_Mean_. For many reasons. First, because I cannot tolerate deceit and dissimulation. I may sometimes have to give way to these in conversation, but never in my writings; because I am often obliged to speak unwillingly, but I never write unless I please. I should derive no satisfaction from puzzling my brains, and expressing the result on paper, unless I could write what I really think. All sensible people laugh at those who now-a-days write Latin, because no one speaks, and few understand, the language. I think it is equally absurd to take for granted, whether in conversation or writing, the reality of certain human qualities no longer extant, and the existence of certain rational beings, formerly considered as divinities, but now really regarded as non-existent equally by those who mention them, and those who hear them mentioned. I could understand men using masks and disguises in order to deceive other men, or to avoid being recognised. But it seems childish for them all to conceal themselves behind the same kind of mask, and use the same disguise, whereby they deceive no one, but recognise each other perfectly, in spite of it. Let them lay aside their masks, and retain merely their clothes. The effect will be precisely the same, and they will be more at ease. Besides, this perpetual simulation, though useless, and this eternal acting of a part between which and oneself there is nothing in common, cannot be carried on without fatigue and weariness. If men had passed suddenly, instead of gradually, from the savage condition to their present state of civilisation, would the names of the things just mentioned be found in general usage, with the custom of deducing from them a thousand philosophical conclusions? In truth, this custom seems to me like one of those ceremonies and ancient practices so incompatible with our present habits, which nevertheless continue to exist by force of usage. I for my part cannot submit to these ceremonies; and I write in the language of modern times, not that of the Trojan era. In the second place, I do not so much, in my writings, find fault with the human race, as grieve over its destiny. There is nothing I think more clear and palpable than the necessary unhappiness of all living beings. If this unhappiness be not a fact, then all my arguments are wrong, and we may abandon the discussion. If it be true, why may I not lament openly and freely, and say that I suffer? Doubtless, if I did nothing but weep incessantly (this is the third cause which moves me), I should become a nuisance to others as well as myself, without profiting any one. But in laughing at our misfortunes, we do much to remedy them. I endeavour therefore to persuade others to profit in this way, as I have done. Whether I succeed or not, I feel assured that such laughter is the only solace and remedy that can be found. The poets say that despair has always a smile on its lips.