstatics。 You know hours as full of rapture as
a young girl's dreams； you travel without fatigue； you chat pleasantly
with your friends； words come to you with a whole life in each； and
fresh pleasures without regrets； poems are set forth for you in a few
brief phrases。 The coarse animal satisfaction； in which science has
tried to find a soul； is followed by the enchanted drowsiness that men
sigh for under the burden of consciousness。 Is it not because they all
feel the need of absolute repose？ Because Excess is a sort of toll
that genius pays to pain？
〃Look at all great men； nature made them pleasure…loving or base；
every one。 Some mocking or jealous power corrupted them in either soul
or body； so as to make all their powers futile； and their efforts of
no avail。
〃All men and all things appear before you in the guise you choose； in
those hours when wine has sway。 You are lord of all creation； you
transform it at your pleasure。 And throughout this unceasing delirium；
Play may pour； at your will； its molten lead into your veins。
〃Some day you will fall into the monster's power。 Then you will have；
as I had； a frenzied awakening； with impotence sitting by your pillow。
Are you an old soldier？ Phthisis attacks you。 A diplomatist？ An
aneurism hangs death in your heart by a thread。 It will perhaps be
consumption that will cry out to me； 'Let us be going！' as to Raphael
of Urbino； in old time； killed by an excess of love。
〃In this way I have existed。 I was launched into the world too early
or too late。 My energy would have been dangerous there； no doubt； if I
had not have squandered it in such ways as these。 Was not the world
rid of an Alexander； by the cup of Hercules； at the close of a
drinking bout？
〃There are some； the sport of Destiny； who must either have heaven or
hell； the hospice of St。 Bernard or riotous excess。 Only just now I
lacked the heart to moralize about those two；〃 and he pointed to
Euphrasia and Aquilina。 〃They are types of my own personal history；
images of my life！ I could scarcely reproach them； they stood before
me like judges。
〃In the midst of this drama that I was enacting； and while my
distracting disorder was at its height； two crises supervened； each
brought me keen and abundant pangs。 The first came a few days after I
had flung myself； like Sardanapalus； on my pyre。 I met Foedora under
the peristyle of the Bouffons。 We both were waiting for our carria