The Marmot with the Collar
Diary of a Philosopher

Let us speak a little of Man, let us speak of him at our leisure.

There could be as many varieties of Men as there are individuals, if we had to judge by their spare skins, of different types and colours, which they put on and take off at whim. But it is believed generally enough that these skins are not natural to him and that he manufactures them. All that I could see in the time of my captivity has confirmed me in this opinion. It is the characteristic of Man that he makes a multitude of things that none other has ever made before, nor will ever make again.

Man is the most defective of animals. He has a mane which, for some, frames the whole face, whereas for others, it protects only the back of the head. It falls out with age, that is to say, at the moment when he would have most need of it to guard him against the cold. Otherwise, not too much is known about what purpose it serves. Those who are the best supplied still wear a covering on their heads. As far as can be judged, the rest of the body is naked, apart from the skins in which they dress up. Other animals have each a colour: The Cow is black or red, often patched with white; the Hare is white in Winter, russet in Summer; the Bear is brown; the Marmot has a graceful coat, shaded from grey to black; the skin of Man alone lacks its own colour; it is translucent and allows one to see the flesh and blood. That is without example in Nature. Man is himself sensible of this monstrosity, and it is probably the reason for which he covers himself with false skins, which do not belong to him and which he is careful to wear according to their colour. But he keeps his face uncovered, his hands too, which makes one long to bite them. If I were a fierce beast, I would eat lots of Men.

Man sits like us and holds himself upright on his rear legs; on the other hand, he cannot walk on four paws. The true method is to employ both methods, as the case requires, just as Marmots do. Man is not stable on his two feet; he always seems about to stumble. He often equips himself with the branch of a tree to steady his gait, which is slow and clumsy. He runs heavily. How could he run lightly, built as he is. There is no proportion between his rear legs, great and shapeless pillars, and his fore legs – shorter and slenderer, which he knows only to use as arms, just as we also do sometimes, but only when it suits us.

Man would be the least offensive of animals, because he is the most awkward, if he did not compensate by force of industry what Nature has denied him. He has absolutely no sense of smell, absolutely no sense of hearing, his sense of sight is of the most ordinary; but he has an inventive mind. He puts to his eye a long instrument, by means of which he discovers his prey at any distance; he usually carries on his shoulder another instrument, longer still, which he aims against his victims, and from which he projects fire, smoke and little stones, which are round and heavy, which strike from afar those whom he wishes to hit. It can be only a God who has taught him the art of lightning in this way. Why him rather than others, rather than us, for example? What has Man done to deserve this favour? Does the spilling of innocent blood confer a claim in the eyes of heaven?

Man is possessed of a charm. Certain species of animal bow before him, acknowledging him openly as their master and serving him with passion. Others fear and hate him. He is not bloody like the Vulture; he has never been seen to murder his victims in the flesh, nor drink their blood. He is not born for murder. He has neither blazing talons, nor a hooked beak, nor sharp teeth. He does not seem to bear against us any instinctive hatred. He is not cruel, only ambitious and jealous. Man desires that everyone should pay him a tribute of submission. His passion is to rule – or to persuade himself that he rules. It is his pleasure to surround himself with slaves. Every free being is an injury to him. His dream would be universal mastery. He will not achieve it unless he purges the earth of the free children of the mountain. It is for this that he labours. He kills us, because he cannot enslave us. It is his way of avenging his own impotence. Let him kill as much as he likes, we will not grant him the pleasure of joining his retinue. Races born for liberty bear eternal hatred toward Man and his underlings.

Man’s empire is expanding. To the extent that he advances, he makes a desert around him and peoples it with his creatures. By what caprice of Nature has she destined for royalty the most evil being to have left her hands? I have no answer; but one thing is certain, Man increases, Marmots dwindle. Of our ancient multitudes, there remain only a few clans on the floors of the valleys, a refuge that is uncertain and increasingly violated. Our fathers did not recall ever having seen in this country the silhouette of a Man outlined against the sky, on the mountain crags. Now this is seen almost every day, at least in Summer. They hoist themselves up, in caravans, from cliff to cliff. They push and pull each other along, and do so until they arrive. Then one has to listen to them, when they have reached the summit, celebrating with great cries of joy the victory that they have just won over their clumsiness. Not only does Man wish to rule over the animals, he wishes to rule over the earth herself. He has sworn not to leave a single place unsoiled by his presence. Such pride will weary the patience of heaven. Unless the world has been created for the triumph of his iniquity, Man and his glory will pass.

I made in my captivity an astonishing discovery: Man could be good, he is even good, sometimes. In vain did I refuse to believe it, but I have seen shining in his eyes the sweet gleam of pity. It takes some acquaintance not to deceive oneself. Those shifting eyes, in the middle of his face, instil fear at the first onset. No animal has a gaze more fixed, no animal has a gaze more fleeting. There is no certainty before those eyes. Even so, one learns to read them eventually. One reads there oftenest thoughts of pride or deceit; but I have read there sometimes, read clearly, a thought of goodness. The day when the Man with the long and fine mane, who used to give me Pine kernels, carried me back to the mountain, I saw in its false blue eyes a real smile. I am persuaded now that it wished to deliver me. It is believed that these Men with the finer manes, who all wear a sort of floating skin, are the females. I believe it too, and that explains why there is greater softness in their movements and their physiognomy. But they are not the only ones capable of kindness. The Man who used to come morning and evening to milk his Cows – did he have a rough mane and wild features! Yet I saw even his eyes shining while he was passing his hand under the chin of a little brown Cow, whom he never failed to caress. He wished me absolutely no ill, not ever. He would willingly have given me a share of his caresses. I rejected them, because of my prison, and today I would reject them still, in liberty. Because finally, what must one think of this being who is capable of kindness and finds not his pleasure there? That is unprecedented in creation. I understand the Vulture, who knows nothing of mercy; I understand the Dog, who is all fawning and ferocity. But Man! How can he reduce to slavery those whom he loves and shed the blood of those on whom he has pity? What is this art that consists in being merciful today and pitiless tomorrow? I call heaven as witness, he is an animal who could be good and who prefers to be bad. This monster is called Man. Fortune fills him with her favours and he strides arrogantly toward empire over the world.

Man is the greatest mystery of Nature – after the Marmot.