LITUANUS LITHUANIAN QUARTERLY JOURNAL OF ARTS AND SCIENCES   Volume 15, No.2 - Summer 1969 Editors of this issue: Antanas Klimas, Ignas K. Skrupskelis Copyright © 1969 LITUANUS Foundation, Inc.

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"LIFE WITHOUT GOD AS AN ATTESTATION OF GOD" from THE MAN WITHOUT GOD

by JUOZAS GIRNIUS

[Man Without God was published in 1964 in Chicago, Ill., by the American Foundation of Lithuanian Research. According to the author, the work was written in about 1954. In 1957, in manuscript form, Man Without God won the prize awarded by Aidai, a Lithuanian cultural monthly. It was extensively revised for publication.

The excerpt which follows is the third of the four sections of the introductory chapter. This chapter is titled "Theism and Atheism." According to Girnius, there exists a total opposition between theism and atheism. No one can avoid the question, and no middle way is possible. One either believes that God exists, or denies that He exists. But the opposition between theism and atheism need not become an opposition between theists and atheists. As human beings, we share a great deal which makes a fruitful dialogue between us possible. The dialogue between theists and atheists should be approached not with a polemical passion but in terms of devotion to truth, which should be present both in the theist and the atheist. Even more, the two sides possess a common body of experience, particularly the experience of death and of evil generally. For both, such experiences make central the question of the significance of human existence. Neither side can avoid the question, for without such a concern both convictions become mere traditional routines.

Girnius maintains that the problem of God is the central problem of all human thinking. One's attitude towards human life itself depends upon the answer one gives to the question of God. The significance of human life, the meaning of all that men experience, rides upon this question. Girnius believes that recent literature and philosophy have shown with great clarity what forms of life are possible for the man without God. The bulk of this book is devoted to an attempt to understand these forms. While trying to be objective, Girnius himself is a theist, and thus the effort to understand is also an appeal. The author believes that if the atheist were to understand his own life — the life of a man without God — he would take an important step in his return to God. Trans.]

How is it possible to awaken the atheist from his prejudicial certainty which "knows" already that God is not, and thus is not at all interested even in the question of God? Since atheism depends not upon so-called knowledge but upon a decision, the atheistic certainty can be best shaken by life itself. Men are more apt to be converted to God not by eloquent preachers, but by the blows of life, by sickness and the approach of death. Atheists laugh that in such cases the conversion is "due to fear," "after the mind has weakened," "after the spirit has died out." But this laughter turns against the atheists themselves. For everyday purposes, any meaning given to one's life suffices. But when the unconquerable limits of human existence are faced (suffering, sickness, old-age, and finally, death), all the meanings used to cover up the inner emptiness are shattered. Then, the yearning for eternity is awakened and it becomes clear that nothing in this world can satisfy finally the longing for meaning. And when we are no longer certain in advance that God is not, we open ourselves to the proof for the existence of God, not only with the mind's interest, but also with the longing of the heart.

When we mention all this, we enter upon the second way of reaching the man without God. This way is the analysis of his own life, the life of a man without God. In this study, we will pursue this way through the question of to what extent atheism can satisfy the human longing for meaning. Of course, this way does not suffice to prove the existence of God. It is possible to agree about the meaninglessness which terrorizes human life without finding any other way out except to endure the fate of man. However, in every case, the lack of God must be experienced in order to search for Him as That which is longed for when in the concern for meaning we burn with the longing for eternity.

In calling this chapter "life without God as an attestation of God," we at the same time expressed the main thought of the whole study: even when he denies Him, in a peculiar way man testifies for God. There is nothing which does not attest God's existence. All entities attest to God, beginning with the sand of the seashore and ending with the starry heavens, beginning with the blossom of a violet and ending with the song of a poet. And more than anything else, man testifies to God with his spiritual and creative nature which forces its way towards eternity. And if man himself turns away from God, the emptiness of an atheistic life testifies to God. To put it in a paradox, even the denial of God is possible only because he is the Undeniable. In the words of the chorus of T. S. Eliot's Murder in the Cathedral, "Those who deny Thee could not deny, if Thou didst not exist; and their denial is never complete, for if it were so, they would not exist."

The unease of atheistic life was typically expressed in a question without an answer by one of the characters of André Malraux: "What is to be done with the soul, if there is neither God nor Christ?" (La condition humaine). The soul is what makes a man human. To ask what is to be done with the soul is the same as to ask what is to be done with oneself. In one way or another, we always solve this question in the act of living our lives. But are we always satisfied with our solution? Written upon our being there is a standard whereby we can evaluate our decisions; this is the longing for immortality and innocence. We can remain indifferent neither to death nor guilt. We would not fear death, if we did not long for immortality, we would not be concerned about guilt if we did not long for innocence.

The two longings, for immortality and for innocence which in essence coincide, disturb the man without God, too. The essence of man remains the same, independently of how man understands himself. Whether one understands himself as a creature of God or holds that there is nothing above man — in either case the human heart burns with the same longing. What is different is the attitude a man takes towards this longing. In the first case, there is hope of satisfying the longing; in the other, there is no hope. In this originated the peculiar tension in the relation of the man without God to his heart's inborn yearning. On the one hand, he attempts to explain this longing as a survival of mythical ways of thinking about which a critical mind need not be concerned. But this yearning does not cease even when devalued as a mythical illusion. And thus, on the other side, the atheist attempts to give a new meaning to the longing. He agrees that it is unquenchable; however, he attempts to point it not in an "illusory" but a "real" direction. Namely, what is deemed a mythical survival is not the longing itself, but only its "mythical" interpretation.

Let us first glance at the longing for immortality. As much as we fear death, so we long for immortality. However, the immortality of the soul is impossible without God. Without faith in God, there is no hope for eternity. We could imagine a peculiar synthesis of theism and materialism which would consider man a creature of God, but a creature with a mortal soul (the soul would not be considered to be a spiritual entity). But it is totally impossible to imagine the opposite case, where we would assert the immortality of the soul while denying God. The denial of God is at the same time a denial of the immortality of the soul.

But if without God there is no basis for believing in man's vocation for eternity, why, nevertheless, does the longing for eternity lie hidden in the human soul? From the atheistic point of view, this is a misunderstanding. Consequentially, atheism attempts to douse the longing for immortality. The unreasonableness and pointlessness of the longing for immortality is proclaimed; the grandeur of man is sought in his mortality itself; finally, immortality is shown to be a curse were it really given to man. However, what has been implanted in the soul of man cannot be rooted out by theoretical argumentation of any kind. Whatever may be the case, the question of the longing for immortality remains even when it is being answered in the negative. And thus, the naturalness of the longing for immortality is again admitted, however, with the attempt to give it a "real" meaning. A substitute must be found for the personal immortality which has been rejected. For some, real immortality is natural immortality, for others, historical.

To what degree can natural or historical immortality satisfy the human longing for eternity? This question will be more concretely answered by the subsequent analysis of the relation of the man without God to death. At the moment, let us be satisfied with only a schematic glance at the atheistic conception of death.

The solace of natural immortality is emphasized by Schopenhauer's philosophy of death. This is the immortality which nature assures to all of her creatures, from man to the smallest fly living only for a day, by the eternity of the species. Only individuals die, but as they change, the species survives, for the essence of the kind, its idea, is untouched by death. To use one of Schopenhauer's concrete examples: "Look at the animal nearest to us, look at your dog, how nobly and quietly he stands before you. Many thousands of dogs have had to die before it came to this one's turn to live. But the death of these thousands has not affected the idea of the dog, which has not been in the least disturbed by all that dying... What, then, has died during these thousands of years? Not the dog — it stands unscathed before us, but merely its shadow."1 For this reason, according to Schopenhauer, there is no reason to fear death: death does not destroy the essence itself, it only changes the existence of individuals in such a way that what for the individual is sleep is to the kind the death of individuals.

Such an "essential" solace against the fear of death depends upon the devaluation of individual existence to a shadow. And indeed, we would be only the shadows of a moment if men were to receive only the shadowy immortality of the essence of the "idea." Immortality through an "idea," which expresses the essence of the species, is only an empty metaphor. Everything that is has its essence or "idea." Hence, we can equally deem immortal the whole of nature, not only animate, but also inanimate. With the same pathos we can announce that not only a dog, but also a stone is "in idea" immortal. But this is only playing with words, for the "ideality" of essence does not mean any kind of immortality. An idea is neither mortal nor immortal, for in general it is outside reality, unless it is realized by concrete existence. In the real sense, only he is immortal who, being alive, is subject to death, but steps beyond it through his spiritual existence. The mere survival of the kind in the flux of individuals, furthermore, provides no basis for talking about natural immortality, for this is not a real stepping over time but only temporary duration, dependent upon the natural environment. Many kinds no longer survive, and only fossils testify to them. Many other kinds are in the process of extinction. The life on earth of man too depends upon the appropriate conditions; and when these conditions no longer hold, man too will disappear from the surface of the earth. But most important: even if an endless duration were assured for the race of man, this would mean nothing for the separate individual. That the idea of man is "immortal," or that the human race will long endure, is of no importance to him whom death is waiting for. When I long for immortality in the face of death, I long not for that of an idea or a kind, but for my own personal immortality. Instead of in natural immortality, however, contemporary atheism tends to seek solace more in historical immortality: we die in our individual existence, but we gain immortality with our creativity. Relevant in this respect is the conception of art of A. Malraux, according to whom art is essentially an "anti-fate," a battle against the destiny of death. There is no other way of conquering death, except by realizing oneself in creativity. Only creativity steps over death; thus, only in his creation does a man remain after death: "Not Bounarotti survives in the works of Michael Angelo, but his artist's soul."2

Without doubt, immortality in history by virtue of creativity is incomparably more than the "immortality" of the species in nature. Where the "immortality" of the species holds for all things in nature, immortality through creativity is peculiar only to man. In seeking for immortality through creativity, man testifies to his spiritual vocation which sets him apart from all other things in nature. This is a vocation not only to endure in time, but to go beyond time. Whereas in the case of the immortality of the species we have in mind only the fact that the kind (essence) does not end with the death of the individual (shadow), immortality through creativity expresses the creative achievements of the individual himself, which even death cannot destroy. Immortality through creativity is not an empty metaphor, as is the "immortality" of the kind, because the stepping over time through creativity rightly points in a symbolic way to the eternity sought through the longing for immortality. In spite of this, however, neither can immortality through creativity be considered as that real immortality which is possible in eternity but not in history. Any creative achievement overcomes the transitoriness essential to time only in a relative way. While works do survive the death of their creator, they are also destroyed, sooner or later disappearing along with their material substrate and the memory blunts everything even more quickly than time; some creative achievements outreach others and unavoidably force us to forget them. Few of the creative achievements of one age survive in the memory of the subsequent age. And only the greatest creative achievements are remembered for whole centuries; and even this, as a fact, takes place within the limits of one particular culture. And since cultures themselves die, as Malraux himself knows, immortality through creativity finally burns out in the course of history. Most important: even if through creative achievements one survived throughout the whole of history, this still would not mean a real overcoming of death. In the presence of death, I am concerned with my own immortality and not with that of my creative legacy. Not works of one kind or another but I myself face death. No matter how strongly I were engaged to realize myself through creativity, I can never consider that my creative achievements exhaust me. In the depths of my being I am more than everything that I have achieved in the world, and thus I cannot be satisfied with the relative survival of creative achievements.

That immortality which man, fearing non-existence, longs for in the face of death, is not a natural immortality, or a historical immortality, or the survival of the species or works in yet another way, it is the existential immortality of the man himself. Do I, who in the world am as mortal as all other living things, end my existence with death, or not? Neither the survival of the race with the death of separate individuals nor the survival of a separate individual through his spiritual creativity is the immortality of the man himself. A man is more than a single instance of the embodiment of the human idea, and more than creative self-expression. Because of this, no so-called immortality which is not his personal immortality in eternity can satisfy man. In longing for immortality, we long not for a temporal duration but for eternity itself.

The longing for innocence fares similarly in an atheistic context. Without God, it can neither be justified nor satisfied.

If there is nothing superior to man, there is no one before whom man can be guilty. From the point of view of atheism, conscience must seem a mythical survival, exactly like God. Nietzsche developed precisely this in his ideal of the superman "beyond good and evil." However, since conscience disquiets everyone equally, whether or not one wishes it to, the question of why it does not die out in man even when the man himself does not feel responsible to anyone above himself must be raised. Positivistic atheism tries to explain conscience as the compulsion of social customs, but this explanation encounters the inner imperativeness of conscience. Guilt disquiets a man even when there is no danger that things will come out into the open. Many law-breakers surrender themselves to the instruments of justice, testifying to the fact that it is more difficult to endure the uneasiness of conscience than punishment. This is unexplainable by means of social compulsion. Equally unexplainable is the general possibility of discussing guilt when man is deemed to be strictly determined by his social environment. If one denies human free will, one should consequentially deny guilt of any kind. Alas, guilt is undeniable! Contemporary humanistic atheism no longer accentuates social necessity, but the responsibily of freedom. This reveals man as an ethical being. But in this respect, a new question arises: freedom — to what? Humanistic atheism trusts that everything to which man dedicates himself from real freedom is of itself valuable. Alas, freedom can resolve not only for the good, but also for the evil. Where there is freedom, there is also guilt.

Freedom elevates man to the level of a moral being but it also makes sin possible. No one is without sin: when we have not directly transgressed, we have not brought about the good which we are capable of. In this respect, the opposition between belief and unbelief is not to be treated as also an opposition between morality and immorality. A believer can live immorally, for faith by itself does not protect against temptations. On the other hand, even the man without God can in general live morally, for the lack of faith by itself does not erase conscience. But in any case, even the saints have not remained without sin. Sin is "the great and dark attendant of man" (H. Carossa).

Sin entices not with evil but with happiness; yet sin brings not a blessing but a curse. As goodness manifests itself through the enthusiasm of love to the point of transforming enemies into "neighbors," so evil spreads through the coldness of indifference which sees even one's closest associates as enemies. Sin encloses everyone within himself. However, the loneliness of sin is not fruitful concentration within oneself, but a hopeless gnawing away at self. "Hell is — other people," announced J. P. Sartre, the philosopher of existentialistic atheism.3 In reality, hell is not the "other people," but the loneliness of sin which transforms brothers into "the other." As if answering Sartre, somewhat earlier G. Bernanos had observed: "hell is — coldness," which permeates man through the loneliness of sin. "Ah! How lonely we are in evil, brothers. Poor men, who for centuries have tried to break this loneliness — all in vain! The devil who can do many things can never establish his own church, which would collect the merits of hell and unite in the bond of sin. To the end of the world, a sinner will always sin alone, always alone. We sin alone, as we die alone." 4 In this way the priest in G. Bernanos' novel Monsieur Ouine admonishes his parishioners after a murder. Is this admonition only a sermon? The drama by A. Camus, Le malentendu, no longer a Catholic but an atheist, echoes with the same bitter warning. He too attempts to answer the question whether loneliness can be overcome by sin. Le malentendu — a misunderstanding. Mother and daughter maintain a hotel and make a living by robbing (murdering) their guests. One day the son and brother appears as a guest. He is returning home after many years and does not wish to make himself known immediately. Was it only a misunderstanding? We may gues that the sister sensed her brother but still resolved to commit the crime from a peculiar kind of shame: "I thought that crime had forged a bond between me and my mother that nothing could ever break. In all the world, on whom should I rely, if not the one who has killed beside me? I was mistaken. Crime too is solitude, even if a thousand people join together to commit it, and it is fitting that I should die alone, as alone I lived and killed."5

No matter how seductively a sin entices us, as a fact, it always defiles man. There are no innocent sins; every sin is filthy. As no one is without sin, so we all long for innocence. But what can ultimately forgive man's sins? It is human to sin, for sin tempts all of us equally. It is humane to pity the offender, for in sin is hidden that "misunderstanding," the offender himself eventually becoming the victim of his own sin. But it is not within man's power to wash away the sin, for what is done cannot be undone.

"Who would dare to condemn me in this world without a judge, where no one is sinless?" Not without reason does Caligula, in the drama of the same name by A. Camus, deny the right of judging him to others. Since no one of us is without sin, we do not have the right to judge our neighbors. On the contrary, all of us are ourselves in need of the forgiveness of sins.

Here, the theistic and the atheistic points of view separate. For theism, as we do not have the right to judge our neighbors, so we do not have the right to forgive them their sins. Men forgive those who offend against them by refusing to condemn them, but such forgiveness is not the washing away of the sins themselves. Ultimately, all sins are sins against God, for every sin turns man away from that vocation to which God has called him. Because of this, only God can forgive man his sins. In all religions, the appeal to God is followed by the hope that sins will be forgiven. By His divine authority, Christ, as the one who has redeemed the world from sin, guarantees this hope. No matter how seriously we have sinned, we can always hope for forgiveness if we repent with genuine contrition.

What remains to man after the denial of God? Theoretically, the answer of the man without God is direct: if in this "world without a judge" no one can judge us, then we are not in need of any forgiveness. Since there is no basis for hope, there is for the same reason no basis for hopelessness. "If there is no God, the sins of man are irredeemable"6 (S. de Beauvoir). Instead of worrying pointlessly about the forgiveness of sins, it would be better to be concerned about that endless responsibility which is placed upon man by the irrevocable character of his acts. However, in spite of this theoretical refusal to be concerned about the forgiveness of sins, the problem still remains to disquiet man. E. Hemingway expressed profoundly the human longing for forgiveness in the following dialogue between partisans in the Spanish civil war: "You have killed? — Yes. Several times. But not with pleasure. To me it is a sin to kill a man. Even Fascists whom we must kill. To me there is a great difference between the bear and the man... — Yet you have killed. — Yes. And I will again. But if I live later, I will try to live in such a way, doing no harm to any one, that I will be forgiven. — By whom? — Who knows? Since we do not have God here any more, neither His Son nor the Holy Ghost, who forgives? I do not know. — You have not God anymore? — No. Man. Certainly not... Clearly I miss Him, having been brought up in religion. But now a man must be responsible to himself. — Then it is thyself who will forgive thee for killing. — I believe so."

However, although it "follows" consequentially that without God man must forgive his own sins, this rational conclusion does not quiet conscience. Soon, the same question of repentance arises anew: "I wish there were a penance for it that one could commence now because it is the only thing that I have done in all my life that makes me feel badly when I am alone." Having repudiated God, and being dissatisfied with that atheistic logical conclusion, Hemingway's partisan finally turns his eyes to the state: "If we no longer have religion after the war then I think there must be some form of civic penance organized that all may be cleansed from the killing or else we will never have a true and human basis for living."7

But the state is incapable of doing what men themselves are incapable of. The state can only punish while man himself can only repent. But the sin itself can be done away with neither through repentance nor through punishment.

The concern for the forgiveness of sins is more than a moral concern to live better in the future. In thirsting for the forgiveness of sins, we really long for that eternal innocence which in theological language is called salvation. Although without God there is no reason to talk about salvation at all, the longing for salvation nevertheless lies hidden in the soul of even the man without God. Except that for the man without God, this longing for salvation manifests itself in a negative form — as a concern with death and guilt and a dissatisfaction with this "world without judge." There is longing, without knowledge of what is longed for. This longing which does not understand itself was strikingly expressed by A. Camus through the words of Caligula: "This world of ours, as it has been made, is quite intolerable. I need the moon, or happiness, or eternal life — something which perhaps is insane, but which isn't of this world."8

Such is the condition, with no way out, of the atheistic soul: to thirst for immortality and to know only of death; to search for the forgiveness of sins and to find them irredeemable; to long for salvation and to have no hope. This inner tension of the soul without God is accurately expressed by Dostoevskii through the dialectical dilemma of Kirillov in The Possessed: "God is necessary and therefore must exist... But I know that there is no God and there can be none."9

"God is necessary," for living without God is unbearable. A world without God is a world without hope and without love. If there is no God, we stand irrevocably before a death which makes everything meaningless, condemned to that torturous loneliness which grows ever deeper with sin.

Heedless, we plunge into the hunt for happiness. attacking each other like ravenous wolves, but we find not a blessing, only the boredom of despair. We long for understanding and sympathy from our neighbors, but, sunk in our own cares, we avoid each other as if avoiding stones on a road. We hunger for justice, but in our hands it becomes only a mechanical device: police, courts, and prisons. We thirst for freedom, but no sooner than we have won it, do we not know what to do with it, and sell ourselves to tyrants who promise to save us from anarchy. We proclaim the universal brotherhood of man, but in fact we have regard only for personal and group interests, which as they change alter the friends of today into tomorrow's enemies. We dream of humaneness, but in life force rather than love rules.

In this sense, the very turning away from God testifies to Him by showing what life without God becomes. When man in the despair of unbelief denies God, as a witness to God arise the heart's unease which nothing in the world can end and the suffering of guilt for which no arguments can provide comfort. We can be drowning in hatred, but we cannot cease longing for love. We can deny Him who through his love created and redeemed us, but we cannot cease longing to be the children of one Father instead of atoms indifferent to each other. We cannot but long to be able to appeal to an endless love, rather that to be condemned to hopelessness by meaninglessness and guilt.

"But I know that there is no God, and there can be none." From where comes this "news?" Hemingway's partisan, already quoted, gives a characteristic answer as to why in spite of having been "raised Godfearing," he now "really does not believe": "If there were God, never would He have permitted what I have seen with my eyes. Let them have" God.10 — that is, their enemies, who believe in God but behave in a way which God would not permit if He really existed.

The question of how to reconcile belief in God with the terrifying experience of evil has always arisen painfully. This question is raised in an especially disturbing way in Dostoevskii's Brothers Karamazov by Ivan's decision to remain without reward for his suffering and with a raging disgust, rather than to "buy" universal harmony with the tears of innocent children: "If all must suffer to pay for the eternal harmony, what have children to do with it, tell me, please?... So I renounce the supreme harmony altogether. It's not worth the tears of that one tortured child who beat itself on the breast with its little fist and prayed in its stinking outhouse, with its unexpected tears to 'dear, kind God'."11 How can this world so full of the most terrifying cruelties be considered a creation of Him whom we want to consider to be endless love? For this reason, Andre Gide undertakes to conceive God blasphemously, not in terms of endless love, but rather in terms of that sadistic irony by means of which we depict the evil spirit: "The devil and the good God are one: they agree. We try to believe that everything that is evil on earth is the work of the devil. But this is only because otherwise we could never forgive God. He is playing with us, like a cat with a mouse.. . and after all this, he still demands that we be grateful! Grateful, what for, what for?... Do you know the cruelest thing he has done? He sacrificed his own son to save us. His own son! His own son! Cruelty — is the first attribute of God."12

To believe in such a demonic and cruel God is neither possible nor worthwhile, and Gide's profanities are really a denial of God based upon the fact of evil. But if there is no God, against whom is directed this rebellious disgust, through which the attempt to prove the impossibility of God is made? If there is no God, all the accusations leveled at Him turn against man, and it is man who must accept all the responsibility for evil in the world. But in what way can we hold against God what, it is admitted, is the fault of man himself? In this vicious circle is found the contradiction of atheistic rationality. On the one hand, along with Nietzsche and Sartre one proudly declares: how could I be free if God existed? Therefore, He does not exist. On the other hand, along with Gide one asserts in a scandalized tone: How can God exist if man can be so vicious? Therefore, He does not exist. This means that first one turns away from God, then, when life is cursed with hatred, is scandalized that some believe God to be love.

It is pointless to deny God because we are horrified by ourselves. God created man not evil but free. Having been created a free person, man himself is responsible for what he makes out of his life. Man's life becomes a realm of horrifying cruelties only when, having denied God, he no longer sees his neighbors as brothers, created by the same Father, and is plunged into a heedless battle for survival in which he becomes like a wolf to other men. To deny God because of the cruelties of this warfare is to argue against ourselves. A life without God does not witness to God's non-existence; on the contrary, with its inner tragedy it hides a moral witness for God.

Only a shallow atheism is satisfied with itself and joyful about man's freedom without God. A more profound atheism is always tragic in its tension between the longing for God and the "knowledge" that "there is no God, and there can be none." In some cases, for example those of A. Malraux and A. Camus whom we will consider later in more detail, this inner tension of atheism is covered with a cold Sisyphean pride. In other cases, for example F. Nietzsche and A. Gide, it pours out as a blasphemous passion. And finally in the third case, for example Virginia Woolf in her last years, the longing for the God being denied is openly symbolized by appropriate imagery — for example, that "no one's voice" who weeps for us like "all people in the world weeping" and who shocks so much that one is ready to give anything in order that this suffering of man would end.13 Does this "no one's voice" not belong to that incarnate Word, who to the end of time remains in the agony of Calvary and redeems our sins?

1. A. Schopenhauer, Saemtliche Werke, 1949, vol. III, p. 553. [A. Schopenhauer, The World as Will and Idea, trans. by R. B. Haldane, London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1883, vol. III, p. 275.]
2. A. Malraux, Psychologie de l'art: La création artistique, 1948, p. 216.
3. J. P. Sartre, Theatre, 1947, vol. I, p. 167 (in the play Huis clos).
4. G. Bernanos, Monsieur Ouine, 1946, p. 166.
5. A. Camus, Le malentendu, suivi de Caligula, 1947, pp. 92-93. [A. Camus, Caligula and Three Other Plays, trans. by Stuart Gilbert, New York: Knopf, 1958, p. 131.]
6. S. de Beauvoir, Pour une morale de l'ambiguité, 1947, p. 23.
7. E. Hemingway, For Whom the Bell Tolls, chapters 3 and 15.
8. A. Camus, op. cit., p. 110.
9. F. M. Dostoevskii, The Possessed, part III, chapter 6.
10. E. Hemingway, op. cit.
11. F. M. Dostoevskii, The Brothers Karamazov, trans. [into Lithuanian] by M. Miškinis, 1960, vol. I, pp. 410-411. [The English translation by Constance Garnett, published in the Modern Library, was consulted.]
12. A. Gide, Les faux-monnayeurs, 1925, pp. 498-499.
13. V. Woolf, Between the Acts, 1941, pp. 180-181, p. 200.