I
THE HOPE OF HAPPINESS
I
It was necessary for me to pass middle age in order to become convinced
that happiness was the object of my life, as it is the object of all
humanity, as it is the object of the whole world of living things.
At first sight, that statement seems self-evident. And yet many a time
have I questioned my friends, my relatives, my chance companions on
this subject and I have received the most contradictory replies.
Many seemed taken unawares and, overwhelmed with their various
burdens, would not trouble to seek an object: they were in pursuit of
happiness without naming it. Others, excited by the play of argument,
acknowledged as the object of life all sorts of states or manners
of being which are nothing but steps toward happiness, means good
or bad of seeking it, such as movement, stoical indifference, or
prayer. Others confused the end with the object and named death. Still
others, maddened by their misery, gave it as their bitter conclusion
that unhappiness is the actual destiny of man, and these confused the
obstacle with the aim. Finally, there were some who gave to happiness
names dictated by their aspirations, their culture, their accustomed
manner of using words, and called it God, or eternal life, or the
salvation of the soul.
As for me, in spite of all, I am sure that happiness is the object of
life. This certitude has come to me altogether from within, not from
outside events, and not from the spectacle of other men. Like all the
certitudes of the inner life, it is obstinate and even aggressive.
All objections seem simply made to fortify it. It dominates them
all. I have not been able even to imagine a new certitude that could
invalidate or replace this one.
Upon reflection, the path and the end are identical. Happiness is not
only the aim, the reason of life, it is its means, its expression, its
essence. It is life itself.