Book 1, Chapter 27: Of Friendship (2 of 3)

In this part of the essay Montaigne talks about the dangers of marriage. Then, he goes into intimate detail about his relationship with Etienne, including the heart-warming account of the first time they met.

'in the friendship I speak of, the souls mixed so universally that there is no more sign of the seam by which they were first conjoined'

We can’t compare the love we bear to women to other friendships, even though that too, unlike family relationships, is an act of our own choice. Nonetheless, its fire is more active, more eager, and more sharp. But also, more fickle and inconstant; it is a fever subject to intermissions and fits, and it seizes just one part of us. Friendship’s fire, on the other hand, is general and universal, temperate and equal, a constant established heat. In love, it is frantic desire that flies from us. Aristo writes of the hunter that  pursues the hare, in cold and heat, to the mountain, to the shore, but no longer cares for it once it is taken. He only delights in chasing that which flees from him. 

Fruition destroys love, which has only fleshly motives, and is therefore capable of being satiated. Friendship, on the contrary, is enjoyed proportionately as it is desired; and is only nourished and improved by enjoyment, because it is in itself spiritual, and so, like the soul, it grows more refined by practice. Under this perfect friendship, the other fleeting affections have in my younger years found some place in me, to say nothing of him, who himself so confesses but too much in his verses; so that I had both these passions. But I could always differentiate between them. The two cannot be compared - one maintains its flight in so high and so brave a place, that it can only look down with disdain at the other, flying at a far humbler pitch below. 

Marriage is a covenant to which only the entrance is free. The continuance is forced and compulsory, depending on other things than our own free will, and normally contracted for other motives. In marriage, there are a thousand intricacies to unravel, enough to break the thread and to divert the current of a lively affection. Friendship, however, has no interest but itself. And to be honest, the ordinary talent of women is not such sufficient to maintain the communication required to support this sacred tie. Also, they do not have the constancy of mind, to sustain the pinch of so hard and durable a knot. If there could be free and voluntary familiarity contracted without marriage, where not only the souls might have this entire fruition, but the bodies also might share in the alliance, the friendship would certainly be more full and perfect. But women have not yet arrived at such perfection. 

That other Grecian license (Montaigne appears to be referring to gay sex) is justly abhorred by our manners. And that too, because it is practiced between lovers who are so different in age and in office, cannot provide any more perfect a union and harmony than the other.

I don’t think anyone will contradict me when I point out that the love that the son of Venus felt upon sight of the springing and blossoming youth was simply founded upon external beauty, the false image of a young body. This immoderate ardour could not have ground this love upon the soul, the sight of which as yet lay concealed. It sprang straight way, it did not blossom in maturity. Cicero said, "Love is a desire of contracting friendship arising from the beauty of the object."

Let me return to my own more just and true description. For the rest, what we commonly call friends are only acquaintance and familiarities, either contracted by chance or for some purpose. There is little communication between our souls. But in the friendship I speak of, the souls mixed so universally that there is no more sign of the seam by which they were first conjoined. If someone asked me why I loved him, I could only answer: because it was he, because it was I. That’s all I can say; I don’t know what inexplicable and fated power that brought on this union. We sought one another long before we met. The things we’d heard about each other wrought our affections more than mere reports would normally do. I think it was by some secret appointment of heaven. Our first meeting, at a great city entertainment, was by chance, and we found ourselves so mutually taken with one another, so acquainted, and so endeared, that from then on nothing was so near to us as one another. He wrote an excellent Latin satire, since published, on the subject. When we first met we were both full-grown men, and he some years older, so we were destined to have only a short time together. Our intelligences had very recently and very late come to perfection and there was no time to lose. Also, we felt no need to conform to the example of those slow and regular friendships that require so many long preliminary conversation. This has no other idea than that of itself, and can only refer to itself: this is no one special consideration, nor two, nor three, nor four, nor a thousand. End of the day I can’t say why my whole will plunged and lost itself in his, and that having seized his whole will, brought it back with equal concurrence and appetite to plunge and lose itself in mine. I may truly say lose, reserving nothing to ourselves that was either his or mine.

Book 1, Chapter 20: Of The Force Of Imagination (3 of 3)

In the final part of this essay, Montaigne muses a bit more about the human body. Then, he shares some surprising examples of the power of the human mind. He ends with a discussion on his own writing

'the bird at last fell dead into the cat’s claws, either dazzled by the force of its own imagination or drawn by some power of the cat'

St. Augustine said he had seen a man who could command his rear to discharge as often as he pleased. Vives provided another example, of a man who could break wind in tune. But these cases don’t provide proof of control over one’s body, for is anything more disordered or indiscreet than these acts? Let me add an example of my own – I know a man so rude and ungoverned that for forty years has been expelling one continuous, never-ending wind, and he’ll probably continue to do so until he dies. I also know men who have fallen very ill because their stomachs have not allowed them to break wind.

We have liberty to break wind whenever we want, but so often this happens irregularly and disobediently. We are unable to will our bodies to do what we want them to do, or to forbid them from doing something.

As for our (male) member, nature has endowed it with particular privilege; it is the author of the sole immortal work of mortals, a divine work, according to Socrates.

But more about the imagination – I know a man who was cured of stones with injections that he thought contained strong medicine but in fact did not. Also, a woman, thinking she had swallowed a pin, cried about an intolerable pain in her throat. A gentleman had her vomit and secretly threw a bent pin into the basin. As soon as the woman saw the pin she was eased of her pain. I also know a man who jokingly bragged to his dinner-guests that he had fed them a baked cat. A young woman was so horrified at this that she fell into violent vomiting and fever.

Animals are also subject to the force of imagination: think of the dogs who die in grief at the loss of their masters, and bark and tremble and cry in their sleep. Horses also kick and whinny in their sleep.

This could all be attributed to the close relationship between the soul and the body, but sometimes, the imagination works not only on one’s own body but even on others. Just as an infected body can transfer its disease onto those nearby, the imagination, becoming vehemently agitated, darts out infection capable of affecting foreign objects. The ancients reported that certain women of Scythia could kill a man just with their looks. Tortoises and ostriches hatch their eggs only by looking at them, as if their eyes have some ejaculative virtue. And the eyes of witches are said to be harmful.

Some time ago there was, in my house, a cat watching a bird on the top of a tree. For some time, they had their eyes fixed on each other. Then, the bird at last fell dead into the cat’s claws, either dazzled by the force of its own imagination or drawn by some power of the cat.

Someone told me of a falconer who brought down a kite from the air just by fixing his eyes upon it. However, I must say here, for the stories that I borrow I rely on the consciences of those from whom I have them. But you know, in the subjects that I speak of – our manners and motions, testimonies and experiences – some stories, as fabulous as they are, provided that they are possible, it does not matter whether they are true or not. Whether they happened in Rome or Paris, to John or Peter, as long as they are within the verge of human capacity, they serve their purpose. I see and make advantage of them as well as I can, and amongst the various readings in old books, I cull out the more rare and memorable to fit my purposes. There are some authors whose only purpose is to give an account of things that have happened. My purpose is to talk about what may happen. There is a freedom allowed in schools to make up examples when you have none at hand. I do not make use of this privilege, and in fact avoid things like superstitious religion. In the examples I bring in, of what I have heard, read, done, or said, I forbid myself from altering even the smallest detail. That my ignorance may do so anyway, I cannot say.

This is why I sometimes wonder how priests and philosophers are fit to write history, for how much can they stake their reputations on a popular faith? How can they be responsible for the opinions of men that they don’t even know? And with what assurance do they deliver their ideas? For my part, I think it is safer to write of the past than the present. That way, the writer only gives account of things everyone knows he must borrow upon trust.

Friends sometimes tell me to write of the present, because they feel I look upon our times with an eye less blinded than others, and that I have a clearer access to the minds of others. They don’t consider that I wouldn't put myself through the trouble, sworn enemy that I am to obligation, difficult work, or attentiveness. There is nothing as contrary to my style as an uninterrupted narrative. I often interrupt myself and am no good at composition or explanation. I am more ignorant than a child of the proper words and phrases to express the most common things, and that is why I only undertake to say what I can say, and have accommodated my subject to my strength. 

Book 1, Chapter 20: Of The Force Of Imagination (2 of 3)

In this essay, Montaigne discusses sexual problems, and how their roots may lie in the imagination. He tells of how he cured his friend's impotence on his wedding night.  

'Once the mind has played this trick on a man, and confounded him with the shame of it, he becomes so embarrassed and feverish about the accident that it is apt to continue upon following occasions'

There is an odd superstition of which I am not convinced. At a wedding, if someone ties knots on a strip of leather, cotton or silk and then passes it through a wedding-ring, this will have the magical effect of preventing the consummation of the wedding. The situation can only be reversed if the knots are untied. This same superstition is also recorded in English tradition. The results are actually due to a voluntary impression of apprehension and fear. Let me offer an example:

A friend of mine was told by his companion of an unusual frigidity that struck him at the most inconvenient time. Soon after, my friend was engaged in the same activity. The horror of the story possessed his imagination so strangely that he encountered the same fate as his companion had. From that time onwards, every time he remembered the distaster, he was subject to relapse into the same misfortune. He found some remedy, finally, for this fancy in another fancy: he frankly confessed and declared beforehand to the person who he was to do the act with this subjection of his. Through this, the agitation of his soul was appeased. It was as if his faculties, knowing that some misbehaviour was expected of them, grew less restrained. Afterwards, he had no apprehensions when having sex, his thoughts being disengaged and free and his body in its true and natural state. By sharing the issue with his partner, he was freed from this vexatious weakness. After a man has once done a woman right, he is never again in danger of not performing with that person, unless on account of some excusable weakness.

In situations where the soul is overextended with desire or respect, and especially when the opportunity is of an unforeseen and pressing nature, a man may find he is unable to defend himself from a sexual mistake. I know some who secure themselves from this mischance by coming half sated elsewhere, in order to abate the ardour of their fury. Others who have grown old find themselves less impotent by being less able; and one was reassured by a friend of his who told him he had a counter-charm of enchantments that would secure him from this disgrace.

A Count of a great family whom I know very well was married to a fair lady, who had been courted before by someone who was at the wedding. All his friends were in great fear, especially an old lady kinswoman of his in whose house the wedding was being held, that the rival would offer foul play by means of some magic spell. She communicated her fear to me and I told her, rely on me. I had, by chance, a flat piece of gold on me on which some celestial figures were engraved. This was presented to me by a silly cousin, and was supposed to be useful for sunstroke or for headaches. I wanted to make use of this little knack, and I told the Count, that if he were to run into the problem that bridegrooms sometimes find themselves in, especially when there was someone in the house who would be glad if this happened, then I would offer him a miracle, provided that he came to me if it occurred and that he kept it to himself. I told him that when we came to see him at mid-night, as is the custom in France, he should give me a sign if he was having any problems. Now, he had had his ears so battered with superstitious talk, and his mind so possessed with the tattle of this business, that when it came to it, he did indeed find himself tied with the trouble of his imagination, and so at the appointed time, he gave me a sign. Then I whispered in his ear that he should rise, pretending to kick us out of the room, and in jest he should pull my nightgown from my shoulders and throw it over his own. Then, he should leave the room, take a piss, repeat such and such words three times, and do some actions, also three times. Finally, he should tie a ribbon, upon which I had attached the gold medal, around his reins and confidently return to his business. And he should not forget to spread my gown upon the bed so that it might cover them both. All these ‘ape’s tricks’ were mainly for effect, because our fancy is so easily seduced into believing  that such strange means must, of necessity, proceed from some obscure science. Their very inanity gives them weight and reverence. And it certainly worked. My ‘magic’ proved to be potent and active.

 It was a sudden whimsy combined with a little curiosity that led me to do such a thing, so contrary to my nature, because normally I am an enemy to all kinds of subtly and counterfeit actions, and hate all manner of trickery, even if it be for sport and to an advantage, because though the action may not be vicious in itself, its mode is vicious.

Amasis, the king of Egypt, married a beautiful Greek virgin, Laodice. Although he was noted for his abilities elsewhere, Amasis found himself unable to perform in bed. He was so enraged at this that he threatened to kill her, suspecting her to be a witch. As is normal in things of the mind, she told him to pray to Venus, and he found himself divinely restored the very first night after his prayers and sacrifices.

Theano, the wife of Pythagoras, said, ‘The woman who goes to bed with a man must put off her modesty with her petticoat, and put it on again with the same.’ If a man is very alarmed, he may lose the power to perform. The mind plays this trick especially upon the first acquaintance, because men are more ardent and eager, and also more scared of miscarrying. Once the mind has played this trick on a man, and confounded him with the shame of it, he becomes so embarrassed and feverish about the accident that it is apt to continue upon following occasions.

Married people, who have much time before them, should never force or even offer ‘the feat’ if they do not find themselves quite ready. If a man finds that he is nervous and agitated, it is better to wait for another opportunity at more private and composed leisure, than to make himself perpetually miserable for having been baffled at the first assault. Until possession be taken, a man that knows he can be subject to this infirmity should slowly and by degrees make several little trials and light offers, without stubbornly trying to do it in one go and forcing a conquest over his own rebellious and confused faculties. Those who know their members to be naturally obedient don’t have to worry about anything but counterplotting their fantasies.

The undisciplined freedom of the member is remarkable. It is so persistently unruly in its swelling and its impatience when we don’t need it to be, and when we do require it, it can be so disobedient. It is so imperiously contesting in authority with the will, and so proud and stubborn, denying all solicitations, both of hand and mind. And yet, though his rebellion is so universally complained of, and that proof is used to condemn him, if he had, nevertheless, asked me to defend him, I would bring all his fellow-members into suspicion of plotting against him, out of pure envy at the importance and pleasure that only he provides, and I could accuse them of having malevolently charged him alone with their common offence.  Because, let us think for a moment, if there is any part of our body that doesn’t often refuse to perform its function according to our will, and that does not often insist on exercising its own function in defiance of our command. Each one of them have passions of their own, that rouse and awaken, stupefy and benumb them, without our permission. How often do the involuntary movements of our faces reveal our inner thoughts, and betray our secrets to bystanders? The same reason that animates our member, does also, without our knowledge, animate our lungs, pulse, and heart. The sight of a pleasing object, for instance, can diffuse a flame through all our parts. Is there nothing but these veins and muscles that swell and flag without our consent, not only of the will, but even of our knowledge? We don’t command our hairs to stand on end, nor our skin to shiver either with fear or desire. The hands often convey themselves to parts without our direction, the voice can become congealed. When we have nothing to eat, and don’t want to eat, the appetite does not agree to avoid stirring up the parts that are subject to it, no more nor less than any other appetite that we are speaking of, and in the same manner, it can leave us when it thinks fit, even at inconvenient times. The vessels that discharge the belly have their own dilations and compressions, without and beyond our agreement.

Book 1, Chapter 19: That To Study Philosophy Is To Learn To Die (Part 1 of 3)

Montaigne talks firstly about how study can be a kind of death. Then he shares his feelings about sex. He ends with with a contemplation on man's fear of death

 'it is a pleasure more favourable, soft, and natural, than the other forms of pleasure that we prefer to call pleasure'

Cicero says that studying philosophy serves no purpose other than to prepare one’s self for death. The reason for this is that study and contemplation, in some sense, withdraw us from our souls, and employ the soul separately from the body. This is a kind of ‘apprenticeship’ and a resemblance of death in this process. Another reason is that the point of all wisdom and reasoning is to teach us not to fear death.

Now, either our reason mocks us, or it has no aim other than contentment. ‘All the opinions of the world’ agree that pleasure is our aim, even if we all have different ways of attaining it. Any other route would be rejected straightaway, for who would go down a path that led to misery and affliction? All disputes on this point are trivial, and merely verbal. They arise out of a stubbornness and opposition that should not be present in great thinkers.

No matter what they say, even in virtue, our ultimate aim in life is bliss (Montaigne here uses the word ‘volupté’, referring to an intense pleasure that is both sensual and spiritual). I’d like to punch the ears of those who find this word sickening. If the word signifies a supreme pleasure or excessive contentment, then this is due to the assistance of virtue and nothing else. This bliss, if it is joyous, strong and virile, becomes all the more seriously blissful. And so we should allow this bliss to be called pleasure; it is a pleasure more favourable, soft, and natural, than the other forms of pleasure that we prefer to call pleasure. Those other pleasures are lower forms of bliss. If they even deserve to be called pleasure, this should be a matter of agreement and not privilege. 

A few words on this bliss

- I find it to be less free from inconvenience and pitfall than virtue.  

- The enjoyment is more momentary, fluid, and frail than some other pleasures. Nonetheless, it has its periods of vigils and fasting, also periods of hard work, sweat and blood.

- It comes with so many different kinds of sharp and wounding passions, and the satiety that attends it can be so dull and heavy that it sometimes equates to a punishment.

- If one imagines that these hurdles actually spur us to pursue it, that they are no more than a seasoning to its sweetness,  they are mistaken.

- When circumstances render it inaccessible (such as a coming to virtue, or some kind of difficulty), the pleasure of this joyous bliss is sharpened and heightened once it comes. 

- He who measures its cost against its fruit renders himself unworthy of it, for he does not understand its graces nor uses.

- What do they mean, those who preach that the quest for it is difficult, complicated, and painful and the resultant orgasmic joyousness (in French, jouissance) pleasant? Is it ever unpleasant? What would human beings not do to arrive at this pleasure? The most perfect have been happy to just aspire to this pleasure, to approach it without ever possessing it. Those that warn of the quest are therefore wrong, because even the pursuit of this bliss is pleasurable, because the attempt contains the essence of what it pursues.

Now, one of the greatest benefits that virtue confers upon us is a contempt of death. This contempt allows us a soft and easy tranquility in life, and gives us a pure and pleasant taste of living, without which all other pleasure would be extinct. All the rules centre around and agree with this contempt. And although they also teach us to despise pain, poverty, and other accidents to which human life is subject, we do not do so with the same level of concern. These accidents are, after all, not necessarily going to strike us. Many pass through life without knowing what poverty is, and the musician Xenophilius lived to a hundred and six without falling ill. But death is inevitable. And it can strike at any time, cutting short and putting an end to all other inconveniences.

Hor., in the Odyssey, said; ‘We are all bound one voyage; the lot of all, sooner or later, is to come out of the urn. All must to eternal exile sail away.’

So if death were to frighten us, it would be a perpetual torment, for which there would be no consolation. Sometimes people on their way to execution are granted special favours just before their death. But, at this time, ‘Sicilian dainties will not tickle their palates, nor the melody of birds and harps bring back sleep.’ (Hor. Od.) They cannot relish these types of entertainment when they know they are at the fatal end of their journey. The end of our race is death, it is the necessary object of our aim. It this frightened us, how would it be possible to advance one step without a fit of panic?

The remedy that the vulgar use is not to think about it, but from what brutish stupidity can they derive such a blatant blindness? They probably ride their donkeys backwards. They scare people with the very mention of death, and many cross themselves when they hear the word, as if it were the name of the devil. And they refuse to write up their wills, because that would be a reference to dying. They will not pick up a pen until the physician has told them in no uncertain terms that they are in their last moments, and even then, they will do so in a state of terror. God knows how, in this state, they are fit enough in understanding to do so.

The Romans, feeling that the word death sounded too ominous to their ears, found a way to soften and spin it, and instead of saying someone is dead, they will say, ‘he has lives’ or ‘he has ceased to live’ (Plutarch, Life of Cicero). The mention of life in the phrase, eventhough it has passed, offers a kind of consolation. It is from them that we have borrowed the phrase, ‘The last Mr. such-and-such’.

I was born between eleven and twelve in the afternoon on the last day of February 1533. The year, that used to commence at Easter, had been changed by order of Charles IX to commence from  then on on January 1^st. I turned thirty-nine fifteen days ago. I hope to live at least as many more years. In the meantime, to trouble myself with something that will happen after so long seems foolish. But so what? Young and old die upon the same terms; no one departs out of life otherwise than as if he had just entered it. No man is so old and decrepit that he does not imagine he has twenty good years left in him. Fool that thou art! Who has assured upon thee the term of life? You depend on your physicians but instead, consult effects and experiences. According to the average life-span, you have lives by extraordinary favour. Think of people you know, how many more have died before they arrived at your age than have survived? And as for those who have made themselves famous in their lifetimes, I bet you will find more that have before before than after thirty-five years of age. Jesus Christ himself died at thirty-three and the greatest man that was no more than a man, Alexander, died at around the same age. Death can surprise us in many ways. Who would have guessed that the duke of Brittany, for instance, would be crushed to death in a crowd of people? King Henry II was killed in a sword tournament and his ancestor Philip died whilst fighting with a hog. Aeschylus, who was very circumspect in avoiding danger, was hit on the head by a tortoise that fell out of the talons of an eagle flying overhead. Another choked on a grape-stone. An emperor was killed with the scratch of a comb while he was combing his hair, and Aemilius Lepidus stumpled on the steps of his own front door. Another died between the thighs of a woman, and another – my brother Captain St. Martin – was playing tennis when he received a little blow with the ball just above his right ear. He took no notice of it at the time, but six or seven hours later, he had died.

With such frequent and common examples passing before us everyday, how is it possible to disengage ourselves from thoughts of death and not live in constant fear of it? You may say that it doesn’t matter how it comes about, provided we do not terrify ourselves with expectation. I, for one, would crawl under the skin of a calf if by that means I could avoid death. I am not ashamed of this. All I aim for is to pass my time at my ease, doing what will most contribute to that ease. I must quote this glorious little exemplary:

‘I had rather seem mad and a sluggard, so that my defects are agreeable to myself, or that I am not painfully conscious of them, than be wise and chaptious’ (Hor. Ep.).