Let man then contemplate the whole of nature in its lofty and full majesty, let him turn his gaze away from the lowly objects that surround him, let him behold that blazing light placed like an eternal lamp to light up the universe, let the earth seem to him but a point compared with the vast orbit that this star describes, and let him marvel that this vast orbit itself is but a very fine point compared with those that the stars rolling in the firmament embrace. But if our view stops there, let the imagination pass beyond: it will sooner weary of conceiving than nature of providing. This whole visible world is but an imperceptible trace within the ample bosom of nature. No idea comes near it. We may enlarge our conceptions beyond all imaginable space, yet we produce only atoms compared with reality. It is an infinite sphere whose centre is everywhere and whose circumference is nowhere. In the end, it is the greatest sensible mark of the almighty power of God that our imagination loses itself in this thought. Let man, returning to himself, consider what he is compared with what exists; let him regard himself as lost in this remote corner of nature, and, from the little dungeon in which he finds himself lodged — I mean the universe — let him learn to set the earth, its kingdoms, its cities, and himself, at their true worth. What is a man in the infinite? But to show him another equally astonishing prodigy, let him search out the most delicate things. For this, let him be given a body of a louse, and let him discover within it, in the complication of its parts and the delicacy of its members, the abysses of the infinite within the infinite — that is, the wonders of smallness, as dazzling as those of greatness. Who will not be astonished that our body, which a moment ago was imperceptible in the universe, itself imperceptible in the bosom of the whole, is now a colossus, a world, or rather a whole, compared with what we can no longer reach? Whoever considers himself in this way will be frightened at himself, and, seeing that this body which holds its place between the masses enveloping it is but an imperceptible speck with regard to the great, but almost an infinity with regard to the small, he will know himself suspended between an abyss and another abyss, made dizzy by the wonder of these two mysteries. For who will not be amazed to see that our knowledge, so feeble, is capable of measuring the globe of the world, and that it can do so with things infinite? All our dignity consists, then, in thought. It is time that I went forward and made known to the world, and to man himself, what he is. Let him esteem himself for what he is, and equally for what he is not, for what he is and what he is not are both of an infinite worth. This is what I wish to give him a glimpse of. For it is a point equally incredible and mysterious to every man to dwell in the same world and yet not to dwell in it. What then is man? A nothing compared with the infinite, a whole compared with the nothing, a midpoint between nothing and everything, infinitely far from understanding either extreme: the end of things and their beginning are for him invincibly hidden in an impenetrable secret; he is equally incapable of seeing the nothing from which he was drawn, and the infinite in which he is swallowed up. What then shall he do, but glimpse some idea of the majesty of God in what he does not comprehend? Man is, among other things, so unhappy a creature that, if there is no kind of beings that knows this, there is nothing so uncertain, nothing so capricious, nothing so vain. For how could he judge that his judgment is sound, since it is so exceedingly limited? The supreme subtlety is to know how much there is of the need not to know. Man is but a reed, the weakest thing in nature, but he is a thinking reed. It is not necessary that the entire universe arm itself to crush him: a vapour, a drop of water suffices to kill him. But even if the universe were to crush him, man would still be nobler than that which kills him, because he knows that he dies, and the advantage the universe has over him — of this the universe knows nothing. All our dignity consists, then, in thought. It is from there that we must rise, not from space and time, which we could never fill. Let us labour, then, to think well: this is the principle of morality. Man is evidently made for thought. It is all his dignity and all his merit, and his whole duty is to think as he ought. Now the order of thought is to begin with oneself, and with one's Author and one's end. But what does the world think about? Never of this, but of dancing, of playing the lute, of singing, of composing verses, of racing, of play, without ever thinking what it means to have, what it means to be a king, what it means to be a man. Vanity is so rooted in man's heart that it produces thousands of creatures; and this knowledge of man's wretchedness, instead of raising him up in the silence of passion and impatience, has lost him his true nature, so that everything has become equally doubtful and uncertain. Man is born to think, but he is not always thinking. Man is full of needs; he loves only those who can satisfy them. Men are valued according to what they are, and loved according to what they seem. This dependence of man's greatness upon man, and of man upon man, is the source of many evils. Know then, proud man, what a paradox you are to yourself. Tremble before the silence of God, and believe that the greatness of man is so great that it is known by his very wretchedness. But what is required is to learn that man passes infinitely beyond man.