We possess nothing in the world—a mere chance can strip us of everything—except the power to say ‘I’. That is what we have to give to God—in other words, to destroy. There is absolutely no other free act which it is given us to accomplish—only the destruction of the ‘I’.
Oﬀering: We cannot oﬀer anything but the ‘I’, and all we call an oﬀering is merely a label attached to a compensatory assertion of the ‘I’.
Nothing in the world can rob us of the power to say ‘I’. Nothing except extreme aﬄiction. Nothing is worse than extreme aﬄiction which destroys the ‘I’ from outside, because after that we can no longer destroy it ourselves. What happens to those whose ‘I’ has been destroyed from outside by aﬄiction? It is not pos- sible to imagine anything for them but annihilation according to the atheistic or materialistic conception.
Though they may have lost their ‘I’, it does not mean that they have no more egoism. Quite the reverse. To be sure, this may occasionally happen when a dog-like devotion is brought about, but at other times the being is reduced to naked, vegetative egoism. An egoism without an ‘I’.
So long as we ourselves have begun the process of destroying the ‘I’, we can prevent any aﬄiction from causing harm. For the ‘I’ is not destroyed by external pressure without a violent revolt. If for the love of God we refuse to give ourselves over to this revolt, the destruction does not take place from outside but from within.
Redemptive suﬀering. If a human being who is in a state of perfection and has through grace completely destroyed the ‘I’ in himself, falls into that degree of aﬄiction which corresponds for him to the destruction of the ‘I’ from outside—we have there the cross in its fullness. Aﬄiction can no longer destroy the ‘I’ in him for the ‘I’ in him no longer exists, having completely disap- peared and left the place to God. But aﬄiction produces an eﬀect which is equivalent, on the plane of perfection, to the exterior destruction of the ‘I’. It produces the absence of God. ‘My God, why hast Thou forsaken me?’
What is this absence of God produced by extreme aﬄiction within the perfect soul? What is the value which is attached to it and which is known as redemptive suﬀering?
Redemptive suﬀering is that by which evil really has fullness of being to the utmost extent of its capacity.
By redemptive suﬀering, God is present in extreme evil. For the absence of God is the mode of divine presence which corresponds to evil—absence which is felt. He who has not God within himself cannot feel his absence.
It is the purity, the perfection, the plenitude, the abyss of evil. Whereas hell is a false abyss (cf. Thibon). Hell is superﬁcial. Hell is a nothingness which has the pretension and gives the illusion of being.
Purely external destruction of the ‘I’ is quasi-infernal suﬀering. External destruction with which the soul associates itself through love is expiatory suﬀering. The bringing about of the absence of God in a soul completely emptied of self through love is redemptive suﬀering.
In aﬄiction the vital instinct survives all the attachments which have been torn away, and blindly fastens itself to everything which can provide it with support, like a plant fastens its tendrils. Gratitude (except in a base form) and justice are not conceivable in this state. Slavery. There is no longer the extra amount of energy required to support free-will by which man takes the measure of things. Aﬄiction, from this point of view, is hideous as life in its nakedness always is, like an amputated stump, like the swarming of insects. Life without form. Survival is then the only attachment. That is where extreme aﬄiction begins—when all other attachments are replaced by that of survival. Attachment appears then in its nakedness without any other object but itself—Hell.
It is by this mechanism that to those in aﬄiction life appears as the one thing desirable, at the very time when their life is in no way preferable to death.
In this state, to accept death is total detachment.
Quasi-hell on earth. Complete uprooting in aﬄiction
Human injustice as a general rule produces not martyrs but quasi-damned souls. Beings who have fallen into this quasi-hell are like someone stripped and wounded by robbers. They have lost the clothing of character.
The greatest suﬀering which allows any of a man’s roots to remain is at an inﬁnite distance from this quasi-hell.
When we do a service to beings thus uprooted and we receive in exchange discourtesy, ingratitude, betrayal, we are merely enduring a small share of their aﬄiction. It is our duty to expose ourselves to it in a limited measure just as it is our duty to expose ourselves to aﬄiction. When it comes we should endure it as we endure aﬄiction, without referring it back to particular people, for it cannot be referred back to anything. There is something impersonal in quasi-infernal aﬄiction as there is in perfection.
For those whose ‘I’ is dead we can do nothing, absolutely nothing. We never know, however, whether in a particular person the ‘I’ is quite dead or only inanimate. If it is not quite dead, love can reanimate it as though by an injection, but it must be love which is utterly pure without the slightest trace of condescension, for the least shade of contempt drives towards death.
When the ‘I’ is wounded from outside it starts by revolting in the most extreme and bitter manner like an animal at bay. But as soon as the ‘I’ is half dead, it wants to be ﬁnished oﬀ and allows itself to sink into unconsciousness. If it is then awakened by a touch of love, there is sharp pain which results in anger and sometimes hatred for whoever has provoked this pain. Hence the apparently inexplicable vindictiveness of the fallen towards their benefactors.
It can also happen that the love of the benefactor is not pure. Then, in the ‘I’, awakened by love but immediately wounded afresh by contempt, there surges up the bitterest of hatreds, a hatred which is legitimate.
He, on the contrary, in whom the ‘I’ is quite dead is in no way embarrassed by the love which is shown him. He takes what comes just as dogs and cats receive food, warmth and caresses, and, like them, he is eager to obtain as much as possible. As the case may be, he either attaches himself like a dog or accepts what comes to him with a certain indiﬀerence like a cat. Without the slightest scruple he absorbs all the energy of whoever tries to help him.
Unfortunately in every charitable work there is a danger lest the majority of its clients should be composed of people with no scruples, and above all, of people in whom the ‘I’ has been killed.
The weaker the character of him who endures aﬄiction, the more quickly is the ‘I’ destroyed. To be more exact, the limit of the aﬄiction which destroys the ‘I’ is situated at a greater or lesser distance according to the quality of the character, and the further it is the more the character is said to be strong.
The position of this limit, whether near or far, is probably a fact of nature in the same way as a gift for mathematics, and he who, without having any faith, is proud of preserving his morale in diﬃcult circumstances, has no more reason to be so than the youth who is conceited because mathematics come easily to him. He who believes in God is in danger of a still greater illusion—that of attributing to grace what is simply an essentially mechanical eﬀect of nature.
The agony of extreme aﬄiction is the destruction of the ‘I’ from outside: Arnolphe, Phèdre, Lycaon. We are right to fall on our knees, to make abject supplication when that violent death which is going to strike us down threatens to kill the ‘I’ from outside even before life is destroyed.
‘Niobe also, of the beautiful hair, thought of eating.’ That is sublime, in the same way as space in Giotto’s frescoes.
A humiliation which forces us to renounce even despair.
The sin in me says ‘I’.
I am all. But this particular ‘I’ is God. And it is not an ‘I’.
Evil makes distinctions, it prevents God from being equivalent to all.
It is because of my wretchedness that I am ‘I’. It is on account of the wretchedness of the universe that, in a sense, God is ‘I’ (that is to say a person).
The Pharisees were people who relied on their own strength to be virtuous.
Humility consists in knowing that in what we call ‘I’ there is no source of energy by which we can rise.
Everything without exception which is of value in me comes from somewhere other than myself, not as a gift but as a loan which must be ceaselessly renewed. Everything without exception which is in me is absolutely valueless; and, among the gifts which have come to me from elsewhere, everything which I appropriate becomes valueless immediately I do so.
Perfect joy excludes even the very feeling of joy, for in the soul ﬁlled by the object no corner is left for saying ‘I’.
We cannot imagine such joys when they are absent, thus the incentive for seeking them is lacking.
Excerpted from Simone Weil‘s Gravity and Grace. First French edition 1947. Translated by Emma Crawford. English language edition 1963. Routledge and Kegan Paul, London.
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