The Life of the Fly 



shelves and replaced it by another, which, this 

 time, belonged to me. 



At my normal school, I had learnt a little 

 elementary geometry under a master. From 

 the first few lessons onwards, I rather enjoyed 

 the subject. I divined in it a guide for one's 

 reasoning faculties through the thickets of 

 the imagination; I caught a glimpse of a 

 search after truth that did not involve too 

 much stumbling on the way, because each 

 step forward rests solidly upon the step 

 already taken; I suspected geometry to be 

 what it pre-eminently is: a school of intellect- 

 ual fencing. 



The truth demonstrated and its applica- 

 tion matter little to me; what rouses my en- 

 thusiasm is the process that sets the truth be- 

 fore us. We start from a brilliantly-lighted 

 spot and gradually get deeper and deeper in 

 the darkness, which, in its turn, becomes self- 

 illuminated by kindling new lights for a 

 higher ascent. This progressive march of the 

 known toward the unknown, this conscientious 

 lantern lighting what follows by the rays of 

 what comes before: that was my real busi- 

 ness. 



Geometry was to teach me the logical pro- 

 gression of thought; it was to tell me how 



