reached the point at which, worn out by the experience of things,
we ask ourselves if life be worth the living.

Amid the ruins that surround me, one strip of wall remains
standing, immovable upon its solid base: my passion for scientific
truth. Is that enough, O my busy insects, to enable me to add yet
a few seemly pages to your history? Will my strength not cheat my
good intentions? Why, indeed, did I forsake you so long? Friends
have reproached me for it. Ah, tell them, tell those friends, who
are yours as well as mine, tell them that it was not forgetfulness
on my part, not weariness, nor neglect: I thought of you; I was
convinced that the Cerceris [a digger wasp] cave had more fair
secrets to reveal to us, that the chase of the Sphex held fresh
surprises in store. But time failed me; I was alone, deserted,
struggling against misfortune. Before philosophizing, one had to
live. Tell them that; and they will pardon me.

Others again have reproached me with my style, which has not the
solemnity, nay, better, the dryness of the schools. They fear
lest a page that is read without fatigue should not always be the
expression of the truth. Were I to take their word for it, we are
profound only on condition of being obscure. Come here, one and
all of you--you, the sting bearers, and you, the wing-cased armor-
clads--take up my defense and bear witness in my favor. Tell of
the intimate terms on which I live with you, of the patience with
which I observe you, of the care with which I record your actions.
Your evidence is unanimous: yes, my pages, though they bristle not
with hollow formulas nor learned smatterings, are the exact
narrative of facts observed, neither more nor less; and whoever
cares to question you in his turn will, obtain the same replies.