In Praise of Doubt

Each day, I cross out a calendar box. Not to mark a day gone by or to be lulled by the melancholy of the past. I tick a box for each certainty that has gradually failed or, if you want to put it positively, for a new doubt that has entered my life.

I like Rodin, I admit. Its Gates of Hell are far more heavenly than several ecclesiastical gates, but more than anything else, I let myself be exalted by the little figurine of doubt placed on top of it.

Dubito ergo sum? Why not! Among thought forms, doubt is undoubtedly one of the noblest. Charming as a woman who wears no frills and does not even conceive of the idea of scandal. Although, of course, the scandal it is!

Think of a certainty, built like an immense bastion and knocked down by a charge of TNT. “What a waste!” you might think. And yes, it certainly would be if inner evolution resulted from an algebraic sum, but fortunately, the situation is quite different. Dramatically different, outrageously different!

How many steps forward have I taken only to realize that they were only the hint of a stasis, if not a regression? And how many leaps into the void, dives into the most impervious and inhospitable abysses, and how much pain I sought with almost maniacal dedication!

Masochism? Who knows… But honestly, for the moment, I’m not interested in ascertaining that. I prefer that Newton saw further than one imagines and that if an action corresponds to a reaction, even death must be the beginning of something.

But the road is long, and if I clung to any certainty, I would certainly make a gross mistake and contradict myself. So, let there be doubt, bright and blinding! And if the Gates of Hell also have to be crossed, I may be ready. If not, the flames can wait, too!

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