PHILOSOPHY OF LOVE 



ocre fitness of animals to milieu, and of organs to acts, 

 that it is not the milieu which absolutely fashions, or the 

 organs which absolutely govern, the acts. One then feels 

 oneself inclined to reaccept Bonald's definition of man, 

 and even to find it admirable, just, and strict: An intel- 

 ligence served by organs. Not "obeyed," not always, but 

 served, service implying imperfection, a discord between 

 the order and its fulfillment. But the phrase applies not 

 to man only, and its spiritualistic origin in no way 

 diminishes its aphoristic value; it qualifies every animal. 

 The animal is a nervous centre, served by the different 

 tools in which its branches terminate. It commands, and 

 the tools, good or bad ones, obey. If they were incapable 

 of performing their work, at least the essential parts of 

 it, the animal would perish. There are forms of parasitism 

 which seem to be the consequence of a general renuncia- 

 tion of organs; impotent to enter into direct relations 

 with the outer world, unmanned by the softness of the 

 muscles, the nervous system brings the skiff it was pilot- 

 ing into some harbour or other, and beaches it. 



Fabre says, thinking particularly of insects: "The or- 

 gan does not determine the aptitude." And this most 

 aptly confirms Bonald's manner of seeing. Thrown in 

 at the end of a chapter, with scarcely anything directly 

 to justify it, this affirmation but gains in value. It is 

 the conclusion, not of a dissertation, but of a long se- 

 quence of scientific observations. As for the facts that 

 one can set inside it, they are innumerable; one would 

 group them under two heads: The animal serves himself 

 as best he can with the organs he possesses; he does not 

 always make use of them. The flying-stag, the best 

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