Lost Love

How often I marvel at myself! And how quickly this amazement turns into mockery at first, then pity and compassion! Whenever something strange or familiar presents itself to me, I attempt to uncover its origin and trace it back to its cause. I may achieve what I desire and be satisfied; this is rare. Sometimes I fail to provide a reason or explanation, and become discontented; this is common. In any case, I mock myself for this disease, from which I find no cure: the disease of seeking causes and resorting to sources and reasons.
People say that we, the French, are a nation sick with reasoning and analysis, and that our philosopher Descartes corrupted our minds by his insistence on analyzing and reasoning, and by our intense fascination with his analysis and reasoning, to the point that we have all become philosophers or philosopher-like. The learned among us, the ignorant, the cultured among us, the naive, have adopted the form of the philosopher who is not satisfied or reassured unless he traces everything back to its origins and finds an explanation or interpretation for it. This is most likely true. When we, the French, encounter problems or are beset by events, we don’t focus on solving them or getting rid of them. Rather, we are primarily concerned with interpreting and explaining them. If we achieve what we desire, we are satisfied, our hearts are reassured, and we submit to fate. This can distract us from seeking a way out of the troubles or crises that befall us.