the death-brew with their honeyed rhetoric, which would have been
found out and rejected by every conscience with disgust, if it had not
been for their falsehoods....

"The blood of my son is on my head," said Clerambault sadly. "The
death of the youth of Europe, in all countries, lies at the door of
European thought. It has been everywhere a servant to the hangman."

Perrotin leaned over and took Clerambault's hand. "My poor friend,"
said he, "you make too much of this. No doubt you are right to
acknowledge the errors of judgment into which you have been drawn by
public opinion, and I may confess to you now that I was sorry to see
it; but you are wrong to ascribe to yourself and other thinkers so
much responsibility for the events of today. One man speaks, another
acts; but the speakers do not move the others to action; they are all
drifting with the tide. This unfortunate European thought is a bit of
drift-wood like the rest, it does not make the current, it is carried
along by it."

"It persuades people to yield to it," said Clerambault, "instead of
helping the swimmers, and bidding them struggle against it; it
says: Let yourself go.... No, my friend, do not try to diminish its
responsibility, it is the greatest of all. Our thought had the best
place from which to see; its business was to keep watch, and if it saw
nothing, it was through lack of good-will, for it cannot lay the blame
on its eyes, which are clear enough. You know it and so do I, now that
I have come to my senses. The same intelligence which darkened my
eyes, has now torn away the bandage; how can it be, at the same time,
a power for truth and for falsehood?"