faith that the world is an intelligible structure, meant to be penetrated by the thought of man.  Can it be that nature is an “open secret,” but that man, and he alone, must remain an enigma?  Or does he not rather bear within himself the key to every problem which he solves, and is it not his thought which penetrates the secrets of nature?  The success of science, in reducing to law the most varied and apparently unconnected facts, should dispel any suspicion which attaches to the attempt to gather these laws under still wider ones, and to interpret the world in the light of the highest principles.  And this is precisely what poetry and religion and philosophy do, each in its own way.  They carry the work of the sciences into wider regions, and that, as I shall try to show, by methods which, in spite of many external differences, are fundamentally at one with those which the sciences employ.

There is only one way of giving the quietus to the metaphysics of poets and philosophers, and of showing the futility of a philosophy of life, or of any scientific explanation of religion and morals.  It is to show that there is some radical absurdity in the very attempt.  Till this is done, the human mind will not give up problems of weighty import, however hard it may be to solve them.  The world refused to believe Socrates when he pronounced a science of nature impossible, and centuries of failure did not break man’s courage.  Science, it is true, has given up some problems as insoluble; it will not now try to construct a perpetually moving machine, or to square the circle.  But it has given them up, not because they are difficult, but because they are unreasonable tasks.  The problems have a surd or irrational element in them; and to solve them would be to bring reason into collision with itself.

Now, whatever may be the difficulties of establishing a theory of life, or a philosophy, it has never been shown to be an unreasonable task to attempt it.  One might, on the contrary, expect, prima facie, that in a world progressively proved to be intelligible to man, man himself would be no exception.  It is impossible that the “light in him should be darkness,” or that the thought which reveals the order of the world should be itself chaotic.

The need for philosophy is just the ultimate form of the need for knowledge; and the truths which philosophy brings to light are implied in every rational explanation of things.  The only choice we can have is between a conscious metaphysics and an unconscious one, between hypotheses which we have examined and whose limitations we know, and hypotheses which rule us from behind, as pure prejudices do.  It is because of this that the empiric is so dogmatic, and the ignorant man so certain of the truth of his opinion.  They do not know their postulates, nor are they aware that there is no interpretation of an object which does not finally point to a theory of being.  We understand