There is no doubt that a great difference exists between thinking and feeling, this is incontrovertible.
Great coldness exists among people, it is the coldness of what is not important, of that which is superficial.
The crowds believe that important is what is not important, they suppose that the last fashion, or the latest model of car, or the question of basic salary is the only serious matter. Serious they call the day’s account, the love affair, sedentary live, the cup of liqueur, the horse race, the car race, the bull fight, gossip, slander, etc.
Obviously, when the man of the day or the woman in the beauty parlour, listen to something about esoterism, as this is not in their plans or in their discussions, nor in their sexual pleasures, they answer with some sort of terrible coldness or they simply sneer, shrug their shoulders and indifferently turn away.
This psychological apathy, this coldness which is frightful, has two bases: firstly the most tremendous ignorance, secondly the most absolute absence of spiritual restlessness.
A contact is missing, an electric shock, nobody gave it in the shop, nor in what was believed to be serious, least of all in the pleasures of bed.
Should somebody be capable of giving the cold imbecile or the superficial young woman the electrical touch of the moment, the heart’s spark, some strange reminiscence, something which is in fact intimate, then perhaps everything would be different.
Yet something displaces the tiny secret voice, the first hunch, the intimate yearning; possibly some trifle, the beautiful hat in some shop window, the delicious sweet in a restaurant, an encounter with a friend which later holds no importance for us, etc.
Nonsense, trifles which while not being transcendental, in a given instant they do have the power to extinguish that first spiritual restlessness, the insignificant spark of light, the hunch which disturbed us for a moment without us knowing why.
If those who today are living corpses, cold noctambules in the club or simply sellers of umbrellas at the store on high street, had not suffocated the first intimate restlessness, they would be spiritual luminaires at this moment, adepts of the light, and genuine men in the most complete sense of the word.
The spark, the hunch, a mysterious sigh, an unexplainable something, was sometime felt by the butcher on the corner, by the shoe-shiner or by the doctor of the first order, but all was in vain, the trifles of personality always extinguish the first spark of the light; then the coldness of the most frightful indifference goes on.
Unquestionably, people are swallowed by the moon sooner or later; this truth is incontrovertible.
There is nobody who has not felt a hunch in life, a strange restlessness, unfortunately, any of the things of personality, no matter how trifling, is enough for reducing to cosmic dust that which moved us for a moment in the silence of the night. The moon always wins these battles, it feeds on our own weaknesses, and it nourishes itself with them.
The moon is terribly mechanistic; the lunar humanoid completely devoid of any solar restlessness, is incoherent and moves in the world of his own dreams.
If somebody did what no-one does, that is, to liven up the intimate restlessness which perhaps arose in the mystery of some night, there is no doubt that in the long run he would assimilate to solar intelligence and for this reason become a solar man.
This is, precisely, what the Sun wants, but these lunar shadows which are so cold, apathetic and indifferent are always swallowed up by the Moon; afterwards comes the levelling of death.
Death levels everything. Any living corpse devoid of solar restlessness, terribly degenerates in a progressive way until devoured by the Moon.
The Sun wants to create men, it is performing this attempt in the laboratory of nature; regrettably, such experiment has not yielded very good results, the Moon swallows people.
Nevertheless, no one is interested in this that we are saying, least of all the learned ignoramuses; they are ridiculously self-satisfied feeling significantly important.
The Sun has placed certain solar germs within the sexual glands of the intellectual animal mistakenly called man, which properly developed could transform us into authentic men.
However, the solar experiment is terribly difficult due precisely to lunar coldness.
People do not want to co-operate with the Sun and for this reason on the long run solar germs involute, degenerate and are lamentably lost.
The master clavicle of the Sun’s work, is in the dissolution of the undesirable elements which we carry within.
When a human race loses all interest in solar ideas, the Sun destroys it because it is not useful for its experiment any more.
Since this present race has become unbearably lunar, terribly superficial and mechanistic, it is not useful for the solar experiment any more, a reason more than enough for which it will be destroyed. For there to be continuous spiritual restlessness, it is required to transfer the magnetic center of gravity to the essence, to the consciousness.
Unfortunately, people have the center of gravity in personality, in the cafe, in the pub, in business at the bank, in the house of call or in the market square, etc.
Obviously, all these are things of personality and the magnetic center of personality attracts all these things; this is incontrovertible and anybody with common sense can verify it directly for himself. Regrettably, when reading all this, the rogues of intellect, being used to arguing too much or to keeping quiet with unbearable pride, prefer to throw away the book contemptuously and read the newspaper. A few sips of good coffee and the day’s account, are splendid nourishment for rational mammals.
Nevertheless, they feel themselves to be very serious; undoubtedly, their own pedantries keep them hallucinated, and these things of solar kind written on this book annoy them too much. There is no doubt that the bohemian eyes of the homunculi of reason would not dare to continue with the study of this work.
