The Individualist

as we understand them, — our Individualist — loves life and strength. The proclaim, passionately, the joy and the enjoyment of living. They admit openly that their own happiness is their goal. They are no sort of ascetic and the mortification of the flesh disgusts them. They are passionate. They present themselves openly, their brow crowned with vines, and sing gladly, accompanying themselves on the pan flute. They commune with Nature, whose energy stimulate their instincts and thoughts. They are neither young nor old: they are the age that they feel. And as long as there remains a drop of blood in their veins, they struggle to win or to secure their place in the sun. They do not impose, but neither do they wish to be imposed upon. They renounce masters and gods. They know how to love, but they also know how to hate. They are full of affection for their own, those in their circles, but they have a horror of false friends. They are proud and conscious of their personal dignity. They shape themselves internally and react externally. They gather themselves and spend themselves lavishly. They care nothing for prejudices and laugh at what others say about them. They have a taste for art, the sciences and letters. They love books, study, meditation and labor. They are artisans, not mere laborers. They are generous, sensitive and sensual. They are hungry for new experience and fresh sensations. But if they advance through life on a chariot fast as a whirlwind, it is on the condition of feeling themselves the master of the coursers that carry them along, it is animated by the will to assign to wisdom and sensual pleasure, as circumstances decree, the share that legitimately falls to each of them in the course of their personal evolution.