For tens of thousands of years men worshiped river spirits, fish spirits, tree spirits, stag spirits, the spirits of hares, mountains, clouds, and rain: every type of spirit apart from that of yours truly. Some raving tramps had the gift (they thought) of communicating with this mob of spirits, and so were held in the highest esteem (like rock stars and athletes today). They would leap and spin around, waving their matted hair until they lost their senses, then, eyes rolled back in their heads and foaming at the mouth, intercede for their clients (or so they thought) hoping to obtain heaps of game, cures for diseases, assistance with various everyday problems. A pathetic spectacle. And meanwhile there I was, just waiting for them to notice I existed.
And then they finally did notice. Better late than never, I said to myself. For a few more millennia they still had a very limited notion of my capacities: they believed I had hung the sun in the sky to light up their days and the stars to make their nights more splendid. An eternity went by before they realized that their blessed Earth is a mere speck in the Solar System, in turn a piddly little mite in the Milky Way, one negligible molecule in the vastness of the universe. Only my great patience kept me from taking serious umbrage. And to top it off, rather than finally recognizing my merits, rendering unto Caesar that which is Caesar’s (that boy of mine, the one reputed to be my boy at any rate, had a knack for catchy sayings), now they’re spreading the rumor that the universe created itself. That it sprang forth from nothing, like a mushroom: Big Bang, and there’s your rabbit, folks.
And let us not forget the days of the votive barbecues. The intentions were excellent, don’t get me wrong, but it was as if they truly believed their next-door neighbors would be pleased to get a blast of exhaust from their sacred pyres. The more smoke they made the happier they were, the more purified they felt. Sometimes they even grilled up girls and boys; it was gruesome. All these offerings of their primitive culinary arts were in my honor, or anyway in honor of my supposed colleagues (they thought of us as a flight squadron). And they were convinced we would be tickled pink (what a turn of phrase). Not to mention that they almost always left me just the offal. Filet for the gentlemen; for me, acrid exhaust fumes and bloody innards.
There are many other more recent liturgical customs that irritate me. If there’s a class of buildings I never liked (for example), it’s churches. I find them dark and gloomy, too tall, too truculently monumental. Depressing, macabre. Full of chilly marble, ghoulish statues, sanctimonious paintings, furnishings and symbols in bad taste. And I could never bear the smell of incense; it gives me a headache (as it were) even to think of it.
But what leaves me most baffled is the self-serving side of their religious afflatus. It’s obvious that they pray because they want something in return. They bow down to me and try to get on my good side the way you would pay an insurance policy, so that you’re covered whatever happens. Or worse, they think of me only when things turn really awful, the way you call the fire department in an emergency. They praise me, pay me compliments, flatter me, but in fact their only concern is to cover their asses (apologies, but that is the most appropriate term), and of course to improve their material situation. They’d like to be able to acquire larger quantities of shares and real estate, they’d like to have access to more liquidity, they imagine this will make them happier. Above all, they don’t ever want to die.
It shouldn’t be so difficult to understand that their lives are thrilling and tender because they come to an end. But no, to deny the facts, to stave off resignation, to fool themselves into thinking they’ll continue to live on even after death, they invent a load of cock and bull. They dream that once they’ve passed (their term) they’ll find themselves in a beautiful park supplied with chaise longues and tropical fruit trees and the luxury hotel treatment. Utter foolishness, as even a child could see. You imbeciles, other animals also kick the bucket, and you can see in their eyes (those that have eyes) that they’re not bursting with joy, that it’s quite a nuisance, and yet they take it well, they just lie down and wait to expire.*
* We’re talking about millions of billions of ants every year, of billions of billions of billions of microbes every second, not some piddling number. What if every insect, every single earthworm, began to moan and groan when its time came, to issue solemn declarations and beg to be granted the big pardon?
Humans haven’t learned how to die yet, and worse, the more time goes by, the more they think they’ve understood everything and the less prepared they are. It’s the rare specimen who faces the advent of decomposition with a modicum of dignity and gets it over with quickly. Most abandon what little restraint they have; they pray, they suddenly remember to pray, beseeching me to put them back together if only for a few days, or if there’s no hope at all, to make it easy on them. Even the ones who don’t seem to be in such a bad way can rarely resist the weeping and solemn declarations and crazy vows. They’re ludicrous. Sad sacks.