The Day After Death; Or, Our Future Life According to Science (New Edition)Figuier, Louis
Religion
The Day After Death; Or, Our Future Life According to Science (New Edition)
Figuier, Louis
Cosmology; Future life; Transmigration
Why are we on the earth? We did not ask to be placed there, we did
not express a wish to be born. If we had been consulted, we should
probably have objected to coming into this world at all, or at least
we should have wished to appear there at some other epoch. We should
probably have asked to be permitted to sojourn in some other planet
than the Earth. Our globe is, indeed, a very disagreeable habitation.
In consequence of its inclination on its axis, climate is very
unpleasantly distributed. Either we must succumb to cold, if we are not
artificially protected against it, or we must be terribly incommoded
with heat. Regarded from the moral point of view, the conditions of
humanity are very sad. Evil predominates in the world; vice is held
almost everywhere in honour, and virtue is so ill-treated, that to be
honest is, in this life, to be tolerably certain of evil fortune. Our
affections are causes of anguish and tears. If, for a while, we enjoy
the happiness of paternity, of love, of friendship, it is only to
see the objects of our love torn from us by death, or separated from
us by the accidents of a miserable life. The organs given us to be
exercised in this life are heavy, coarse, subject to maladies. We are
nailed to the earth, and our heavy mass can be moved only by fatiguing
exertion. If there are men of powerful organization, gifted with a good
constitution and robust health, how many are there who are infirm,
idiots, deaf and dumb, blind from their birth, ricketty, and mad! My
brother is handsome and well made, and I am ugly, feeble, ricketty,
and hump-backed; nevertheless, we are both sons of the same mother.
Some are born in opulence, others in the most hideous destitution.
Why am I not a prince and a great lord, instead of being a poor toiler
of the rebellious and ungrateful earth? Why was I born in Europe and
in France, where, by means of art and civilization, life is rendered
easy and endurable, instead of being born under the burning skies of
the tropics, where, with a bestial snout, a black and oily skin, and
woolly hair, I should have been exposed to the double torments of a
deadly climate and social barbarism? Why is not one of the unfortunate
African negroes in my place, comfortable and well off? We have done
nothing, he and I, that our respective places on the earth should have
been assigned to us. I have not merited the favour, he has not incurred
the disgrace. What is the cause of this unequal division of frightful
evils which fall heavily upon certain persons, and spare others? How
have they who live in happy countries deserved this partiality of fate,
while so many of their brethren are suffering and weeping in other
regions of the world?
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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