Then, like a man who during a long illness suddenly appears to recover for a moment and glow with renewed hope, Zweig carried Montaigne up from the cellar, and without delay set out to tell the world why this incomparable man of letters, four centuries dead, mattered now in moral terms and how in an intolerable period of history. Montaigne showed better than anyone else that one could remain free.
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Crucially, it was Montaigne who "assisted" Zweig's suicide, particularly through the essay "A Custom of the Isle of Cea", whose principal theme is the question of willed death, the idea that it is more noble for a man of ideals to depart voluntarily when life becomes unbearable than to remain alive at all costs.
The most just death is that which is most willed. Our lives depend on the will of others, but death on ourselves alone. There is nothing to which we should apply ourselves more than this. Reputation has no place here and it is folly to think of it. Life is servitude if we lack the freedom to die.
Montaigne by Stephan Zweig.
I am writing this in 2021 - There is no human I admire more than this five hundred century-old Montaigne. Not only admire him but I consider him as my closest friend. My teacher. A guide. An inspiration.
I have written a lot on this blog on the importance of changing one's mind. No human did that better than Montaigne:
Like a river, all flows over him, leaving nothing behind: no deep conviction, no solid opinion, nothing fixed, nothing stable.
This weakness, which Montaigne endlessly bemoans, is in fact his strength. An inability to remain fixed at a certain point allows him always to go further. With him, nothing is ever set in stone. He never stops at the boundary of past experiences; he does not rest on his empiricism; he amasses no capital; before properly consuming them his spirit must acquire experiences over and again. So his life becomes an operation of perpetual renewal: "Unremittingly we begin our lives anew." The truth that he finds may in the coming months or even the coming years be truths no more. He must be forever searching. Thus is born a multitude of contradictions. Now he appears an Epicurean, now a Stoic, now a skeptic. He is at one and the same time all and nothing, always different and yet ever the same, the Montaigne of 1550, 1560, 1570, 1580, the Montaigne of yesterday.
Stephan Zweig went through so much in life and finally, he discovered Montaigne towards the end of his life. Before he committed suicide, he wrote this book.
Only he whose soul is in turmoil, forced to live in an epoch where war, violence, and ideological tyranny threaten the life of every individual, and the most precious substance in that life, the freedom of the soul, can know how much courage, sincerity and resolve are required to remain faithful to his inner self in these times of the herd's rampancy. Only he knows that no task on earth is more burdensome and difficult than to maintain one's intellectual and moral independence and preserve it unsullied through a mass cataclysm. Only once he has endured the necessary doubt and despair within himself can the individual play an exemplary role in standing form amidst the world's pandemonium.
Only a seasoned man who has tested himself can appreciate the true worth of Montaigne, and I count myself one of them.
I rest my case. If you haven't reached out to Montaigne yet (via his writings), please do so. Life as you know will change for good.
In his thirty-eighth year, Montaigne enters retirement. He no longer wishes to serve anyone but himself. He is weary of politics, of public life and business affairs. It is a moment of disillusionment. In his social prestige, in his position in life, he is inferior to his father. He has been a worse civil servant, worse husband a worse custodian. What exactly is he then? He has the sense that up to this moment in his life has been a sham; he yearns to live properly, to reflect deeply, and ruminate. And it is among his books he hopes to find the solution to the eternal problem of "life and death".
For him this farewell must be more than just a farewell to duties. It is a rejection of the exterior world. Until now he has lived for others - now he wants to live for himself alone. Until now he has done what is occupation, the court, his father demanded of him, now he wants to do only what is pleasurable to the self. When he wanted to help, he achieved nothing; when he aspired to something, they barred his way; when he sought to counsel, they ignored his advice. He has amassed experience, now he wants to establish their meaning and harvest their flowering. Michel de Montaigne has lived thirty-eight years on earth; now Michel de Montaigne wants to know: "Who exactly is this Michel de Montaigne?"
Max came into my life when I was 31. Within few months, I discovered that my life until that point was pointless. Thirty-One years filled with vanity. Years filled with dancing to the tune of society. In John Gray's words, I was a Marionette. Max helped me see that before I know Montaigne. Later, when I found Montaigne - I found a friend.
Max gave me life and taught me how to live. Montaigne, my friend from five hundred years ago who lived through unbearable barbarism taught me not to kill myself. Through this friend, I saw my life, and the times we live now are a million times better than what it used to be. If Montaigne, my friend could live through brutality and barbarism and not kill himself. Then, I can do so too. And I decided to live after Max. I decided to keep this blog alive too. For that future kid, who might be suffocating with brutality humans unleash and decide to commit suicide. I was lucky to have Max and Montaigne; they rescued me. This blog, a little world of Max will be there after I am gone for someone if they are looking for the courage to live.
Like Shakespeare later, he had seen with an all too clear eye the fragility of everything: "the wantonness of administrative bodies, the debasement of grace and favour, the absurdity of politics, the monotonous tedium of the courts", and above all his own ineffectualness in the world. He had tried to help, but they were indifferent to his approach, yet always with the pride and bearing of a man who knows his own worth he struggled on to counsel the great men, to pacify fanatics, though they were indifferent to him.
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He says to himself what we all say to ourselves in comparable periods of mass insanity: Never mind the world! You cannot change it, or improve anything. Focus on yourself, save in yourself what can be saved. Build as others destroy, strive to remain sane in the deluge of madness. Close yourself off. Construct your own world.
Today while walking in the park, I saw this big tree. Max used to pee on this tree every time we walked. Part of Max is probably still alive in that tree. That tree will still be here when I am gone. That tree is a symbol of thriving under adversity, pandemonium, and all the brutality humans unleash. In few weeks, that tree will have leaves and flowers. It will help birds, insects, and zillion other microbes to thrive. And there will be Neo who will go pee there. There is beauty in that tree. There will be millions of humans who might kill it and burn it for the sheer pleasure of drinking under fire or worse, just because it reminds them of some god damn tradition. But yet, there was this dog named Max and a man who adored that tree. The tree doesn't care about them. It lives for the sheer pleasure of life and helping birds, insects, microbes, a dog named Max, and a man.
I learnt to see the world like this through Montaigne. I wish Stephan Zweig saw what I saw in Montaigne and used Montaigne as an inspiration to live. After almost a century, I am reading Stephan Zweig and love what he wrote. I wish he lived longer, not committed suicide and wrote more books.
Thank you Stephan Zweig for writing this book. You have touched my life. Your life wasn't lived in vain. You did have an impact on my life. Thank you.
"He who thinks freely for himself, honours all freedom on earth."
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