And another thing. They say, or rather de facto presuppose as nativum givenum, that each soul is valuable in and of itself. This is the height of inanity! What value could the soul of a killer have? If you find this example extreme, how much value could there really be in the soul of that whole multitude inhabiting the cities as well as the villages, and even in the so-called “ordinary person”—what value could his soul really have? None, I say. Even if the soul really existed, it would resemble everything else we see in nature and the world, which is either well or poorly made, either precious or worthless, with all the levels between them, as between gold and charcoal. The soul of a fool would be exactly as he is—i.e. a foolish soul, while the soul of a thief would be a thieving soul, the soul of a beggar a beggarly soul, and so on and so forth, etc. Ergo, the world would be full of foolish, mediocre, useless, evil souls, which no one has any need or use for and which are simply trash, things to be thrown away. They would be a huge majority, just like the people who have them. Could those clever windbags possibly imagine that all this rabble was created by the God they speak of? This only goes to show what foolish—or perhaps hypocritical and deceitful—souls they themselves have. And just as nature throws away bodies after they die, assimilating them and turning them to dust, so should God throw away those souls, turning them into nothing, as they have no value whatsoever. So nature will reject their bodies and God reject their souls, and that circle in the middle is what they call their life. The rejected ones are bold enough to claim they are God’s creation. It’s laughable! They hardly deserve the majesty of Nature, let alone the God they speak of. In Spain you’ll often hear it said: “I swear on my immortal soul!” Your immortal soul, did you say? It is most likely not worth a thing, my friend, and is entirely superfluous. The whole mistake begins here—they think that the soul is of value, and from there follows an entire series of mistaken conclusions. Whereas in reality, the soul, if it exists, could not possibly be anything particularly special—it would be something like the leaves on the trees, like drops of rain, the stones on the road or the grass in the field. In other words, it would simply be a part and functio of nature, something right alongside the rest, which in no way occupies any special place within the system of nature—as the churchmen and all philosophers since that madman Plato would have you believe—something of no particular significance at all, simply a part of the great natural cycle of creation and destruction as an end in itself. Incidentally, despite the fact that this cycle is repetitive, nothing ever returns, any such claims are empty gibberish. Once you’re gone, that’s the end, it’s over. There is no second time. Because Nature really does revolve, but not around your so-called “soul.” She revolves around her own self.
And Plato really is a madman. A reader need only read his description of life in Athens during the Age of Atlantis to realize that he filled his writings with every more or less coherent fable that occurs to him and that taking his absurdities and ravings seriously constitutes a grave and laughable mistake. If all of his works were to disappear in an instant, this would be no loss whatsoever to humanity. Incidentally, I would argue that it would be no loss whatsoever to humanity even if it itself were to disappear. Humanity is unbreakable, in other words, and that’s precisely what humanism is. Yet Plato did it great harm. He is the source of that utterly mistaken conception of man and his nature, which is also to blame for these meaningless formulations about the soul. I will not enter into detailed discussion of this, etc., suffice to say that from the medical point of view, man is simply a biological species, one of many, with certain abilities that differentiate him from the other animals, yet in general outlines and in his fundamental principles fully sharing their nature, which, by the way, is far more varied than we tend to realize. Although not every humanist would admit it, the truth is that man is simply a pipe—as are all biological species in their essence, with the exception of plants and minerals. Man is one of these creatures. A pipe, through which nature passes—it goes in through one side and out through the other. This is one of the ways Nature keeps herself in circulation, in eternal motion. (I hasten to add, however, that the tempting opposite suggestion, namely that Nature is a pipe through which man passes—going in through one side and out through the other—is not true! In principle, tempting things are not true. The most pitiful things are usually the closest to the truth, etc.) What soul? What immortality? Do they realize what they are saying? Does the pig that they gobble up on Christmas—as if to show through the connection of these two things what profound nonsense has pierced their minds—does the pig, I say, have a soul, and is it immortal? But no, they consider themselves something far more special, something entirely different. Although they themselves may live like swine, and frequently do far more revolting, terrible, and preposterous things than those good-natured animals. And of course, they are far more gluttonous. And incomparably more vain. This is the most terrifying of all the animals, I say, and it is no accident that it rules.
3.
For Having a Good Time
Since I am afraid that the reader may be tired of the medical details with which this work is filled, or at least will be, I intend to cheer him up by telling him the story of my visit with Dr. Monardes to England, whence we went at the invitation of said Señor Frampton. Some time ago, Señor Frampton escaped from Cadiz on one of Dr. Monardes and Nuñez de Herrera’s merchant ships, and since then he has felt enormously in his debt.
We left Cadiz with the caravel Hyguiene on a beautiful summer day. Oceanus Occidentalis lay in front of us, to our right was Costa de la Luz, lit, as always, by the sun.
“The dunces who read Plato have been searching for Atlantis since time immemorial,” Dr. Monardes said, sitting on deck in a wicker chair, his legs crossed on a heap of gaskets, a book in his lap, “while here it is, before their very eyes.”
I looked around: Costa de la Luz, Oceanus Occidentalis, the caravel Hyguiene, Dr. Monardes.
“In what sense?” I said.
“In the sense that I’m talking about Cadiz. The island used to be called Gadeira. And that’s where the name of the town comes from. First, it was Gadir, then Gades, and later it became Cadiz. And now the island is called Isla de Cadiz. This is exactly what is meant. An island beyond the Pillars of Heracles. That is the island of Cadiz.” Noticing my incredulous look, Dr. Monardes said, “This land is very old, Guimarães. Andalusia. People have lived here practically since the world was created. In England, where we are now going, there was only the wind whistling through the hills when people were already living here.”
“Yes, but what kind of people!” I said dismissively. “What were they good for? Nothing! Monkeys, savages!”
“Better monkeys and savages than the wind whistling through your ass, believe you me,” Dr. Monardes objected. “Did you know, my friend, that I’ve found pottery from time immemorial in the yard of one of my houses near the Guadalquivir? Remind me some day to show them to you.”
“Yes, by all means,” I said, with the full knowledge that I was lying. There is hardly anything of less interest to me than pottery from time immemorial. Dr. Monardes, though a great physician, has his own peculiarities, just like every man (but not every man is a great physician).
We traveled in silence for a while, whereupon Dr. Monardes grunted, lifted his eyes from the book he was reading, and said with irritation: “Look what a Northern fool has written here: ‘To laugh often and much; to win the respect of intelligent people and the affection of children; to earn the appreciation of honest critics and endure the betrayal of false friends; to appreciate beauty; to find the best in others; to leave the world a bit better, whether by a healthy child, a garden patch or a redeemed social condition; to know even one life has breathed easier because you have lived. This is to have succeeded.” In the next instant, the doctor abruptly threw the book into the sea with surprising force, shouting after it, “To have succeeded, you fool, means being rich and in perfect health. Rich and healthy! Just that and nothing more. I cannot bear these windbags any longer!” Dr. Monardes turned to me. “They blather pure nonsense to fool themselves and the rest of the world into thinking they are something besides miserable losers, and they call it philosophy.” He turned back towards the sea, adding, “These works deserve to be devoured by fish. Then perhaps some fish will begin speaking wisely.”
I laughed