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Towards the heights (2) Nada Brahma

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"Thus Montaigne did not, indeed, what is called a biography. He never offended anyone, because he does not put forward, it was not seeking audience or approval. Seen from outside, it seemed to be a citizen servant, a husband, a Catholic, a man who quietly paid tribute to the world. He took to his entourage, the mask of the cancellation, to let grow itself in all its nuances, the play of colors of his soul, and contemplate. He was at all times, willing to lend, to give, never. Always, whatever his lifestyle, he's being kept for himself the truest and best. He let others talk, bunch up, angry, preach and show off, he gave the world its paths run disordered and mad, and was concerned only one thing: be reasonable for himself, in an era inhumane human, free amid the madness of the masses. He let those who say, mockingly, accused him of indifference, indecision and cowardice, he let others wonder whether the detached duties and dignities. His close intimate themselves, who knew him, had no idea of perseverance, foresight and flexibility with which, in the shadow of public affairs, he clung to the only goal he had fixed: live his own life, not just live.

Thus, seeming idle, he has accomplished a unique task. By preserving and describing himself himself, he kept him as the man in nuce , human beings pure and timeless. And while all the rest, theological treatises and philosophical digressions of his century now seem strange and anachronistic, it remains our contemporary man of today and always, and his struggle remained the most current of all. Hundred times, opening Montaigne was, from one page to another, printing: nostra res agitur , printing here is thought better than I could tell myself, everything that currently occupies the depths of my soul. Here is a You, in which my ego is reflected here is abolished the distance between a time from each other. This is not a book I hold in my hand, it is not literature, philosophy, but I am a man whose brother, a man who counsels me, comforts me, a man I understand and who understands me. When I take in hand the Tests , printed paper disappears into the darkness of the room. Someone breathes, someone saw me, a stranger came to me, and it is no longer a stranger, but someone that I feel as close a friend. Four hundred years have gone up in flames: that's not the Lord who speaks to me of Montaigne, the "gentleman of the chamber" of a now defunct King of France, the lord of the Perigord, he left the white pleated skirt The pointy hat and sword he removed from his neck the glorious chain of the Order of St. Michael. This is not the mayor of Bordeaux, who is visiting me, it's not even the writer. A friend came to advise me and tell me about him. Sometimes his voice leaves drill an inexpressible sadness at the fragility of our human condition, the inadequacy of our reason, the narrow views of our leaders, the absurdity and cruelty of our times, this noble sadness that Shakespeare knew his pupil print, memorable way, to those of his characters who were dearest to him: Hamlet, Brutus, Prospero. But soon, I see his smile again: why do you take it all so seriously? Why do you let yourself be affected and overwhelmed by the absurdity and brutality of the times in which you live? All this only scratches your skin, without reaching your inner self. The exterior can not remove anything from you and can not trouble you, as you do not let yourself trouble. The events of your time are powerless against you since you refuse to take part, and dementia of the time is not a real danger as long as you retain your own clarity of your mind. And even the most adverse of your adventures, apparent humiliation, the blows of fate, you do feel that if you are weak before them, for which, if not you, assigns value to things and weight, joy and pain? Nothing can lower or raise your ego, if not yourself, the more pressure outside itself is easily overcome by those who remain inwardly free and safe. Still, even more so when the peace of mind and freedom of the individual are threatened, speech and the wise encouragement of Montaigne are a blessing, because nothing protects us more than the sincerity and humanity in times confusion and disunity. Always and at any moment what he said centuries ago remain valid and true for one who strives for independence. But more than anyone else, we owe our gratitude to those who reinforce in us the sense of humanity in an inhuman time as ours, those who urge us not to abandon what we own, what we can not lose our deepest selves. Because only one that remains free of any and all increases and preserves freedom on earth. "

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Stefan Zweig, Montaigne (1941), PUF, 1982, pp. 26-29.
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While in exile in Petropolis, Brazil, Zweig despairs of the collapse of Europe that has known and loved. He finds solace in reading Essays of Montaigne and write a biography Personal latter. From side to side, the text bears the questions of the exile on his own now. Zweig has failed to achieve freedom and temperance of its model Montaigne, he committed suicide with his wife in February 1942.
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