It urges one to
seek out ascending scales of risk, just to prove to himself that he
isn't flabby. The safe job is the only job for which there's no
competition in fighting units. You have to persuade men to be grooms,
or cooks, or batmen. If you're seeking volunteers for a chance at
annihilation, you have to cast lots to avoid the offence of
rejecting. All of this is inexplicable to civilians. I've heard them
call the men at the Front "spiritual geniuses"--which sounds splendid,
but means nothing.
If civilian philosophers fail to explain us, we can explain them. In
their world they are the centre of their universe. They look inward,
instead of outward. The sun rises and sets to minister to their
particular happiness. If they should die, the stars would vanish. We
understand; a few months ago we, too, were like that. What makes us
reckless of death is our intense gratitude that we have altered. We
want to prove to ourselves in excess how utterly we are changed from
what we were. In his secret heart the egotist is a self-despiser. Can
you imagine what a difference it works in a man after years of
self-contempt, at least for one brief moment to approve of himself?
Ever since we can remember, we were chained to the prison-house of our
bodies; we lived to feed our bodies, to clothe our bodies, to preserve
our bodies, to minister to their passions. Now we know that our bodies
are mere flimsy shells, in which our souls are paramount.
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