Abstraction, Inattention
Not only is abstraction fatal to study, but it often plays us sorry tricks apart from our occupations. Sometimes a bright idea comes into our mind, but touching only the surface; if by inattention or idleness we do not fix it firmly in our memory by clothing it in suitable words, it is a hundred to one that it is not irrevocably lost to us. It is not more possible to arrest its flight than to fasten a placard to the wall without nails or gum.
It is difficult to note with exactness the amount of inattention which so frequently accompanies the act of opening a serious book even with the fixed intention of reading it.
I once surprised myself in a flagrant act of inattention. I was staying with a friend, and took up Pascal’s Pensées, which I had not read for some time. The edition was not the same as the one I had at home. Whilst turning over the leaves I said to myself occasionally, “How the style has changed—this is not clear—this observation is very shallow”; and so I went on, astonished at not being able to admire this celebrated work as I had formerly done. Suddenly I came upon this phrase, “Monsieur Pascal confond tout cela.” What was my humiliation to discover that in this edition “les Pensées de Pascal” were followed by “les Pensées de Nicole.” I had passed from the one to the other without noticing it. But what could have given rise to this impression of Nicole’s? I turned back a few pages, and read: “A book has just appeared which is perhaps the most useful that could be placed in the hands of princes; it is a selection of the ‘Pensées de Pascal.’ I do not say that all are equally good ... I find amongst them many well polished stones and fit to adorn a great building; but the remainder appeared to be mixed material, for which I can hardly suppose that M. Pascal could find a use.... There are even certain sentiments which hardly appear to be exact, and are like scattered thoughts thrown out at random, which are written only that they may afterwards be examined with more care and attention. Monsieur Pascal supposes that ennui comes from that which we see in ourselves—from what we think of ourselves. That assertion is perhaps more subtle than solid. Thousands of persons experience ennui without thinking of themselves at all; they feel weariness not from what they think, but because they do not think enough.... M. Pascal confond tout cela.” Upon my word, I felt consoled for my lapse into inattention; to this fault I owe my acquaintance with M. Nicole’s acute remark: “Men do not feel weariness from what they think, but because they do not think enough.”