now-a-days; they are printed at Paris, one of the metropolises of
thought!

Mark well whereabouts we are. We must admit--what? that all is true.
But, if all is true, there is nothing true, just as if all is good,
there is nothing good. There are thoughts in men's heads; to make
history of them is an agreeable pastime; but there is no truth. We must
not say that two contradictory propositions are equally true; that
would be to make use of the old notion of truth; we must say that they
are, and that is all about it. The night is approaching, the sun of
intelligence is sinking towards the horizon, and thick vapors are
obscuring its setting. But wait!

If the Humanity-God is always right, it must be that two contradictory
propositions can be true at the same time, since contradictions abound
in the history of human thoughts. If two contradictory propositions can
be true, there is no more truth. What then is our reason, of which truth
is the object? We are seized with giddiness. Might not everything in the
world be illusion? and myself--? Listen to a voice which reaches us,
across the ages, from the countries crowned by the Himalayas. "Nothing
exists.... By the study of first principles, one acquires this
knowledge, absolute, incontestable, comprehensible to the intelligence
alone: I neither am, nor does anything which is mine, nor do I myself,
exist."[156] What is there beneath these strange lines? The feeling of
giddiness, which seeks to steady itself by language. Here is now the
modern echo of these ancient words. One of those writers who accept all,
in the hope of understanding all, describes himself as having come at
last to be aware that he is "only one of the most fugitive illusions in
the bosom of the infinite illusion." One of his colleagues expresses
himself on this subject as follows: "Is this the last word of all?--And