Blanqui Eternity According To The Stars

Eternity According to the Stars: L'éternité par les astres
Louis-Auguste Blanqui
Matthew H. Anderson
CR: The New Centennial Review, Volume 9, Number 3, Winter

2009, pp. 3-60 (Article)
Published by Michigan State University Press

DOI: 10.1353/ncr.0.0087
For additional information about this article

http://muse.jhu.edu/journals/ncr/summary/v009/9.3.blanqui.html
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CR: The New Centennial Review, Vol. 9, No. 3, 2010, pp. 1–60, issn 1532-687x.
© Michigan State University Board of Trustees. All rights reserved.
● 1
translator’s note: The title page shown overleaf is reproduced from the first complete edition
of the book, published in 1872. A substantially abridged version appeared as an article in the sec-
ond volume of the journal La Revue Scientifique de la France et de l’Étranger, in 1871. The article
included an introductory footnote explaining that Blanqui had written the text while detained
in prison, and that the editors thought their readers would find it interesting, or curieux, to see
how “the famous socialist agitator dealt with a scientific question.”
Eternity According to the Stars
L’éternité par les astres
Louis-Auguste Blanqui
Translated by Matthew H. Anderson
I. The Universe—Infinity
The universe is infinite in time and space: eternal, boundless, and indivisible.
All bodies, animate and inanimate, solid, liquid, and gaseous, are linked to
one another by the very things that separate them. All holds together. With-
out the astral bodies (astres), only space would remain, absolutely empty no
doubt, yet having the three dimensions, length, width, and depth; indivisible
and unlimited space.1
Pascal, in his magnificent language, has said: “The universe is a circle [un
cercle], whose center is everywhere and whose circumference is nowhere.”
Can there be a more striking image of infinity? After him, let’s say, clarifying
somewhat: the universe is a sphere whose center is everywhere and whose
surface is nowhere.
And here we have the universe before us, exposed to observation and rea-
soning. Countless stars shine in its depths. Let’s imagine ourselves at one of
these “centers of the sphere,” which are everywhere and yet whose surface is
CR: The New Centennial Review, Vol. 9, No. 3, 2010, pp. 1–60, issn 1532-687x.
© Michigan State University Board of Trustees. All rights reserved.
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4● Eternity According to the Stars
nowhere, and for a moment, let us also imagine the existence of this surface:
the one that is then found at the limit of the world.
Will this limit be solid, liquid, or gaseous? Regardless of its nature, it
immediately becomes the extension of the boundary it marks off or claims
to mark off. Let’s assume that neither solids, liquids, nor gas—and not even
ether—exist here. Nothing but space, empty and black. Nonetheless, this
space will have its three dimensions. And for its limit, which is also a continu-
ation, it will necessarily have a new portion of space of the same nature, and
another after that, and then yet another after that, and so on, indefinitely.
The infinite can only be presented through the aspect of the indefinite.
The infinite leads to the indefinite through the manifest impossibility of being
able to find, or even conceive of, a limitation to space. Admittedly, an infinite
universe is inconceivable; yet a limited universe is absurd. This absolute
certainty of the infinity of the world, together with its incomprehensibility,
constitutes one of the most aggravating provocations (une des plus crispantes
agaceries) to torment the human intellect. No doubt—somewhere among
the wandering globes—there are brains vigorous enough to comprehend this
enigma, which yet remains impenetrable to ours. Our jealousy will have do
its mourning over them.
This enigma arises with the infinite in time just as it does with the
infinite in space. Indeed, the eternity of the world seizes the intellect even
more forcefully than its immensity. If one doesn’t agree that the universe
has boundaries, then how can one support the idea of their nonexistence?
Matter didn’t arise from nothingness. And it won’t return to nothingness,
either. Matter is eternal and imperishable because, on its track of perpetual
alteration, it cannot diminish or grow by an atom.
Yet, if matter is infinite in time, then why wouldn’t it be so in its expanse
(dans l’étendue)?2 The two infinities are inseparable. The one entails the other
at the cost of contradictions and absurdities. Science has not yet recorded
a law of interdependence between space and the globes that cut across it.
Heat, motion, light, and electricity are necessary throughout the entirety of
expanses. Competent people assume that none of its parts could remain wid-
owed from these great, luminous hearths by virtue of which worlds live. Our
opuscule rests in its entirety on this opinion, which populates the infinity of
Louis-Auguste Blanqui ● 5
space with the infinity of globes, without anywhere leaving corners of dark-
ness, solitude, or stillness.
II. The Indefinite
One can’t attain an idea of the infinite, not even a faint one, in any other way
than from the indefinite; and nevertheless this idea, weak as it is, already
takes on formidable aspects. Sixty-two numerals, occupying a length of
about 15 centimeters on the page, give us 20 octodecillion leagues, or in more
common terms, billions and billions and billions and billions and billions of
times the path from the Sun to the Earth.3, 4
Then imagine another line of numerals, one that isn’t just more than 15
centimeters, but one stretching from here to the Sun, or 37 million leagues.
Wouldn’t the expanse encompassed by such an enumeration truly be fright-
ening? And now take this expanse itself for a unit in a number such as the
following: a line of numerals stretching across the Earth and ending at that
star over there, the one whose light takes a thousand years to reach us, at a
speed of 75,000 leagues per second. Imagine the distance that would come
from such a calculation, if language found the words and time to express it!
One can thus prolong the indefinite in this way as much as one wants
without thereby exceeding the limits of the intellect, but also without even
making a dent in infinity. If each word were the indication of the most hor-
rifying of postponements, one would speak one word per second for billions
and billions of centuries; in sum, to express no more than an insignificance
as soon as the infinite is at stake.
III. The Prodigious Distances of Stars
The universe seems to unfold in all its immensity before our eyes. Yet it shows
us nothing more than a quite small corner. The Sun is one of the stars in the
Milky Way: the large, stellar gathering that sweeps across half of the sky, and
whose constellations are nothing more than detached members, scattered
across the night’s vault. Beyond, a few faint points piercing the firmament
signal stars half-extinguished by distance, and further away, in the already
concealed depths, the telescope is able to catch sight of some nebulae, small
starry clusters of pale dust, the backgrounds of the milky way.
The remoteness of these bodies is prodigious. It escapes all calculations
made by the astronomers who have tried in vain to discover a parallax for
some of its brightest stars: Sirius, Altair, Vega (of Lyra). Their results haven’t
obtained any credence and are still quite problematic. They’re just ap-
proximations that, at a minimum, cast the closest stars beyond 7,000 billion
leagues. And the best observed, 61 Cygni, gave a distance of 23,000 billion
leagues—658,700 times the distance from the Earth to the Sun.
Light, traveling at the rate of 75,000 leagues per second, requires ten
years and three months to cover this distance. If one were to travel by railway
at ten leagues per hour, without stopping or slowing down at all, it would
take 250 million years. It would take 400 years to get to the Sun on the same
train. The Earth, which travels 233 million leagues in its yearly orbit, would
take more than a hundred thousand years to get to 61 Cygni.
The stars are suns similar to ours. It’s said that Sirius is fifty times larger.
Though possible, this is hardly verifiable. But even without contradicting
this, these luminous hearths (foyers lumineux) ought to provide us with large
differences in volume. It’s simply that the comparison is beyond reach, and
differences in size and brightness can hardly be anything more for us than
questions of forestallment, or rather, uncertain questions. This is because,
without sufficient facts, any assessment is nothing more than temerity.
IV. The Physical Composition of the Stars
Nature is marvelous in the art of adapting organisms to different environ-

ments, without ever deviating from the general template that governs all
of its works. It’s through simple changes that nature multiplies its types to
the seemingly impossible. One has wrongly imagined strange and highly
fantastic situations and beings on other celestial bodies—all without any
analogy to the guests (hôtes) on our planet. There’s no doubt that a myriad
of forms and mechanisms exists. But the template and the materials are
still invariable. Even at the most opposing extremes of the universe, one can
say without hesitation that nerve centers are the base and electricity is the
principal agent of all animal existence. All other systems and apparatuses
are subordinate to this one in thousands of ways according to each environ-
ment. It’s certainly this way in our planetary group, which has to yield an
innumerable set of differing organisms. One must leave the Earth to see this
almost limitless diversity.
We have always considered our globe to be the Queen or reigning planet
(la planète-reine)—a vanity that has often been put to shame. Yet we’re al-
most intruders in the group that our vainglory pretends to have bowing
before its supremacy. It is density that determines the physical composition
of an astral body. And yet our density is nowhere near that of the solar
system. Our density is nothing more than a lowly exception, one that nearly
sets us apart from the genuine family, that is, the Sun and the large planets.
In the whole of the planetary procession, Mercury, Venus, the Earth, and
Mars together only make up 2 out of 2,417 parts of the total volume and,
when the Sun is taken into account, only 2 out of 281,684 parts. That is, we
amount to nothing!
Only a few years ago, faced with such a large disparity, the field was
entirely open to fantasizing about (ouvert à la fantaisie sur) the structure of
these celestial bodies. And the only thing that didn’t seem doubtful in the
least was that these bodies should in no way resemble ours. Yet this was not
so. Spectral analysis has now dispelled this error and, despite so many ap-
pearances to the contrary, demonstrated that there’s an identity in the com-
position of the universe—the forms are innumerable, but the elements are
the same. Here we touch upon the crucial question, one that towers above
nearly all the others and sweeps them aside. So it’s necessary to consider it
in detail, starting from what’s known and proceeding to the unknown.
Until further notice (jusqu’à nouvel ordre), here on Earth nature has 64
simple bodies (corps simple) for the unique elements at its disposal, whose
names will follow below. We say “until further notice” because, just a few
years ago, the number was no more than 53. From time to time, the nomen-
clature becomes enriched through the discovery of some metal that, with
great difficulty, has been extracted through chemistry from its tenacious links
to oxygen. It’s probable that the 64 will reach a hundred or so. Yet the key
players (les acteurs sérieux) hardly surpass 25. The rest are merely walk-ons.
They have been designated as simple bodies because, as of yet, they are ir-
reducible. They are arranged more or less in the order of their importance:
1. Hydrogen 18. Lead 35. Cobalt 51. Lithium

2. Oxygen 19. Mercury 36. Iridium 52. Niobium
3. Nitrogen 20. Antimony 37. Boron 53. Rhodium
4. Carbon 21. Barium 38. Strontium 54. Didymium
5. Phosphorus 22. Chromium 39. Molybdenum [Didyme]
6. Sulfur 23. Bromine 40. Palladium 55. Indium
7. Calcium 24. Bismuth 41. Titanium 56. Terbium
8. Silicon 25. Zinc 42. Cadmium 57. Thallium
9. Potassium 26. Arsenic 43. Selenium 58. Thorium
10. Sodium 27. Platinum 44. Osmium 59. Vanadium
11. Aluminum 28. Tin 45. Rubidium 60. Ytterbium
12. Chlorine 29. Gold 46. Lanthanum [Ytrium]
13. Iodine 30. Nickel [Lantane] 5 61. Cesium
14. Iron 31. Beryllium 47. Tellurium 62. Ruthenium
15. Magnesium [Glucinium] 48. Tungsten 63. Erbium
16. Copper 32. Fluorine 49. Uranium 64. Cerium
17. Silver 34. Zirconium 50. Tantalum
The first four—hydrogen, oxygen, nitrogen, and carbon—are the great

agents in nature. The effect of each of them is so universal that, among
them, one cannot say which should be given precedence. Yet hydrogen is at
the head because it is the light of all the stars. Between themselves alone,
these four gasses are nearly enough to constitute organic matter, flora and
fauna—especially when combined with calcium, phosphorus, sulfur, sodium,
potassium, etc.
Hydrogen and oxygen together make up water, and with chlorine, so-
dium, and iodine form the seas. Silicon, calcium, aluminum, and magnesium,
together with oxygen, carbon, etc., comprise the bulk of geological forma-
tions—the superimposed layers of the Earth’s crust. And the precious metals
have a greater importance for people than they do in nature.
Not long ago, these elements were taken to be particular to our world.
Hence the controversies over the Sun, for example: its composition, the ori-
gin and nature of its light! The great quarrel over emissions and undulations
is hardly over; the recent skirmishes from the rear guard are still reverberat-
ing. The victorious supporters of undulations have built upon their success
with the following, rather fantastic theory: “The Sun—a simple, opaque body
like any other planet—is enshrouded in two atmospheres: the first, which is
similar to ours, serves as a parasol for the indigenous populations against
the second atmosphere; and the second, which is called the photosphere, is
an eternal and inextinguishable source of light and heat.”
This doctrine—universally accepted—has reigned in science for a long
time, in spite of all the analogies suggesting otherwise. The inner fire that
rumbles beneath our feet is testament enough that the Earth once was some-
thing similar to what the Sun is today; and yet the Earth has never taken
on an electrical photosphere graced with the gift of a perennial existence
(gratifiée du don de pérennité).6
Spectral analysis has dispelled these errors. It’s not a matter of perpetual
and everlasting electricity, but rather prosaically, of blazing hydrogen and—
there as elsewhere—the contribution of oxygen. The pink bulges are tremen-
dous, flaming jets of this gas that extend beyond the moon’s disc during total
solar eclipses. And as for the solar spots, they were rightly represented as
vast, open craters among masses of gas; the flames of hydrogen that have
been swept away by storms on the immense surfaces are what lets one see
the astral body’s nucleus—not as a black opacity, but as a relative obscurity—
either in its liquid or its forcefully compressed, gaseous state.
No more wild dreams (chimères) then. Here are two earthly elements
that shed light on (éclairent) the universe, just as they light up (éclairent)
the streets of Paris and London. It’s their combination that gives off light
and heat. And it’s the product of this combination—water—that creates and
sustains organic life. No water, no atmosphere, no flora or fauna—nothing
but the cadaverous moon.
An ocean of flames on the stars to enliven (pour vivifier) and an ocean of
water on the planets for their development (pour organiser); the partnership
between hydrogen and water is the government of matter, and sodium is
their inseparable companion in their two opposed forms: fire and water. In
10 ● Eternity According to the Stars
the solar spectrum, it glistens on the front lines; it’s the main element in the
salt of the seas.
And these seas, which despite their gentle ripples are today so peaceful,
have witnessed entirely different storms, when they whirled around in de-
vouring flames on the Earth’s lava. Yet it is indeed the same mass of hydrogen
and oxygen; what a metamorphosis! The evolution has been carried out—as
it will also be carried out on the Sun. Its spots already point to transitional
gaps in the combustion of hydrogen that will continue to enlarge with time
and eventually become permanent. This time will no doubt last for centuries,
but it’s on a descending slope (la pente descend).
The Sun is a star in its decline. A day will come when the product of the
combination of hydrogen and oxygen, having ceased its process of break-
ing down to regenerate these two elements, will remain what it has to be:
water. This day will see the end of the reign of flames and the beginning of
that of the aqueous vapors, where the sea will have the last word. With the
thick masses of these vapors enshrouding the deposed star (astre déchu), our
planetary world will fall into endless night.
Before this fateful end (terme fatal), humanity will have the time to learn
a good many things. Through spectrometry, it already knows that half of the
64 elements that make up our planet likewise make the Sun, the stars, and
their procession. It also knows that the entire universe has light, heat, and
organic life, and hydrogen and oxygen in their combinations of fire or water.
Not all of the simple bodies are represented in the solar spectrum; the
spectra of the Sun and the stars each point toward the existence of elements
that are unknown to us. This science is still new and inexperienced. It has
hardly uttered its first word, but it is decisive. The elements of celestial bod-
ies are identical throughout the universe. The future will only unfold this
identity each day. The gaps in density, which at first glance seem to be an
insurmountable obstacle to finding any common similarity between our
system’s planets, lose much of their isolating significance when one looks at
the Sun. Its density is merely a quarter of ours, since ours contains metals
such as iron (with a density of 7.80), nickel (8.67), copper (9.95), zinc (7.19),
cobalt (7.81), cadmium (8.69), and chromium (5.90).
Nothing is more natural than the fact that elements exist on different
globes in unequal proportions; hence, the resulting divergences in density.

Obviously, a nebula’s materials have to be arranged above those of the plan-
ets according to the laws of gravity, but this classification doesn’t prevent the
simple bodies from coexisting within the whole of the nebula, even if they are
then divided up again by virtue of these laws. This is precisely the case in our
system, and by all appearances, that of other stellar groups. Later on, we will
see the conditions that arise from this fact.
V. Observations on Laplace’s Cosmogony—

The Comets
Laplace drew his hypothesis from Herschel’s telescopic observations. Com-

ing entirely from mathematics, the illustrious geometer dealt mostly with
the motions of astral bodies, and very little with their physical nature. In-
deed, he only broached the physical question nonchalantly through simple
affirmations, always hastening to return to his calculations pertaining to
gravitation, which was his ongoing objective. It’s obvious that his theory
struggled with two primary difficulties: the origin of the nebulae and comets,
and their high temperatures. Let’s adjourn our discussion of the nebulae for
an instant to look at the comets. Being unable to place the comets within his
system in one form or another—and to put them out of his mind—the author
cast them out to wander from star to star. Let’s follow them ourselves to get
rid of the burden once and for all.
These days, the whole world has come to a state of profound contempt
for comets. These miserable playthings are shoved around by the larger plan-
ets and tugged at in hundreds of ways; then they’re swollen in front of the
Sun’s flames and finished off by being thrown away in tatters. Such decline!
What humble respect one had for them in times past when they were hailed
as messengers of death! This explains all the booing and jeering after it was
discovered that they were harmless! One can certainly catch a glimpse of
men here.
However, this impertinence isn’t without its own hint of anxiety. Oracles
are not without contradictions. Thus Arago—after having proclaimed the
absolute nullity of the comets twenty times over, and after having affirmed
that the most perfect emptiness of a pneumatic machine is even more dense
than the cometary substance—nonetheless declared in a recent chapter of
his works that “the idea that the Earth could be turned into a comet’s satel-
lite is an event that cannot be ruled out of the domain of probability.”
Even such a careful and serious scholar as Laplace likewise expressed
both sides of the issue. Somewhere, he says: “A comet’s collision on the Earth
could not produce any sensible effect. It’s highly probable that comets have
enshrouded the Earth several times without having been noticed. . . .” And else-
where: “it is easy to imagine the impact [of a comet] on the Earth: the axis
and rotating movement changed; the seas abandoning their former locations
to rush toward the new equator; a large portion of men and animals drowned
by this universal deluge or destroyed by the violent jolt transmitted to the
Earth; whole species annihilated. . . .” etc.
A yes and no as categorical as these are singular beneath the pen of
mathematicians. And gravitational attraction—that fundamental dogma of
astronomy—is often treated just as badly, as we will see when we discuss
zodiacal light.
A fair number of different explanations have already been given for this
phenomenon. It was first attributed to the solar atmosphere—an idea that
Laplace fought against. According to him:
[T]he solar atmosphere doesn’t extend beyond the halfway mark of Mercury’s
orbit. The zodiacal lights [les lueurs zodiacales] come from molecules that
were too volatile to unite with the planets during the early period of large
formations, and now circle around the astral body at the center. Their ex-
traordinary fineness poses no resistance at all to the course of the celestial
bodies, and hence gives us this clarity that is permeable to light of stars.
And yet, such a hypothesis isn’t very likely. Planetary molecules volatilized
by high temperatures don’t conserve their heat eternally; consequently, they
wouldn’t maintain their gaseous form in the icy desert of the vast expanses.
Moreover, regardless of what Laplace says about it, this material would pose
a serious obstacle to the motions of celestial bodies; in time it would thus
lead to grave disturbances—even if this material is as fine as it seems to be.
The same objection refutes a recent idea attributing the zodiacal light
to comets that have been cast adrift in the perihelion’s turmoil, with the
remains forming a vast ocean that encompasses and even surpasses the
orbits of Mercury, Venus, and the Earth. This carries the disdain for comets
a step further by confusing their nullity with the ether’s nullity, or even with
emptiness itself. No; the planets couldn’t follow their paths through these
nebulous formations, and gravity also wouldn’t hesitate to throw them off
course.
But it seems even less rational to look for the origin of the zodiacal re-
gion’s mysterious, faint lights in a ring of meteors circling the Sun. Meteors,
by their nature, are not very permeable to starlight.
One could perhaps find the answer by going back a bit further. Arago
somewhere said: “Cometary material has frequently been able to enter our
atmosphere. Such an event is not dangerous. We can go through a comet’s
tail without even noticing it. . . .” And Laplace is no less explicit: “it is highly
probable” he says, “that comets have enshrouded the Earth several times,
without being noticed.”
No doubt everyone will have the same opinion. Yet one can still ask both
astronomers to explain what became of these comets. Did they continue
their voyage? Is it possible for them to tear themselves away from the Earth’s
grip and continue on their way as before? Has the force of attraction ceased?
What? This cloudy, cometary effluence—the one whose nothingness lan-
guage strains to define—this has been able to defy the force that rules the
universe?
One could imagine that two massive globes, hurled at top speed, might
pass each other at a tangent and continue to fly along after a double shock;
but the notion that wandering and inane things could become lodged in our
atmosphere and then calmly detach themselves from it to continue on their
way is an audacity that is far from acceptable. Why wouldn’t these diffuse
vapors remain pinned down to our planet by gravity?
“Precisely because they weigh nothing at all!” one will object. “Their very
thinness shields them. No mass, no attraction.” This is bad reasoning. If they
break away from us to rally their army [corps d’armée], then it’s because the
army itself draws them away and draws us in as well. On what grounds? The
Earth is certainly far superior to them in strength. Comets, as everyone knows,

don’t bother anyone; and yet the whole world bothers them since they’re the
humble slaves of attraction. And how could they stop obeying attraction?
Especially when our world grabs hold of them and can’t let go. The Sun is too
far away to argue with those who are so closely attached to them. And even if
it tugged at the head of one of these cometary crowds, the rearguard—dislo-
cated and broken—would still remain under the Earth’s control.
Nevertheless, one talks nonchalantly about comets that orbit and then
simply leave our globe behind. Yet no one has made the slightest observation
on this score. Is it because the rapid pace of these astral bodies is enough
for them to escape from the effects of the Earth, and then follow their own
course after getting such a boost?
A breach of gravitation like this is impossible, and in any event, we should
stay on track and return to the zodiacal lights. The cometary detachments—
prisoners in these sidereal encounters and driven back toward the equator
through rotation—develop into lenticular bulges. These lumps then become
illuminated by the Sun’s rays before daybreak and even more intensely after
dusk, since the heat of the day has by then dilated them and made their
luminosity more sensitive than it was in the morning, after having cooled
during the night.
These diaphanous masses, which by all appearances are entirely com-
etary and permeable to the smallest stars, occupy an immense expanse,
going all the way from the equator—their center and culminating point in
height and brilliance—to far beyond the tropics and probably as far as the
two poles where they fall, contract, and are extinguished.
Until now, one had always placed the zodiacal light beyond the Earth,
making it difficult to assign them either a place or nature that would at the
same time be compatible with their permanence and variations. But this is
because it was the Earth itself that was causing them since they were wound
around its atmosphere, without the atmospheric column’s weight being in-
creased by a single atom. Such a poor substance could not give more decisive
proof of its futility.
It may be that the comets repeat their visits more often than one would
expect from such imprisoned contingents. Moreover, these contingents
couldn’t go above a certain height without being plundered by the centrifu-

gal force, which carries its spoils away in space. The earthly atmosphere is
thus lined with a cometary wrapping, one that’s almost imponderable—the
seat and source of the zodiacal light. This model is in keeping with the di-
aphanous look of the comets, not to mention that it takes the law of gravity
into account, which prohibits the escape of detachments that have been
captured by planets.
Let’s look at the history of these tufted nihilities once more. If they evade
Saturn, then they fall prey to Jupiter, the police officer of the system. Standing
guard in the shadows, it sniffs them out even before one of the Sun’s rays has
made them visible and, overcoming them, pulls them back into its perilous
maw. There, captured and monstrously dilated by the heat, they lose their
form and grow longer, become disaggregated and are driven away in a frantic
retreat across the terrible channel. Littering stragglers everywhere, they’re
able regain their new solitude only at the great cost of seeking protection
in the cold.
These are the only ones to escape: the ones that haven’t fallen prey to
the planetary zone’s trap. This is how, after having escaped the disastrous
gorges—and leaving its fat spiders in the distance to wander along the bor-
ders of their webs—the 1811 comet swooped down from the polar heights to
the ecliptic, rapidly twisting to outflank the Sun, later rejoining and falling
in with the immense columns that had been scattered by enemy fire. And it
is only then that, after the success of its maneuver, the comet deploys the
splendor of its army before stupefied looks and majestically continues its
victorious retreat into the depths of space.
Such triumphs are rare; these poor comets are burnt by the thousands
at the candle. Like moths, from the depths of the night they carelessly rush,
speeding their volte around the flame that draws them in; never even hiding
from view as they strew their wreckage across the field of the ecliptic. If some
of the chroniclers of the heavens are to be believed, then these mysterious
faint lights are spread out from the Sun to just beyond the Earth’s orbit like
a vast cemetery of comets, where mornings and evenings seem as clear as
day. One recognizes the deaths of these transparent phantoms (ces clartés-
fantômes) as they allow the light of living stars to pass through them.
But wouldn’t they be more like beseeching captives, enchained for

centuries at our atmosphere’s gate, vainly demanding either liberty or hos-
pitality? From the first to the last ray, the intertropical Sun displays these
pallid Bohemians to us as they pay so dearly for their indiscreet visit to the
well-established people.
Comets are fantastic beings indeed. Since the beginning of the solar sys-
tem, they have passed through the perihelion by the millions. Our world in
particular abounds in them; and yet, more than half of them slip by without
being seen, even with the telescope. And how many of them have decided to
reside with us? Three. And one can even claim that they are merely camping
out. One of these days, they’ll pack up their things and wander off to rejoin
their vast tribe out in the imaginary spaces (dans les espaces imaginaires).
In truth, it doesn’t really matter whether they do so by ellipses, parabolas,
or hyperbolas.
After all, they’re just harmless, amiable creatures who often stand in
the limelight on the most beautiful of starry nights. And, if they happen
to get caught like fools in a mousetrap, then astronomy gets caught with
them—only it will have a much harder time getting out of the mess. These are
scientific nightmares, indeed. What a contrast with celestial bodies! The two
extremes of an antagonism: crushing masses and those that are imponder-
able—the excess of the gigantic and the excess of nothing.
And yet, when it comes to this nothing, Laplace speaks of condensation
and of vaporization, as though what was at stake was merely any gas what-
soever. He assures us that, with time, the comets dissipate entirely in the
perihelion’s heat. But what happens to them after this volatilization? The
author doesn’t say, and he probably doesn’t care very much either. As soon as
it’s no longer a matter of geometry, he offers superficial explanations without
a lot of scruples. Yet if the matter is so ethereal that it can be and even has to
be the sublimation of these little, tufted astral bodies, then it remains matter
all the same. And what will its destiny be? No doubt, it will regain its original
form out in the cold. So be it. This is the essence of comets: to reproduce
diaphanous-wanderers (des diaphanéités ambulatoires). However, if we be-
lieve Laplace and other authors, these diaphanous bodies are identical with
the fixed nebulae.
Wait! What’s this? Hold on a minute! The flow of words must be stopped
to establish their content. “Nebula” is suspicious. It’s a noun that has received
too much merit; indeed, there are three different meanings. One can delineate
them in the following way: first, a pale, faint light broken down by powerful
telescopes into innumerable, densely packed stars; second, a similar-looking,
wan transparence, dotted here and there by one or perhaps several bright
points that cannot be resolved into stars; and third, the comets.
A meticulous comparison of these three distinct identities (individuali-
tés) is indispensable. With the first—the clusters of small stars—there’s no
difficulty at all. Everyone will agree with that. But not so with the other two.
According to Laplace, in their first stage of condensation, either the nebu-
lae that are scattered in profusion throughout the universe will lead to the
formation of comets, or they will result in those nebulae possessing bright
points that are irreducible to stars. The latter kind will later be transformed
into solar systems—a transformation that he explains and describes in detail.
Yet, as for the comets, he restricts himself to presenting them as small,
wandering nebulae that he doesn’t define, making no attempt to differentiate
them from the nebulae that are on track to a stellar birth. On the contrary,
he insists on their intimate resemblance, which would only allow them to
be distinguished through the displacement of comets that have become
visible through the Sun’s rays. In a word, he takes irreducible nebulae from
Herschel’s telescope and indiscriminately turns them into either planetary
systems or comets. So it’s nothing more than a question of orbits and the
fixedness or irregularity in gravitation. And as far as the rest is concerned,
they have the same origin—“the universe’s thinly scattered nebulosities”—so
they must have the same constitution.
How is it that such a great physicist was able to conflate these glacial and
empty, faint lights operating under an assumed identity with the immense
jets of ardent vapor that will one day become suns? By attempting to find a
middle ground! If only the comets were in fact made of hydrogen! One could
assume that large masses of this gas, remaining on the outside of the starry
nebulae, wander freely in the expanses where they play a part in gravitation’s
little piece. This would still be made up of cold, dark gas, whereas the stellar-
planetary (stello-planétaires) cradles are incandescent—so much so that the
assimilation of these two kinds of nebulous conglomerations would still

remain impossible. Yet this very stopgap is what is at fault. Compared with
comets, hydrogen is granite. There can’t be anything in common between
the nebulous matter of stellar systems and that of comets. One is force, light
weight, and heat; the other is nullity, ice—empty and dark.
Laplace speaks of a similarity between the two kinds of nebulae that is so
perfect that one can hardly distinguish between the two. How could this be?
Volatilized nebulae are located at distances that are immeasurable; comets
are nearly at arm’s length. And yet he concludes that they share an identi-
cal composition based upon such a superficial likeness between these two
bodies—bodies that are separated by an abyss such as this? But the comet
is infinitely small and the nebula is nearly a universe. A comparison between
such phenomena is absurd.
Let’s repeat once more that if an amount of hydrogen could slip away
from both the gravitational attraction and combustion during the nebula’s
volatile state to escape freely into space and become a comet, then these
astral bodies would come back into the general makeup of the universe. And
moreover, they would play a formidable role. Powerless, like mass itself, and
yet set ablaze by its collision with the oxygen in the air, they would be able to
extinguish all organic bodies—plants and animals—with fire. Only, accord-
ing to the unanimous view: for the cometary substance, hydrogen is what
would be a marble block for hydrogen itself.
One now imagines that shreds of these stellar nebulosities wander from
system to system after the fashion of comets. These volatile clusters—at the
highest of temperatures—wouldn’t pass around as a lifeless and transfixed,
subtle fog, but rather as a frightening cloudburst of light and heat—one that
would quickly cut short our polemics about them. The uncertainty about
these comets drags on and on; discussions and conjectures won’t decide
anything. Yet certain points do appear to have been clarified. Thus the
uniqueness of the cometary substance is not in doubt. It is a simple body,
one that hasn’t revealed a variant in its already quite numerous appearances.
One constantly rediscovers this same elastic tenuousness, the ability to be
dilated to the point of emptiness, this absolute translucency that allows the
faintest lights to pass through without being hindered at all.
Comets don’t come from ether, gas, a liquid, or a solid; and neither do
they come from anything like that which makes up the celestial bodies. They
instead come from an indefinable substance, one that appears to possess
none of the properties of matter as it’s known, one that has no existence
outside of the solar rays that, for a moment, draw them out of nothingness
simply to let them fall back into it. There’s a radical separation between this
sidereal enigma and the stellar systems that comprise the universe. They’re
two isolated modes of existence, two totally distinct categories of matter,
with no other link than a reckless gravitation, one that’s nearly mad. In the
description of the world, the comets can’t be taken into account. They are
nothing, they do nothing, and they only have one role: that of an enigma.
With the comet’s excessive dilations at the perihelion and then its icy
contractions at the aphelion, this scatterbrained astral body represents a
certain giant, put in a bottle by Solomon in One Thousand and One Nights.
When summoned, he spreads out little by little in an immense cloud to take
on a human form, only again to be turned to mist and sucked back down the
neck to disappear in the depths of his jar. A comet is an ounce of fog that fills
up a billion cubic leagues, and then a carafe.
Now that the fun is over with these toys, there’s yet one question open to
debate: Are all of the nebulae composed of heaps of adult stars, or can one
see the fetuses of stars in some of them, whether simple or multiple? This
question only has two judges: the telescope and spectral analysis. And we
will ask them for strict impartiality—one that, above all, guards against the
occult influence of the great names. Indeed, it seems as though spectrometry
is leaning a little toward results that are in conformity with Laplace’s theory.
Any complacency for the possible errors of this illustrious mathemati-
cian is even less important for our current understanding of the solar system
now that his theory may be able to stand up to the telescope and spectral
analysis—which indeed says a lot. It’s the only rational, reasonable explana-
tion of planetary mechanics, and no doubt, it could only succumb to the
most compelling arguments.
VI. The Origin of Worlds
Yet, this theory does have one weak point—the question of origins, evaded
this time through reticence. Unfortunately, to omit something is not to re-
solve it. And Laplace has skillfully outflanked the question, bequeathing it to
others. And as for him: he was able to dislodge and free his hypothesis after
having gotten rid of this stumbling block.
Gravitation only half explains the universe. In their motions, celestial
bodies obey two forces: the centripetal or gravitational force, which attracts
and makes them fall toward one another, and the centrifugal force that
pushes them forward in a straight line. The combination of these two forces
more or less accounts for all of the astral bodies’ elliptical motions. Through
the suppression of the centrifugal force, the Earth would fall into the Sun.
And through the suppression of the centripetal force, it would break out of
its orbit by following its tangent in a straight line.
The source of the centripetal force is known: it’s gravitation, or attrac-
tion. The centrifugal force’s origin remains a mystery. Laplace left this pitfall
aside. According to his theory, the translatory motion—or the centrifugal
force—has its origin in the nebula’s rotation. This hypothesis is without a
doubt correct, since it’s impossible to provide a more satisfactory account
of the phenomena of our planetary group. Except that one may well pose
the following questions to the illustrious geometer: Where did the nebula’s
rotation come from? And what about the heat—the heat that volatilized this
gigantic mass, later condensing into a sun surrounded by planets! Where did
it come from?
The heat! One will say that, in space, it’s thick on the ground and there
for the taking. Yes! Heat at 270 degrees below zero! Is this what Laplace
is getting at when he says that originally, the Sun’s atmosphere is stretched
out beyond the orbits of all the planets? Following Herschel, he records the
existence of a large number of nebulosities that are, at first, so diffuse that
they’re hardly noticeable, and that, through a succession of condensations,
are transformed into a solar state. These stars are thus gigantic globes in
their full incandescence much like the Sun—something that indicates an
already quite respectable amount of heat. But their temperature shouldn’t
be so high when, having been reduced entirely to vapors, these enormous

masses were then dilated to a degree of volatilization that they no longer
offered anything more visible than a hardly perceptible nebulosity.
And it’s these very nebulosities that Laplace puts forth as being scattered
in profusion throughout the universe, giving birth to both comets and stellar
systems. Yet as we have demonstrated, this is an inadmissible assertion since
the substance of the comets can haven’thing in common with that of the
nebulae-stars (nébuleuses-étoiles). If these substances were similar, then the
comets would always and everywhere be mixed with stellar material such
that the two would share their existences; the comets wouldn’t so constantly
go their own way, strangers to all the other astral bodies—strange too in their
inconsistency, their vagabond habits, and in the absolute uniqueness of the
substance that characterizes them.
Laplace has perfectly good reason to say:
Thus, from the progressive condensation of nebulous matter, one comes to

consider the possibility that the Sun was once surrounded by a vast atmo-
sphere. And, as we have seen, it is through this consideration that one again
returns to an investigation of the solar system. Such a remarkable connection
lends the idea of the Sun’s previous atmosphere such a forceful probability
that it approaches certainty.
On the other hand, there’s nothing more spurious than assimilating

comets—these imponderable, icy, and inane things—to the stellar nebulae,
which are massive parts of nature that are prone to a maximum in tempera-
ture and brightness through their volatilization. Assuredly, comets are rather
despairing enigmas; and because they’re inexplicable when everything else
is clear, they seem to have become insurmountable obstacles to an under-
standing of the universe. But one doesn’t overcome obstacles with nonsense
(une absurdité). Indeed, the best thing one can do is cut one’s losses and
attribute a special existence to these impalpable things, an existence outside
of matter proper; hence, though matter can then act upon them through
gravitation, it isn’t in turn mixed with them or subject to their influence.
And yet, as fugitive, unstable, and short-lived (sans lendemain) as they are,
one only knows them as a simple substance: one, invariable, and inaccessible
to all modification, yet still capable of being separated and then reunited,
forming masses or being torn to bits—yet never changing. So they never play
a part in nature’s perpetual becoming. The only way to console ourselves in
the face of this logogriph is through the nullity of its role.
The question of origins is much more serious. Yet Laplace has cheapened
it, or rather, he doesn’t take it into account at all; and he either doesn’t deign
or doesn’t dare to speak about it. With the use of his telescope, Herschel
recorded numerous conglomerations of nebulous material in space at
varying degrees of diffusion—accumulations that end up as stars through
progressive cooling. The illustrious geometer describes and explains these
transformations extremely well, but he hardly says a word about the origin
of these nebulosities. And so, one naturally wonders, “These nebulae that
are driven to become planets and stars through the relative cold; where do
they come from?”
Certain theories would have it that there’s some chaotic material in the
expanses—one that would, with the help of heat and attraction, become
agglomerated to form planetary nebulae. Yet how long has this chaotic
material been there? And why? Moreover, where does this extraordinary
heat that helps out with the job come from? So many questions that aren’t
posed—questions to which one apparently excuses oneself from responding.
There’s hardly any need to point out that the chaotic material that com-
prises the modern stars is the same as that which comprised the ancient
ones; it follows from this that the universe would be unable to rise from the
oldest stars and get back up onto its own two feet (l’universe ne remonte pas
au-delà des plus vieilles étoiles sur pied). One is indeed willing to grant im-
mense life spans to these astral bodies. Yet on the subject of their beginning,
one gives little news outside of the chaotic material’s agglomeration; and on
the question of their end: silence. What’s farcical about all of these theories is
that one simply sets up at will a kind of heat-factory (une fabrique de chaleur)
in imaginary space to provide all nebulae and all possible chaotic materials
with the necessary—yet undefined—volatilization.
Though Laplace is a very rigorous geometer, he is hardly a rigorous physi-
cist. It just vaporizes nonchalantly by virtue of an excessive heat. As soon as
there’s a condensing nebula, one then simply follows its cooling process in
admiration through its successive tableau as it gives birth to planets and
satellites. And yet, that this nebulous material that comes from nowhere
is so alluring—without one knowing how or why—is likewise a remarkable
refrigerant of enthusiasm. It’s not exactly decent to draw one’s readers in
with a hypothesis that rests on emptiness and to have them simply take a
seat and stay there.
Heat and light don’t accumulate in space at all; they dissipate. They have a
source that becomes exhausted. All celestial bodies become cold through ra-
diance. Though they’re a tremendous incandescence at the start, they end up
as congealed, black masses. Our seas were once flaming oceans; now they’re
no more than water. Eventually the Sun will get snuffed out and the seas
will turn to ice. The cosmogonies to which yesterday’s world laid claim may
believe that the astral bodies have yet to burn their first bit of oil. But after
that? These millions of stars—the illumination of our nights—haven’thing
more than a limited existence. They began in a blaze; they’ll finish in the
cold and gloom.
Is it enough to say, “It will always endure longer than us? Let’s take it
as it is. Carpe diem. What does it matter what came before? And who cares
about what comes after? Before and after us, there’s the flood!” No! Thought
is continually faced with the universe’s enigma. And the human spirit wants
to decipher it at any price. Laplace was on the right track when he wrote
these words:
Seen from the Sun, the moon appears to follow a series of epicycloids whose
centers rest on the circumference of the earthly orbit. Similarly, the Earth
follows a sequence of epicycloids whose centers are on the curve followed
by the Sun as it goes around the center of gravity of its cluster of stars. And
finally, the Sun itself follows a series of epicycloids whose centers are upon
the curve followed by this cluster’s center of gravity as it goes around the
universe’s [autour de celui de l’univers].
“The universe’s!” That’s an exaggeration (“De l’univers,” c’est beaucoup

dire). This alleged center of the universe and the immense procession that
gravitates around it is little more than an imperceptible point in the vast ex-
panse. Yet Laplace was on the right path; indeed, he nearly touched upon the
key to the whole enigma. Only this word, “the universe’s (de l’univers)” proves
that he had touched upon it without seeing it—or at least, without looking at
it. Being the ultramathematician that he was, right when he was at the very
heart of the matter (jusqu’à la moelle des os), he maintained his conviction in
the unalterable harmony and solidity of celestial mechanics. Solid—indeed
quite solid—it may be. Yet it’s necessary to distinguish between the universe
and a clock.
When a clock goes out of whack (se dérange), one adjusts it. When it
breaks, one fixes it. And when it’s used up, one replaces it. But with celestial
bodies, who can take them apart or replace them? As a splendid represen-
tative of matter, does each flaming globe enjoy the privilege of a perennial
existence? No! Matter is eternal only in its elements and as a whole. All of its
forms, whether humble or sublime, are transitory and perishable. The stars
(astres) are born, they shine, and they go out, continuing for perhaps billions
of centuries in their vanished splendor, given over to gravity’s laws now only
as floating graves (tombes flottantes). One wonders how many of these icy
cadavers creep along like this in the night of space, awaiting the hour of
destruction, which will simultaneously be that of resurrection!
In the realm of matter, the departed all come back to life, regardless of
their condition. And if the night’s entombment (la nuit du tombeau) is long
for these finished stars (astres finis), then the moment will come when their
flame will again flash up like lightning. On the surface of planets, beneath
solar rays, forms that die disintegrate quickly to reconstruct new forms. The
metamorphoses follow quickly one upon another without interruption. But
when a sun turns to ice, who will again give it heat and light? Only a sun can
revive it. It gives ample life to a myriad of diverse beings. And it can hand this
down to its sons only through marriage. What could the weddings and births
of these luminous giants be like?
When, after millions of centuries, one of these immense eddies of stars—
having been born and now swirling around, dead together—is able to cover
the open regions of space before it, then its borders will collide with other
extinguished whirlpools arriving at the encounter. They will then enter into a
furious mêlée that goes on for countless years on a battlefield that stretches
across billions and billions of leagues. This part of the universe is then little
more than a vast atmosphere of flames, unrelentingly furrowed by the cata-
clysm’s lightning bolts, that instantly volatilizes both stars and planets.
This pandemonium continues its obedience to the laws of nature without
a second of interruption. The successive impacts reduce the solid masses to
a vaporous state that’s immediately seized by gravitation, grouping them
into nebulae that spin round and round upon themselves from the effect of
the collision; they are then thrown into regular paths around new centers.
Remote observers are then able to catch a glimpse of this theater’s grand
revolutions by the look of a pale, faint light mixed with several brighter
points. This faint light is nothing more than a stain; but this stain is a crowd
of reawakening globes.
Each of these newborns will first live its solitary infancy as a thick, tu-
multuous, blazing cloud. Becoming calmer with time, the young star (astre)
will gradually release a large family from its breast, which through isolation
will immediately get cold, living thereafter only through its paternal warmth.
This star will then be the only representative in the world of one that knows
nothing other than itself (l’unique représentant dans le monde qui ne connaî-
tre que lui), never catching sight of its children. Here, then, is our planetary
system. And the planet we inhabit is one of the youngest daughters, which
is followed only by a sister—Venus—and by a toddler brother, Mercury, the
last to be hatched from the nest.
Are worlds really reborn exactly in this way? I don’t know. Maybe the
legions of dead colliding to recapture life are less numerous, and the field of
resurrection less vast. But it is certain that it’s only a question of numbers
and scope, and not a question of the way it happens. The encounter takes
place whether it’s simply between two stellar clusters or between two sys-
tems where each star, along with its procession, does little more than act in
the planet’s role; it likewise takes place whether between two centers where
the engagement is little more than a modest satellite, or finally, between two
hearths together representing a corner of the universe. It’s impossible for
anyone to make an informed decision on these different scenarios. The only
legitimate claim that can possibly be made is the following.
Matter wouldn’t diminish or grow by an atom. The stars are nothing more
than ephemeral torchlights (flambeaux éphémères). This being so, once they
are extinguished, if they do not flare up again, then night and death will
take hold of the universe in due time. And yet, how could they flare up again
if not through some motion that is converted into gigantic proportions of
heat—that is, if not through a collision between them (un entre-choc), one
that volatilizes them and throws them into a new existence? One can’t object
that through its conversion into heat, the motion would be annihilated, and
from then on the globes would be immobilized. The motion is nothing more
than the result of attraction, and attraction as the property of all bodies, is
imperishable. Indeed, motion would immediately be reborn from the shock
itself—in new directions perhaps, but still as the effect of the very same
cause: gravity.
Would you claim that these upheavals were an attack against the laws
of gravitation? You have no idea; and neither do I. The only resource we can
possibly consult is analogy. And it replies:
For centuries meteorites have fallen to our planet by the millions, and with-
out a doubt, they have fallen upon the planets of all stellar systems. This
would be a grave default in attraction, such as you understand it. Indeed, it
is a form of attraction that you do not understand—or rather, one that you
disdain—since it applies to asteroids but not to astral bodies. After having
revolved around for thousands and thousands of years according to all the
laws, one fine day, they make their way into the atmosphere by violating the
law of attraction, thereby converting motion into heat through their fusing or
their volatilization of the friction in the air. What happens to the small can
and must happen to the large. Bring gravitation before the tribunal of the
Observatory; then one can maliciously and illegitimately push them in or let
them fall to the ground. This will prevent us from keeping them like one did
with the aerolites that one so confided in order to keep them promenading
on their little stroll through emptiness.
Yes indeed; gravitation has let them, does let them, and will let them fall,
just it has knocked them, does knock them, and will knock them all around
against one another: old planets, old stars, and even the old ones that are
now defunct, lugubriously making their way through an old cemetery. And
then, at that time the deceased blaze up (éclatent) in a crowning fireworks
display (un bouquet d’artifice) and the torches shine, illuminating the world.
If you don’t find this method to be agreeable, then find another. But be care-
ful. The stars are only young once; and this includes their planets, too. It is
all matter. If you don’t resuscitate it, then the universe is finished (est fini).
And what’s more, we will carry out our demonstration through all of the
methods—major and minor—without fear of being reductive. The subject
is worth it. It is not a matter of indifference to know or not know how the
universe is sustained (subsiste).
So, until we know otherwise, the stars (astres) go out from old age, and
they flare up again from a crash. Such is the method of matter’s conversion
in the case of sidereal individualities. By what other process could they
continue to follow the law that’s common to all change and slip away from
eternal immobilization? Laplace says:
In space there are dark bodies that are as considerable, and perhaps as nu-
merous, as the stars. These bodies are quite simply extinguished stars. Are
they condemned to a cadaverous perpetuity? And all the living [toutes les
vivantes]—without exception—are they also going to join them forever? How
is one to fill in for these vacancies [comment pourvoir à ces vacances]?
Laplace has given us the origin of the stellar nebulae, but the rest is quite
vague and unrealistic. It would be an aggregation of nebulosities: cosmic,
volatilized clouds—an aggregate incessantly formed in space. But how?
Space is everywhere just as we see it: coldness and murky depths. The stel-
lar systems are enormous masses of material. And yet, where do they come
from? From nothing? These contrived, nebulosities are unacceptable.
And as for the chaotic material, this shouldn’t even have reappeared in
the nineteenth century. It never existed, and there has never been as much
as a shadow of chaos anywhere. The organization of the universe is for all of
eternity. It has never varied by as much as a hair on this point, nor has it even
taken a second’s respite (ni fait relâche d’une seconde). There’s no chaos at all,
not even upon the battlefields where billions of stars collide with one another
and blaze up for centuries upon centuries to remake the living from the dead.
And the law of attraction presides over such splendid rehabilitations with
just as much rigor as it does over the moon’s most peaceful developments.
These cataclysms are rare in all of the universe’s cantons since the num-
ber of births wouldn’t exceed the number of deaths in a civil state of infinity
(dans l’état civil de l’infini), and its inhabitants would enjoy a very handsome
longevity. The open expanse before them is more than enough for their exis-
tence, and the hour of death comes well before end of the traverse. Infinity
is not poor in time or space; it gives its people a just and large proportion of
both. We don’t know how much time is granted, but can come up with some
idea of the space through the distance of the stars, our cousins.
The minimum distance separating us is on the order of ten thousand
billion leagues—an abyss. Now isn’t that a magnificent and rather spacious
path for one to travel in complete safety! Our Sun’s flanks are secured. Its
sphere of influence must no doubt extend to the sphere of attraction of its
closest neighbors. There’s no such thing as a neutral field when it comes
to gravitation. Yet on this point, the evidence is lacking. We are familiar
with our little circle. And it would be interesting to determine which ones
in these luminous hearths are those that have their sphere of attraction
adjoining ours, and to arrange them within this sphere just as one does
with a cannonball by hemming it in with other cannonballs. Then our es-
tate (domaine) would be surveyed and registered within the universe. Such
a thing is impossible; if it weren’t, then it would have already been done.
Unfortunately the parallaxes will not be measured while one is on board
Jupiter or Saturn.
Our Sun marches along (marche); this much is incontestable and proven
by its rotational movement. It circulates in consort with thousands, perhaps
millions of stars surrounding us—stars that are a part of our army. It’s been
traveling for centuries, though we’ve been unaware of its past itinerary—and
that of its present and future. Humanity’s historical period already dates back
six thousand years. The stars were observed in Egypt even during those re-
mote times. With the exception of activity in the zodiac constellations—due
to the precession of the equinoxes—there’s no record of a single change in the
sky’s appearance. In six thousand years, our system should have been able to
gain ground in some direction or other.
For a mediocre marcher (marcheur) like our globe, six thousand years
is one fifth of the way to Sirius. Yet there’s no indication of advance. Noth-
ing at all. And the advance toward the constellation of Hercules remains a
hypothesis. We are frozen in place, as are the stars. And yet, we are all on
our way toward the same end (le même but). The stars are our contempo-
raries, our traveling companions, and it’s perhaps because of this that they
are seemingly immobile; we are advancing together. The path before old age,
death, and finally resurrection will be long—just like time. But this time and
path before infinity is a tiny point and nothing more than a thousandth of
a second. Between the star and the mayfly (l’éphémère), eternity makes no
distinction. And what are these billions of suns that are following one an-
other through space for centuries? A shower of sparks and glitter; this rain
fertilizes (féconde) the universe.
And this is why the renewal of worlds through a collision and the vola-
tilization of departed stars is fulfilled (s’accomplit) every minute in the fields
of infinity. These gigantic conflagrations are at once both innumerable and
rare, depending on whether one’s context is the universe itself or simply one
of its regions. What other medium could take the place for the preservation
of all life (la vie generale)? The nebulae-comets (nébuleuses-comèts) are phan-
toms—that is, stellar, nebulous bodies, colligated in some unknown way;
they’re chimeras. There’s nothing in the expanses besides the astral bodies
(astres); and whether they’re small, thick, children, adults, or dead, all of their
existence is laid out before us (tout leur existence est à jour). The children are
their volatilized nebulae; the adults are stars with their planets; and the dead:
these are their dark cadavers.
Heat, light, and motion are matter’s forces and not matter itself. And
the attraction that hurls so many billions of globes onto their incessant
paths cannot add as much as an atom. Yet it’s the great, fecund force, the
inexhaustible force in which no extravagance (prodigalité) can make a dent,
since it’s the permanent and common property of bodies. Attraction is what
sets all celestial mechanics into motion, throwing worlds onto their endless
peregrinations. And it’s rich enough to provide for the revitalization of astral
bodies with a motion that can be converted into heat through a collision.
These encounters between sidereal cadavers—colliding with one another
to the point of resurrection—may be seen as an upheaval (un trouble) of

order. An upheaval! But what would happen if the old, dead suns—stringing
along their rosary beads (chapelets) of defunct planets—were to continue
their funeral procession indefinitely, extending it every night with new obse-
quies? All of these sources of light and life shining in the firmament would
be snuffed out, one after the other like the lampions for an illumination (les
lampions d’une illumination). Eternal night would then fall upon the universe.
The initial high temperatures of matter can have no other source than
that of motion: the permanent force from which all others are derived. This
sublime work (œuvre sublime), the blooming (épanouissement) of a sun, be-
longs to none other than the reigning force (la force-reine). Any other origin is
impossible. It’s gravitation alone that renews worlds, just as, through motion,
it alone conducts them and keeps them going. It’s a truth that belongs almost
as much to instinct as it does to reasoning and experience.
And it’s experience that lies right before our eyes every day—it’s up to
us to look at it and draw our conclusions. What is an aerolite that blazes
up and becomes volatilized, vanishing as it cuts through the air, if not the
condensed image of a sun’s creation through motion converted into heat? Is
that not also a kind of disorder? This corpuscle that has been diverted from
its course to sweep through the atmosphere? What is normal about that?
And, when a thick cloud of asteroids is moving at planetary speeds on their
orbit’s track, why is only one among them diverted and not all? What sense
does that make?
There’sn’t a single point where discord (trouble) doesn’t shatter this al-
leged harmony—a harmony that would be a marasmus or, soon enough, a
decomposition. These kinds of unforeseen consequences are to be had by the
millions with the laws of gravity; it’s from them that there springs up, here
a shooting star, there a sun (une étoile-soleil). And why banish them from
the general harmony? Such accidents are displeasing, yet we are born from
them! They are death’s adversaries—the always open sources of universal
life. It’s through an ongoing reversal or setback of its proper sequence (un
échec permanent à son bon ordre) that gravitation is able to reconstruct and
repeople the globes. And what one vaunts as the good order would let these
things vanish into nothingness.
The universe is eternal, but the astral bodies are perishable. And since
they form all matter, each one of them has passed through billions of exis-
tences. Through its resurrecting collisions, gravitation divides them up and
melds them together, incessantly kneading them to the point where none
of them any longer holds the dust of all the others. Every inch of land we
trample upon has been a part of the entire universe, but it’s no more than a
mute witness of what it has seen in Eternity.
By revealing the presence of a number of simple bodies in the stars, spec-
tral analysis has only expressed one part of the truth. Little by little, it will tell
the rest through advances in experimentation. Yet there are two important
remarks to be made. The densities of our planets are different. But the density
of the Sun is a very precise encapsulation of these different proportions, and
because of this, it remains the faithful representative of the primitive nebula.
And this phenomenon is, without a doubt, the same in all stars. When astral
bodies are volatilized through a sidereal encounter, all of the substances
merge together into a gaseous mass that gushes forth from the impact. They
then become gradually separated out from one another through the nebula’s
process of organization, according to the laws of gravity.
In each stellar system, the densities should then be spaced out in in-
tervals according to the same order, such that the planets are alike—not
as if they indeed belonged to the same sun—but rather in such a way that
their rank corresponded across all planetary groups. In short, they then pos-
sess identical conditions of heat, light, and density. In the case of the stars,
their constitution is certainly similar since they reproduce—billions of times
over—the combinations that are derived from the impacts and volatiliza-
tions. Inversely, the planets perform the sorting out (triage) that is carried
out according to the difference and rank of densities. No doubt, the mixture
of stellar-planetary elements prepared by infinity is comprehensive and inti-
mate in a way that doesn’t at all resemble those drug concoctions that have
been turned to a pulp by three generations of pharmacists with their pestle.
But I hear voices crying:
Where does one get the right to presuppose that this perpetual tempest
(tourmente) exists in the heavens? That it is out there devouring astral bodies
while it pretends to recast them; thereby inflicting such a strange denial (un
si étrange démenti) to gravitation’s regularity? Where is the proof of these
collisions and these resurrectional conflagrations? Men have always admired
the imposing majesty of celestial movements, and why would one want to
replace such beautiful order with permanent disorder! Who, anywhere, has
ever seen the slightest symptom of such hubbub?
Astronomers are unanimous in their proclamation of the invariability of
the phenomena of attraction. According to all, it is an absolute guarantee of
stability and security, and here are these theories cropping up that want to
set it up as the very instrument of cataclysms. The experience of centuries
and the universal testimony vigorously reject such hallucinations as these.
The changes in the stars that have been seen until now are nothing more
than irregularities that are completely periodic—something that thus seems
to exclude the notion of a catastrophe. The star in the constellation Cassiopeia
in 1572 and that of Kepler in 1604 blazed only as temporary flashes, a circum-
stance that is incompatible with the hypothesis of a volatilization. The uni-
verse appears quite tranquil and follows its path with little noise. Humanity
has been viewing the spectacle of the heavens for five or six thousand years
and has not recorded any serious tumult. Comets have never done anything
more than cause fear, not harm. Six thousand years is a long time! It has also
been some time since we have had the use of the telescope. Neither time nor
the expanses have shown us something like this. These gigantic upheavals are
nothing more than dreams.
And one hasn’t seen anything, this much is true. But it’s only because one
cannot see anything. Although they may be frequent in the expanses, these
kinds of scenes don’t have an audience at all. The observations made of the
luminous, astral bodies only deal with the stars of our celestial province—
stars that are companions of the Sun and thus share the same destiny. But
one cannot presuppose a monotonous tranquility in the rest of the universe
based on the calm of our vicinity. The renewing conflagrations are without
a witness. And if one does catch a glimpse of them, then it’s at the end
of a telescope (au bout d’une lunette) that reveals them only as an almost
imperceptible faint light. And this is how the telescope is able to reveal thou-
sands of them. When, in its turn, our province again becomes a theater for
these dramas (ces drames), the populations will have long since moved away.
The incidents of Cassiopeia in 1572 and of Kepler’s star in 1604 are noth-
ing more than secondary phenomena. One is free to attribute them to an
eruption of hydrogen or to the fall of a comet, which would have crashed into
the Sun like a glass of oil or alcohol in a furnace, thereby giving rise to an
ephemeral burst of flames. In the latter case, the comets would be made of a
combustible gas. Yet who could know this, and what does it matter? Newton
thought that they fed the Sun. But does one want to generalize this hypoth-
esis and consider these vagabond, hired hands (perruques vagabondes) to be
the official nourishment of stars? This lean, common stuff ! It is absolutely
incapable of lighting or relighting these torchlights of the world.
Yet, there still remains the problem of the birth and death of these lumi-
nous bodies (astres). Who was able to set them alight? And when they cease
shining, who will stand in for them? One cannot create an atom of matter; and
if the departed stars do not flare up again, then the universe goes out. I defy
anyone to resolve this dilemma: “Either the resurrection of the stars, or univer-
sal death . . .” I repeat this for the third time. And yet the sidereal world is living,
indeed it’s thriving; and because in all of life, each star has a duration lasting
no longer than a flash of lightning, all of the astral bodies have already ended
and started over billions of times. I have said how. No doubt one will find
this idea quite extraordinary: these violent, thunderous collisions between
worlds that have traveled back and forth across space. But the only thing that
is extraordinary is one’s astonishment, since these globes rush around on top
of one another, only narrowly dodging collision. But one cannot always be
successful at dodging things. Where there’s a will, there’s a way.
Based on the preceding pages, one is within one’s rights to conclude that
there’s a unity in the composition of the universe, which doesn’t mean “a
unity in its substance.” The 64 (let’s say one hundred) simple bodies that make
up our Earth likewise form the basis of all the globes without distinction—
minus the comets that remain an indecipherable and unimportant myth, but
they are not worlds at all. Nature thus has very little variety in its materials.
But it’s also true that it knows how to take advantage of them. When one
sees it take two simple bodies of hydrogen and oxygen and alternately make
fire, water, and then ice, one is left somewhat stunned. Chemistry is able
to speak volumes on this point, even though it might be far from knowing
everything. Nevertheless, despite so much power, one hundred elements are
indeed a quite narrow margin when the workshop is infinity. But we’re get-
ting to that point.
Without exception, all celestial bodies have the same origin: fire through
collision. Each star is a solar system stemming from a nebula that has been
volatilized in an encounter. And it’s the center of a group of already formed
planets, or ones that are on their way to being formed. The star’s role is
simple: a hearth of light and heat that is set alight, shines, and then goes
out. Having been consolidated through cooling off, the planets haven’thing
more than the privilege of organic light that takes its source from the heat
and light of the hearth and likewise extinguish with it. The composition and
mechanism of all the astral bodies is identical. The volume, form, and density
are the only things that vary. The universe as a whole is set up, runs, and lives
by this template. Nothing could be more uniform.
VII. The Analysis and Synthesis

of the Universe
We now turn directly to the obscurity of language (l’obscurité du langage),

because it’s here that the obscure question (la question obscure) opens up.
One doesn’t grasp (ne pelote pas) the infinite through speech (parole). So
we will be allowed several attempts in trying to approach its thought. The
necessity of doing so is itself an excuse for our repetitions (des redites).
The first inconvenience is finding oneself head to head with such a profuse
arithmetic, one that is indeed quite rich in names for numbers, but whose
richness is quite ridiculous in its forms. Words such as trillions, septillions,
sextillions (quatrillions), and the like are grotesque. Besides, they mean little
more to the majority of readers than that vulgar word one is so accustomed
to—one which is also the expression par excellence for big, fat quantities: a
billion. Nevertheless, in astronomical terms, such a word is not large at all;
in fact, with respect to the infinite, it’s basically zero. Yet as luck would have
it, it’s precisely around the subject of the infinite that it, by rights, comes
before our pen; so it’s deceptive when it’s a question of something beyond the
possible (il ment alors au-delà du possible), and it lies again when it is simply
the indefinite that’s at stake. In the following pages, the only language that
is available—numerals (les chiffres)—all either miss their mark (manquent
tous de justesse) or are devoid of any meaning. This is not their fault. Nor is
it mine. The fault lies with the subject. And arithmetic is not up to the task
(L’arithmétique ne lui va pas).
Nature thus has a hundred simple bodies at hand with which it can
forge all of its works (œuvres) and cast them in a uniform mold: the stellar-
planetary system. Nothing more than stellar systems to make, and a hundred
simple bodies for all materials; that’s a lot of work to get through and not
many tools. Indeed, with such a monotonous template (un plan si monotone)
and such unvarying elements, it isn’t easy to give birth to enough different
combinations to populate the infinite. Repetition becomes indispensable.
One claims that things in nature are never really repeated, and that
there’s no such thing as two people or two leaves that are equal. This may
well be the case with people on this Earth, where the total number—already
rather limited—is distributed among several races. But thousands of oak
leaves are exactly alike, and grains of sand by the billions.
Without a doubt, the hundred simple bodies are capable of furnishing a
frightening number of stellar-planetary combinations that are different. And
yet one would have a hard time getting Xs and Ys from such a calculation
(Les X et les Y se tereraient avec peine de ce calcul). In short, this number is
not even infinite; it’s finite. It has a fixed limit. Once the limit is attained, one
may not go any further (défense d’aller plus loin).
This very limit comes from the universe itself. And since that is the case,
the universe is not infinite. Despite their incredible multitude, the celestial
bodies wouldn’t take up any more than a point in space. But how can this be?
Matter is eternal. One cannot possibly conceive of a single instance where
matter might not have been formed into regular globes that are subject to
the laws of gravitation—even if such a privilege only belonged to a few rough
sketches (quelques ébauches) lost amid nothingness! A hovel (une masure) in
the infinite! It’s absurd. We propose the idea of an infinite universe in theory
as a consequence of the infinity of space.
And yet, nature is not bound by the impossible. The uniformity of its
method, which is everywhere visible, refutes the hypothesis of infinite cre-
ations that are absolutely original. The number of them is by rights bound by
the very finite number of simple bodies. These are, as it were, combination-
types, whose repetitions without end fill the expanses. “Different,” “differenti-
ated,” “distinct,” “primordial,” “original,” “particular”—all of these words, in
expressing the same basic idea, are for us synonymous with “combination-
types.” The determination of their number would be a matter for algebra if
this kind of problem were not indeterminate or, in other words, insoluble
from the lack of givens. Moreover, this vague indeterminateness wouldn’t
be equivalent to—nor would it be concluded by—the infinite. Every one of
the simple bodies is certainly an infinite quantity since, by themselves alone,
they comprise all matter. Nonetheless, that in it which is not infinite is the
variety of these elements—a variety that doesn’t exceed a hundred. Were it
a thousand—though this isn’t the case—the number of combination-types
would grow to fabulous proportions; and yet, being unable to attain the
infinite, it would still remain insignificant in its presence. This demonstrates
their powerlessness to populate the expanses with original types.
Nevertheless, we have established the following point: the universe itself
has an organic unity within a group that is stellar-planetary, or simply stellar,
or planetary, or indeed even solar—four names that are equally suitable and
have the same significance. It’s formed in its entirety from an infinite series
of these systems, which themselves all come from a volatilized nebula that
has condensed into a sun and planets. The latter bodies, having successively
cooled off, then circulate around the central hearth, which is in turn sus-
tained through the combustion of its enormous volume. They should thus
move within the limit of their sun’s attraction and, in addition, not exceed the
circumference of the primitive nebula that gave birth to them. Their number
would thus be severely restricted and would depend upon the original size of
the nebula. In our system, one reckons their number at nine: Mercury, Venus,
the Earth (and the aborted wreck of a planet, Mars), and those that have been
revealed piecemeal: Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus, and Neptune. And we go as far
as twelve with the admittance of three strangers (trois inconnues). But their
distance increases so much in this progression that it becomes difficult to
extend the limits of our group any farther.
The other stellar systems no doubt vary in size, but they do so according
to proportions that are strictly limited by the laws of equilibrium. It’s thought
that Sirius is 150 times larger than our Sun. But what can one really say about
this? Right now, there’s nothing more than parallaxes that are problematic
and quite worthless. Moreover, because the telescope is unable to enlarge
the stars, the eye alone estimates them (l’œil seul les apprécie); and it can
only do so through appearances that are subject to various causes. So it’s
difficult then to see the grounds on which one could assign various sizes to
them—even any size whatsoever. They’re suns; that’s all. Yet, if ours governs
a maximum of twelve astral bodies, then why couldn’t its confrères have
kingdoms that are larger by far? Indeed, why not? “Because,” one can reply,
“that’s the way it is.” And in fact, that’s the response such a question deserves
(la réponse vaut la demande).
Let’s accept it; so be it. The causes of diversity are always rather faint.
What are they? The primary cause lies in the disparities between the nebu-
lae’s different volumes, which bring about corresponding disparities in the
size and number of planets of their make (de leur fabrique). Next, there are
the disparities in impact; these alter the speeds of rotation and translation
(translation), the flattening of the poles, the inclination of the axis on the
ecliptic, and so forth.
Let’s also discuss the causes of similarity. There’s the identity of formation
and mechanism: a star as the condensation of a nebula and the center of
several planetary orbits, spread out at certain intervals; such is the common
ground (le fond commun). Additionally, spectral analysis has revealed a unity
in the composition of celestial bodies. The same innermost elements are ev-
erywhere. The universe is little more than an ensemble of families that are in
some way united through flesh and blood—the same matter, classified and
organized by the same method, according to the same order. At its bottom
and in its government, they’re identical. This appears to limit the dissimilari-
ties in a singular fashion, likewise leaving the door wide open to Menaechmi.
Let’s repeat it nonetheless: different combinations of planetary systems can
arise from these givens in unimaginable numbers. Do these numbers go on

to infinity? No, because they are all formed from one hundred simple bod-
ies—the figure of an imperceptible cipher (chiffre imperceptible).
Infinity is purely a matter of geometry (l’infini relève de la géometrie) and
has nothing to do with algebra. Algebra is sometimes a game; geometry is
never so. Algebra frisks its way along in the dark (l’algèbre fouille à l’aveuglette)
like a mole. It only finds a result at the end of this course by groping along;
often this result is a beautiful formula, sometimes it is a hoax (mystification).
Geometry never goes into the shade (l’ombre), it holds our eyes fast to the
three dimensions, which shut out sophisms and sleights of hand (tours de
passe-passe). It tells us: look at the thousands of globes—a faint, slight corner
of the universe—and remember their history. A conflagration tore them from
death’s bosom and threw them into space—immense nebulae, the origin of a
new milky way. Through one, we’ll know the destiny of all.
The resurrecting impact joined the nebula’s simple bodies through vola-
tilization. Condensation separated them again and then classified them ac-
cording to the laws of gravity; it likewise arranged them inside each planet
and within the whole of the group. The lighter parts are predominant in the
outlying, eccentric planets, whereas the denser parts are more common in
the central planets. After that, regarding the proportion of simple bodies—and
the total volume of the globes—there’s a necessary tendency toward similarity
among planets of the same rank in all stellar systems: a progressive magnitude
and lightness from the capital to its borders, and a smallness and density that
is more and more pronounced from the borders to the capital. One now gets a
glimpse of the conclusion. Already, between the uniformity in the mode of the
astral bodies’ creation and the community of their elements, resemblances
that were more than fraternal were involved. These growing parities in their
composition should evidently result in a rate of their identity. The Manaechmi
turn into spitting images, becoming twins (sosies) of one another.
Such is our point of departure then, as we profess the limitation of mat-
ter’s differentiated combinations and, consequently, their inadequacy to
disseminate celestial bodies throughout the field of the expanses. Despite
their multitude, these combinations are restricted to certain terms, and that
being the case, they must be repeated to reach the infinite. Nature draws up
each of its works (ses ouvrages) in billions of proofs or copies (exemplaires).

In the structure of the astral bodies, similarity and repetition are the rule,
dissimilarity and variety are the exception.
In grappling with these ideas of number, how can one formulate them
if not through numerals, which are their sole interpreters (leurs uniques in-
terprètes)? And yet, these necessary interpreters are unfaithful or powerless
here: they’re unfaithful and unreliable when it is a question of matter’s com-
bination-types, which are limited, and they’re powerless and empty as soon as
one talks of infinite repetitions of these combinations. In the first case—that
of the original or typical combinations—the figures will be arbitrary, vague,
and randomly chosen without so much as an approximate value. A thousand,
a hundred thousand, a million, trillion—it’s always an error, but an error of
degree. Conversely, in the second case, that of infinite repetitions, any figure
becomes something that is absolute nonsense (un non-sens absolu), since it
intends to express something that is inexpressible.
In truth, it cannot be a question of real figures (chiffres réels): they are
nothing more to us than a phrase (locution). Only two elements are found
together: the finite and the infinite. Our thesis claims that the hundred simple
bodies wouldn’t be involved in the formation of infinitely original combina-
tions. So at heart, there would never be a conflict between opposing parties
except in the case of the finite represented by indeterminate figures, and of
the infinite represented according to conventional numbers.
When it’s a matter of bodies that are celestial, then, they are classified
either as originals or as copies (copies). The originals are then the ensemble
of globes that together form a special type. And the copies are the repeti-
tions, copies (exemplaires), or proofs (épreuves) of this type. The number of the
original types is limited; that of the copies or repetitions is infinite. And it’s
through the latter that the infinite is formed. Each type has an army of twins
(une armée de sosie) behind it, whose number is without limit.
With the first class or category—that of the types—the diverse figures that
are drawn in any way whatsoever cannot have and will not have any accuracy
at all; they purely signify “much” (beaucoup). And for the second class, that
is, the copies, repetitions, specimens, proofs (words that are all synonymous),
the simple term “billion” could be used, and this will mean simply “infinite.”
One imagines that the astral bodies might be infinite in number, all of
them reproducing a single and identical type (reproduire tous un seul et même
type). Let’s imagine that all stellar systems—in their material and personal
(personnel) aspects—are a rigid tracing (un calque absolu) of our own sys-
tem, planet for planet, without an iota of difference. This collection of copies
would by itself alone make up the infinite. And there would only be one type
for the universe as a whole. Of course, things are not this way at all. Though
finite, the number of combination-types is incalculable.
Based on the preceding facts and arguments, our thesis claims that mat-
ter would be unable to attain an infinite number of diverse, sidereal combina-
tions. Oh! If only the elements it had at its disposal were themselves infinite
in variety; if one had been able to convince oneself that the composition of
the remote stars (astres) was nothing like that of our Earth; if everywhere,
nature worked in unknown and strange ways; then one would have been able
to concede the infinite to it in whatever way one wanted. And yet, to think
that just thirty years ago, by virtue of the fact of the infinity of celestial bodies,
it was thought that our planet had to exist in thousands of copies (à milliers
d’exemplaires). This opinion was simply a question of instinct and was wholly
unsupported by the fact of the infinite. Spectral analysis completely changed
the situation by opening doors to the reality that came rushing in.
The illusion of fantastic structures has fallen. There are no other materi-
als besides the hundred or so simple bodies, two-thirds of which are now
before our eyes. The universe has to be made and remade from this poor
assortment alone, without so much as a lull (sans trêve). Mr. Haussmann
had plenty of materials to rebuild Paris. And yet, his were no different. It isn’t
variety that shines in his buildings and great piles (ses bâtisse). The nature
that likewise demolishes to rebuild is slightly more successful with its pieces
of architecture. It can turn its indigence into such richness that one hesitates
to ascribe a term to the originality of its works (œuvres).
But let’s get an even better handle on the problem. Let’s assume that all
of the stellar systems are of equal duration—a thousand billion years or so,
for example. As a hypothesis, let’s also imagine that they begin together and
end at the same minute. One knows that all of these groups—in some way of
the same blood, flesh, and skeletal structure—also develop through the same
method. In various systems, planets are lined up symmetrically according to

the intimacy of their resemblance, and these similarities in turn push them
toward becoming identical. A hundred simple bodies, each a unique mate-
rial in an ensemble that works together, fundamentally in solidarity. Will
they be capable of furnishing a different and special combination for every
globe?—that is, an infinite number of distinct originals? Certainly not, since
the diversities within any species that varies according to such combinations
is dependent on a well-restricted number: a hundred. Moreover, differenti-
ated or typical astral bodies are reduced to a limited figure, and the infinity
of globes can only arise through the infinity of repetitions.
So, it’s in this way that the original combinations are exhausted before
they can reach the infinite. Myriads of different stellar-planetary systems
circulate in one given province of the expanses since they would be able to
populate only one province. Will its matter go no further than this, cutting
a figure as a point in the sky? Or will its matter be content with a thousand,
ten thousand, or a hundred thousand points that would broaden its meager
estate (domaine) by some small insignificance? No; its vocation and its law is
the infinite. It won’t allow its banks to be overflown by emptiness. Space won’t
become its place of confinement (son cachot). It will overrun it to breathe
life into it. And anyway, why wouldn’t the infinite be a universal privilege
(l’universel apanage), the property of every twig and mite as much as that of
the great All (la propriété du brin et du ciron aussi bien que du grand Tout)?
Such is indeed the truth that comes out of these vast questions. Let’s now
take a step back from the hypothesis that sparked this demonstration. As far
as one sees it, the planetary systems do not provide us with a present-day
course. Indeed, far from it: their ages become entangled and intertwined at
all points and every instant (dans tous les sens et à tous les instants)—from
the nebula’s blazing birth until the departing of the star, all the way to the
resuscitating shock.
Let’s set the question of original stellar systems to the side for a moment
to occupy ourselves in particular with an earth. We will draw a link to one
system in particular, one that rules its destiny and of which it forms a part,
namely our solar system. One understands that, according to our thesis,
humankind—no more than the animals and things—isn’t personally entitled
to the infinite. By himself alone, man is nothing more than an ephemera (un
éphémère). It’s the globe that he’s a child of that grants him participation
in the infinite in time and space. Each of our twins (sosies) is the son of
an earth, which is itself the double of the present earth. We are a part of a
tracing (calque). The Earth-twin (la Terre-sosie) reproduces exactly what is
found on ours, and consequently, it reproduces each individual, along with
his family, his house—when he has one—and all the events of life. It’s the
duplicate (duplicata) of our world—its container and its contents. Nothing
at all is lacking.
The stellar systems arrange their planets around the sun, in a regular order
according to the laws of gravity, which in each group thus assigns a symmetri-
cal place to the analogous creations. The Earth is the third planet from the
Sun; and its rank no doubt stems from certain particular conditions of size,
density, domain (sphère), and so forth. No doubt, millions of stellar systems
approach ours in the number and disposition of their bodies, since the proces-
sion is strictly laid out according to the laws of gravitation. In all of the groups
containing eight to twelve planets, the third has a strong chance of being not
too unlike the Earth, first and foremost because the distance of the Sun is an
essential condition, one that provides a similar amount of heat and light. The
volume, mass, and the inclination of the axis on the ecliptic can vary. Again,
if the nebula was more or less equivalent to ours, then there’s every right to
assume that its development might, step by step, follow the same course.
Nevertheless, let’s assume that some varieties restrict our simple analogy.
The number of earths (terres) like ours will count into the billions before they
approach a total resemblance. As in our case, all of these globes will have ter-
rains that are tiered, flora, fauna, seas, an atmosphere, intelligent beings. But
the duration of geological periods, the distribution of water, continents, and
islands—in addition to the animal and human races—will offer innumerable
varieties. But let’s leave this for now.
Finally, a world is born with our humanity (notre humanité); it develops
its same races, its migrations, its struggles, its empires, its catastrophes. All
of these peripeteia are going to change its fate, its destinies—throwing it
onto tracks that are not at all those of our globe. Every minute and every
second, thousands of different directions are set before this human race
(ce genre humain). It chooses one of them, forever abandoning the others.
Such sidetracks and divergences—the right and the left alter individuals,
alter history! It’s no longer our past. Let’s set these confused copies (épreuves
confuses) aside. They’ll no doubt make their own path; they’ll be worlds too.
Meanwhile, we’re getting there. Here is a complete copy (un exemplaire
complet)—the things and people. No stone, tree, or brook; no animal, human,
or incident that has not found its place and moment in this duplicate. It’s
a genuine twin-earth (terre-sosie)—at least until today. For tomorrow, the
events and the people will follow their course. Henceforth, for us, it’s the
unknown. Our Earth’s future (avenir), like its past, will change its course
millions of times. The past is a fait accompli; it’s ours. The future will not be
closed until the globe’s death. And until then, each second will bring along
its own bifurcation: the path that one will take, and the one that one could
have taken. And whichever one it is, the one that has to complete the planet’s
proper existence until its final day has already been covered billions of times
over. It will be little more than a copy, printed in advance according to the
centuries.
Yet it isn’t the events alone that create human variants. Is there a person
who hasn’t now and then found himself confronted with two careers? And
the one he turns away from would indeed make his life different, while still
leaving him the same individuality. One leads to misery, shame, bondage, and
servitude. The other leads to glory and liberty. Here, a charming companion
and happiness; there, a shrew (une furie) and desolation. And I’m speaking
on behalf of both sexes. One can take things by chance or choice—it doesn’t
really matter. No one slips away from fatality. And yet fatality doesn’t have
a leg to stand on in the infinite, which knows nothing at all of alternatives
since it has a place for everything. An earth exists where a man follows the
road that’s disdained by his twin in the other. His existence splits open (se
dédouble); there’s a globe for each. Then, in one second it bifurcates; and
then again for a third time; thousands of times. In this way, each person
has a number of complete twins (des sosies complets) and innumerable, vari-
ant doubles that multiply, depictions that always represent him in person
(représentent toujours sa personne), while yet only picking up scraps of his
destiny. Everything that one could have been here in this world (ici-bas),
one is somewhere else. And besides the entire existence that one lives upon
a whole crowd of earths (sur une foule de terres)—from birth to death—one
also lives it on ten thousand other, different editions.
The great events of our world have their compensations and duplicate
registers (leur contrepartie)—especially when fatality has a role to play in it.
Perhaps the English lost the battle of Waterloo many times over on those
globes where their adversary didn’t make Grouchy’s blunder. Such a loss can
stem from so little. On the other hand, elsewhere Bonaparte doesn’t always
carry off the Marengo victory, which was here a pure stroke of luck.
Now I hear clamoring: “Hey! What madness have we come to? Straight
on our way to Bedlam! And what’s this about billions of copies of analogous
earths? And other billions of those billions? Hundreds of millions for the folly
and crimes of humanity? And then thousands of millions for one’s private
whims (fantaisies individuelles)? Every one of our good or bad moods will
have its own particular testing globe ready to try things out at its command.
All the sky’s crossroads are cluttered with our understudies!”
No, no, no. There are no crowds of these understudies anywhere. They
are even quite rare; and though it is true that they can be counted by the
billions, they don’t really count anymore at all. Our telescopes, which have
quite a field to cover, wouldn’t find a single edition of our planet, even if it
was visible. A chance at one of these encounters is a thousand or perhaps a
hundred thousand times the distance it could travel. Among thousands of
millions of stellar systems, who can say if one would be able to come across
a single reproduction of our cluster or one of its members? And yet, the
number of them is infinite. As we said at the beginning: “If each word were
the expression of the most horrifying distances, one would speak this way for
billions and billions of centuries, at one word per second; in sum, to express
no more than an insignificance as soon as the infinite is at stake.”
This thought now finds its application. As special types—from all of them
together down to a single copy—the myriads of earths that possess any differ-
ence at all would still be no more than a single point in space. Each of them
must be repeated ad infinitum before they would count for anything at all.
As our exact twin, the earth will exist—from the day of its birth until the day
of its death, and then its resurrection—in billions of copies for every second
of its duration. Its destiny is as a repetition of an original combination; and all

the repetitions of other types have a part to play in this same destiny.
The announcement of a duplicate of our earthly residence, from the
grains of sand all the way to Germany’s emperor—all of its guests, without
distinction—may seem to be nothing more than a thoughtlessly fantastic
sign of impudence; above all when it’s a matter of duplicates printed out
by the billions. And naturally, the author has excellent reasons, since he
has already republished it five or six times over—indeed, even without any
prejudice to the future’s claims. It’s difficult to imagine that nature, carrying
out the same job with the same materials for the same boss, wasn’t more
often forced to cast its iron in the same mold. But it’s the contrary that would
really be surprising.
And as for this profusion of editions: there’s no reason to worry about
the infinite. As insatiable as one might very well be, it possesses more than
enough to satisfy all needs and dreams. Besides, this rainfall of proofs isn’t a
downpour over only one town. It’s sprinkled and scattered across fields that
are impossible to measure. And it really matters so little whether or not our
twins are our neighbors. If they were on the moon, the conversation wouldn’t
be any more comfortable, or the acquaintance any easier to make. It’s even
quite flattering for one to turn up way out there, very far away—farther even
than devil Vauvert—and be wearing one’s slippers while reading the newspa-
per, or taking part in the battle of Valmy, than it is to be surrendering right
now in thousands of French Republics.
Do you think, at the other end of the infinite—on some sympathetic
earth—the royal prince, in arriving upon Sadowa too late, might be allowed
to win his battle against an unhappy Benedeck? But there’s Pompey who
has just lost the battle at Pharsalus. Poor man! Looks like he’s leaving to
find consolation in Alexandria, at the side of his good friend, King Ptolemy.
Caesar will certainly laugh a good one. Hey! It’s just that he won’t quite make
it, he’s halfway through a Senate session, in the middle of getting his twenty-
two stabbings. Well! That’s his daily ration since the non-beginning (non-
commencement) of the world—and he stores them up with an imperturbable
philosophy. It’s true that his twins don’t sound the alarm for him. That’s the
terrible thing! One cannot be warned (on ne peut pas s’avertir). If one were
allowed to pass the story (l’histoire) of one’s life along to the doubles (doubles)
one has in space—with a few good pieces of advice—then one could certainly
spare them from a good amount of follies and grief.
At bottom and despite all the joking, this is very serious. It’s not a ques-
tion of anti-lions, anti-tigers, nor of eyes at the end of a tail (ni d’œils au bout
de la queue); it’s a matter of math and definite facts. Indeed, nature has been
manufacturing these solar systems by the billions per day since the world
was the world. And I defy it to stop the production of these material and per-
sonal, servile tracings. I give it permission to use up the sum of probabilities,
without missing a single one. As soon as it’s at the end of its roll, I will shut it
off from the infinite, and I will summon it to pay up (de s’exécuter)—that is,
to execute (d’exécuter) endlessly all the duplicates. I could let down my guard
and offer the charm of small samples as a motive—it would be such a pity
not to multiply them until satiety. Yet, on the contrary, I find it unhealthy and
barbarous to poison space with a mugful of a fetid country.
Useless observations, I might add. Nature isn’t familiar with—nor does it
practice—morality in its actions. What it does, it doesn’t do intentionally. It
plays blind man’s bluff: destroying, creating, transforming. It doesn’t even bat
an eye at the rest. With its eyes shut, it puts the arithmetic of probabilities
to work better than all the mathematicians could with their eyes wide open.
No variant eludes it; no chance runs out at the bottom of its urn. It draws
out all the numbers. And when there’s nothing left at the bottom of the bag,
it opens the box of repetitions, which is likewise a bottomless jar that’s never
empty—the opposite of the Danaids’ jars, which could never be filled.
This is how matter behaves, as soon as matter is matter; and it isn’t just
a few days old. Working with a uniform template of a hundred simple bodies,
and never diminishing or growing by an atom, it can only incessantly repeat
a certain quantity of different combinations. And it’s on this account that
one calls these combinations primordial, original, and so forth; only stellar
systems leave its workshop.
It’s in this way alone that any astral body exists, has always existed, and
will always exist; not in the form of its present personality (personnalité),
which is temporary and perishable, but in an infinite series of like person-
alities (personnalités semblables) that are reproduced across the centuries.
It thus belongs to one of the original combinations of the hundred simple

bodies. Since it’s identical to its preceding incarnations, if it is placed in the
same conditions, then it lives and will live exactly the same life as that of its
previous avatars—both overall and in detail.
All of the astral bodies are repetitions of an original combination, or type.
New types wouldn’t develop. The number of these is necessarily exhausted
since the origin of things—though things never really had an origin at all.
This means that a fixed number of original combinations exists for all eter-
nity and is no more capable of being augmented or diminished than matter.
It now is and will remain the same, until the end of things, which can no more
end than they can begin. An eternity of present types—in the past as well as
the future (le futur)—and no astral body that isn’t a type, infinitely repeated
in time and space. Such is the reality.
Our Earth, just like the other celestial bodies, is the repetition of a pri-
mordial combination that always recurs as the same—one that also exists
simultaneously in billions of identical copies. Each copy is born, lives, and
dies in turn. They are born and die by the billions at every passing second.
Each one of them is followed by all the material things—all the organized
beings—in the same order, in the same place, at the same minute where they
follow one another, on twin earths. Consequently, all the events that have
taken place on our globe—as well as those that have yet to be accomplished
before its death—are fulfilled in exactly the same way on its billions of equals.
And, since it is so for all stellar systems, the entire universe is an endless,
permanent reproduction of material and personnel (d’un matériel et d’un
personnel) that are always renewed and always the same.
Does the identity of two planets necessitate the identity of their solar
systems? Without a doubt, the identity of the two suns is an absolute neces-
sity. Without that, they would be condemned to a change in the conditions
of their existence, which would carry the two astral bodies toward different
destinies in spite of their original identity, and the rest then becomes very
unlikely. But, within these two stellar clusters, is the total similarity of every-
thing so rigorous that all the globes correspond in number and order? Must
there be a Mercury double, a Mars double, a Neptune double, and so on? The
question is insoluble because of the insufficiency of facts.
Without a doubt, these bodies undergo reciprocal influences, and the

absence of Jupiter, for example, or its reduction by nine tenths, would be
a sensible cause of modification for its neighbors. And yet, an increase in
distance attenuates these causes and can even annul them. Moreover, as a
source of light and as a source of heat, the Sun reigns alone; and when one
considers that its mass in proportion to that of its planetary retinue is 744 to
1, then it seems that such an enormous power of attraction would annihilate
any rivals. Nevertheless, this is not the case. It’s well established that the
other planets have an effect on the Earth.
What’s more, this question is rather unimportant and doesn’t even ad-
dress our thesis. If it’s possible for an identity to exist between two earths,
then it has already taken place, since nature doesn’t skip a combination.
Apart from that, it doesn’t really matter. Let’s just say that twin earths (terres-
sosies) necessitate twin solar systems (système sollaires-sosies) as their condi-
tion sine qua non. So be it. It follows quite simply as a consequence that
there are millions of stellar clusters in which our globe possesses, instead
of twins, Menaechmi to varying degrees—original combinations, infinitely
repeated—just as it possesses all the others.
Moreover, solar systems that are perfectly identical and infinite in num-
ber easily fulfill the inevitable plan. They constitute an original type. All of the
planets in their corresponding rank now supply the most faultless identity.
Here, Mercury is the twin of Mercury, Venus is the twin of Venus, Earth is
the twin of Earth, and so on. It’s by the billions then that these systems are
lavished throughout space, as repetitions of a type.
Among the differentiated combinations, is there one whose differences
arise unexpectedly on globes that are initially identical at the time of their
birth? Here a distinction has to be made. These mutations can hardly be
considered to be matter’s spontaneous works (œuvres). The initial moment
of an astral body determines the entire series of its material transforma-
tions. Nature’s laws are always inflexible and immutable. And to the extent
that they alone govern, everything follows a course that is fixed and fated.
But variations do begin to take place with animate beings that have will, or
in other words, caprice. Above all, as soon as people intervene, fantasy (la
fantaisie) intervenes with them. Yet it’s not as though they can really affect
(toucher beaucoup à) the planet. Their greatest efforts still wouldn’t stir up a
molehill, though this doesn’t stop them from standing up as conquerors and
falling down in ecstasy before their own genius and power. Matter quickly
sweeps aside the workings of these paltry Myrmidons—just as soon as they
stop defending themselves against it. Look to the famous cities—Nineveh,
Babylon, Thebes, Memphis, Persepolis, and Palmyra—where inhabitants
abounded by the millions in their feverish activity. What remains of them?
Not even rubble. Their tombs are covered with grass and sand. Let human
works be neglected for an instant, and nature peacefully begins to demolish
them; and if one delays a while longer, one finds nature resettled, flourishing
on the debris.
Though people may disturb matter very little, they certainly disturb one
another a great deal. And while the turbulence they create never seriously
upsets the natural course of physical phenomena, it does upset humanity.
So it’s necessary then to foresee this subversive influence that changes the
course of individual destinies—destroying or altering the descent of animals
(les races animales), tearing nations apart and toppling empires. No doubt,
these brutalities take place without so much as grazing the earth’s skin. And
the disappearance of the agitators (perturbateurs) wouldn’t leave a trace of
their so-called sovereignty. It would likewise be enough to give nature back
its lightly-marred virginity (sa virginité à peine effleurée).
It is among people themselves that victims are made and people are
driven to immense changes. It’s when they are carried away by passion and
other competing interests that their species gets stirred up with a violence
that’s greater than an ocean beneath the toil and strain of a tempest. What
a difference in the course of humanities! A difference that nevertheless
began its career with the same personnel, due to an identity in the material
conditions of the planets! If one thinks about the mobility of individuals and
the thousands of troubles that unceasingly come to lead their lives astray
(dévoyer leur existence), then one will easily arrive at the sextillions and sex-
tillions of variants of humankind. But, through repetitions, a single original
combination of matter—that of our planetary system—furnishes billions of
earths, thereby providing twins for the sextillions of diverse Humanities that
come out of the stirrings of the original humanity. The first year on the road
won’t provide any more than ten variants; the second, ten thousand; the
third, millions; and so on in a succession that crescendos in proportion to
the progress, which as we’ve seen, emerges through extraordinary processes.
The collective differences of humans have only one thing in common—
duration (la durée). Since, being born on top of copies (copies) of the same
original type, each of them writes its copy in its own fashion (chacune en écrit
son exemplaire a sa façon). And yet the number of these distinct histories,
as great as one might imagine it, is always a finite number; we know that
the primordial combination is infinite through repetitions. Each distinct his-
tory represents a collective that is the same, with a circulation of billions
of like proofs. And each individual, as an integral part of this collective,
consequently possesses twins by the billions. We know that every person
can appear at once under several variants as a consequence of changes in
the road followed by his twins on their respective earths—changes that split
life without touching its personality (changements qui dédoublent la vie, sans
toucher à la personnalité).
Let’s condense this: matter, being bound to construct only nebulae that
are later transformed into stellar-planetary groups, is, despite is fecundity,
unable to exceed a certain number of special combinations. Each of these
types is a stellar system that’s repeated without end as the only means of
populating the expanses. Our Sun and its procession of planets is one of
the original combinations; and that one over there (et celle-là)—like all the
others—are being churned out by the billions. And from each of these proofs
there naturally corresponds an earth that is identical to ours, twin in its ma-
terial constitution—one that thus engenders the same vegetable and animal
species as those born on the terrestrial surface.
Because they’re identical at the hour of dawn, all the Humanities follow
—and each upon its own planet—the road traced by passions. And individu-
als contribute to the alterations of this road through their own particular
influence. From there, the result of this is that, despite the constant identity
of its start, Humanity doesn’t have the same personnel on all similar globes.
An additional result is that each of these globes in a way has its own specific
Humanity that sprouts from the same source and is a part of the same point
as all the others. And yet it is derived on its path by a thousand footpaths
that, in the end, culminate in a different life, a different history.
Yet the restricted number of the inhabitants on each earth doesn’t allow
these variants of Humanity to exceed a predetermined number. Thus, as pro-
digious as this figure might otherwise be, the number of particular human
collectives is finite, and so it’s nothing compared to the infinite quantity of
identical earths as property (domaine) of the solar combination’s type. And
though they’re later altered, in their origin, all these earths also had paral-
lel, nascent Humanities. It follows that each earth, containing one of these
particular human collectives as the result of incessant alterations, has to be
repeated billions of times to meet the infinite’s demands. From there, billions
of earths are absolute twins in matter and personnel, without a hair’s differ-
ence in time or place—not by a millionth of a second nor a spider’s thread.
And so it is with these terrestrial variants or human collectives just as it
is with the original stellar systems. They have a limited figure because the
number of their elements is finite: the hundred simple bodies. And yet each
variant draws up its proofs by the billions.
Such is the common destiny of our planets—Mercury, Venus, Earth, and
the rest—and of the planets of all stellar systems, whether they are primordial
or typical. Let’s simply add that among these systems, millions approximate
ours without being duplicates, and this includes the innumerable earths that
are now no longer identical with the one where we live, though they may have
all possible degrees of resemblance or analogy.
All these systems, all these variants and their repetitions, make up in-
numerable series of partial infinites that will surge into the great infinite,
sinking in it like streams within the ocean. It’s astounding that one doesn’t
cry out at these globes, falling by the billions from the pen. In this case, the
question isn’t: where does one find room for such crowds (où trouver de la
place pour tant de monde)? But rather: where does one find the multitudes
for so much space (où trouver des mondes pour tant de place)? One can mul-
tiply by the billions without scruples when it comes to the infinite; it will
always demand its due (il demandera toujours son reste).
And all the doctrines, which are sometimes born jokers and sometimes
crybabies, will perhaps scoff at our partial infinites while congratulating us

for having gotten so much change from a fake coin. Indeed, when a single
infinite is denied to the expanses, then it’s merely awarded millions of them
in its place—and the process remains unruffled. And yet there’s nothing
simpler. Because space is without limits, one can ascribe any and all figures
(toutes les figures) to it, precisely because it has none whatsoever. Hence, it
was a sphere just a short while ago, and now it’s a cylinder.
Nine saw cuts perpendicular to its axis can divide a cylindrical block of
wood into ten smaller cylinders; and through thought, one can extend the
circular perimeter of each of these plates ad infinitum; and also through
thought, one can move them away from one another by septillions and
septillions of leagues. Though they are perhaps somewhat poor, there you
have ten irreproachable, partial infinites. According to our calculations, in
their respective domains (domaines) all astral bodies could stretch out as
comfortably as they pleased within each of its divisions (compartiments).
Moreover, nothing would prevent others from being placed next to it, and
from thus adding however much of the infinite one should want (d’ajouter
ainsi de l’infini à discrétion).
Of course it’s understood that these astral bodies don’t simply remain
penned up in their separate categories according to their different identi-
ties. The renewing conflagrations incessantly fuse and meld them together.
A solar system doesn’t give birth to itself from its own combustion like the
phoenix; on the contrary, this combustion itself contributes to the formation
of other combinations. The solar system thus gets its own from elsewhere (il
prend sa revanche ailleurs) since it’s through other volatilizations that it is
then reborn. Because the materials are everywhere the same one hundred
simple bodies and because the situation is infinite, the probabilities level out.
The result is an invariable permanence of the ensemble through the per-
petual transformation of the parts.
And if, while straddling the Indefinite, some quibbler turns to us to pick a
petty, pointless quarrel in an attempt to force us to comprehend the Infinite
and then explain it to him, we’ll send him straight away to the Jovians who
are no doubt equipped with more substantial brains. No. We can’t go beyond
the indefinite. This is well known and one only ever tries to conceive of the
Infinite under this form. It’s by adding space to space that thought is quite
easily able to come to the conclusion that space is without limits. Assuredly,
during a myriad of centuries, one could conclude that the total would always
be a finite number. Yet what does this prove? First and foremost it proves the
Infinite itself through the impossibility of ending up at it. And it then shows
us that our brains are feeble.
Sure, after having sprinkled some figures (des chiffres) around to get a few
laughs and shoulder shrugs, one gets winded and stranded on the first steps
of the road to the infinite. And it’s nonetheless as clear as it is inscrutable
(impénétrable). This can be shown quite brilliantly in just a few words: space,
filled with celestial bodies, always, without end. It’s extremely simple, even
if it is incomprehensible.
Our analysis of the universe mainly set the stage for the planets, the only
theater for organic life. The stars (les étoiles) have stayed in the background
(l’arrière-plan) because, there, there are no changing forms or metamorpho-
ses. Nothing but the tumult of the colossal blaze as a source of heat and light,
then its progressive decline, and finally, the frozen darkness. A star is noth-
ing less than the vital hearth of the groups that are constituted through the
condensation of nebulae. It likewise classifies and rules the system at whose
center it lies. It’s different in its size and movements in each combination
type. It remains immutable for all of the repetitions of this type, including the
planetary variants that are the occasion for humanity.
Indeed, there’s no need to imagine that these reproductions of globes
are taking place simply for the pleasure (pour les beaux yeux) of the twins
that inhabit them. Everything is related to us through the bias of egoism
and education; this is a stupidity indeed. Nature doesn’t care about us. It
simply manufactures stellar clusters according to the materials that are at
its disposal. Some are originals and others are duplicates, published by the
billions. Here, there aren’t really any proper originals—that is, one doesn’t
precede the other according to date—rather, there are various types, with the
stellar clusters arranged accordingly.
Whether or not the planets in these groups yield humanity is not at all
the concern of nature, which doesn’t have any concerns. It simply does its
job without any worries about the consequences. It applies 998 thousandths
of matter to the stars, where neither a blade of grass nor a mite shows up;
and the rest—the two thousandths!—goes to the planets, half of which (if not
more) also do not care whether or not they accommodate and nourish our
module of bipeds. Nonetheless, all in all, it does things quite well. At least,
there’s no need to complain. More modestly, the lamp that brightens our
world and warms us up could just as easily abandon us to eternal night; or
rather, we could never have come into the light at all.
Only the stars would really have a reason to complain; but complain they
don’t. Poor stars! Their splendid role is a sacrificial one. Creators and ser-
vants for the producing power of the planets, they themselves have no power
at all; they have no choice but to resign themselves to their thankless, dreary
career as torchlights. They have stardom without any of its delights; invis-
ible, living realities are hidden behind them. And these enslaved queens are
nevertheless cut from the same mold as their happy subjects. The hundred
simple bodies may very well keep things going. But the stars are only able to
recover their fecundity by casting off claims to greatness. Dazzling flames
now, they will one day be gloomy and frozen, and therefore unable to bring
anything back to life other than planets—until after the collision evaporates
the procession and its Queen, turning them into a nebula.
And before the good fortune of this decline comes, these sovereigns un-
knowingly govern their kingdoms out of kindness. They sew the crops with-
out ever reaping the harvest. They have all of the burdens of responsibility
and none of the benefits (la bénéfice). Though they are the only rulers with
any force, they only use it to aid the weak. Precious stars (chères étoiles)! You
don’t find many like them.
Finally, we can conclude that an immanence belongs to the smallest
particles of matter. If their duration is only a second, then their rebirth is
without limits. The infinite in time and space is hardly the sole privilege of
the entire universe. It likewise belongs to all forms of matter, including the
infusorian and the grain of sand.
And so, thanks to the good graces of (par la grâce de) his planet, each
person has an endless number of doubles in the expanses, living his life, ab-
solutely in the way that he himself lives it. Each person is infinite and eternal
in the person of other him-selves (dans la personne d’autres lui-même), not
only at his present age, but at all of his ages. At any given moment, he simul-
taneously has twins that are born by the billions; others that die; and billions
of others whose ages are staggered out—second by second—from his birth
to the moment of his death.
If someone gazes into the heavens, searching throughout the regions for
their secret, then at the same time, billions of twins lift their eyes with the
same question in mind—all of these looks, invisibly passing by one another.
And these mute scrutinies don’t just traverse space only once, but always.
Each second of eternity has already seen, just as it will again see, today’s
circumstances—that is, the billions and billions of earths, twins of ours and
bearing our personal twins (portant nos sosies personnels).
In this way, every one of us has lived, lives, and will live endlessly ac-
cording to a billion forms of an alter ego. As one is at each second of life,
so one is stereotyped (stéréotypé) in eternity in billions of proofs. We share
in the destiny of the planets, our nourishing mothers; it’s from their breast
that this inextinguishable existence is realized. The stellar systems drag us
along with them in their perennial existences. Because they are a unique
organization of matter, they at once have a perennial mobility and a fixed
quality. Each of them is no more than a spark (un éclair), and yet space is
eternally illuminated by these sparks.
The universe is infinite in both its ensemble and in each one of its frac-
tions, whether a star or a grain of dust. And so, as it is at the minute that now
passes (à la minute qui sonne), it likewise already was, and so it will always
be, without an atom or second of variation. There’s nothing new under the
sun. All that’s done is done, and will be done. And nevertheless, though it is
the same, the universe of just a little while ago is no longer that of the present
moment, and that of the present moment will no longer be the same as the
one that comes shortly after; in no way is it ever immutable or immobile.
Indeed, quite the opposite, it’s constantly altering. All of its parts are in an
indiscontinuous movement (un mouvement indiscontinu): destroyed here,
they are simultaneously reproduced elsewhere as new individualities.
The stellar systems end, and they start over with similar elements that
are in turn associated through other unions, a tireless reproduction of like
copies drawn from various remnants. It’s an alternation (une alternance), a
perpetual exchange of rebirths through conversion. The universe is life and

death at once, destruction and creation, change and stability, tumult and
rest. It’s endlessly knotted and unknotted, tangled and unraveled. And still
it’s always the same, with beings that are constantly renewed. Despite its
perpetual becoming, it’s cast (cliché) in bronze, incessantly churning out
the same page. Being both the ensemble and the details, it is eternally both
transformation and immanence. Humanity is one of these details. It shares
the mobility and the permanence of the great All. There’sn’t a human being
that has not been refigured on billions of globes in the recasting crucible. One
would clamber back through the torrent of centuries in vain if one wanted
to find a moment where one hadn’t lived. Because the universe never really
began, neither has humanity. It would be impossible to rush back to an era
where all the astral bodies haven’t already been destroyed and replaced; and
this goes for us as well as the inhabitants of these astral bodies. And in the
future (l’avenir), an instant will never pass by where billions of other our-
selves are not in the process of being born, of living, and of dying. Human-
ity—remaining true to (à l’égal de) the universe—is the enigma of the infinite
and eternity; and the grain of sand remains true to humanity.
VIII. Summary
The universe as a whole is made up of stellar systems. To create them, na-

ture has no more than a hundred simple bodies at its disposal. Despite the
prodigious use that it’s able to draw from these resources and the incalcu-
lable number of combinations that they lend to its fecundity, the result is a
number that is necessarily finite, like that of the elements themselves. And
to fill the vast expanses, nature has to repeat infinitely each of its original or
typical combinations.
Any and every astral body whatsoever thus exists in an infinite number
throughout time and space; and not only under one of its aspects, but in such
a way that it can always be found at every second of its duration—from its
birth to its death. All beings spread across its surface—big or small, living or
inanimate—share the privilege of this perennial existence.
The Earth is one of these astral bodies. Every human being is thus eternal
in all seconds of his existence. What I write at this moment in the dungeons
of Fort du Taureau (dans un cachot du Fort du Taureau) I will have written
for eternity, on a table, with a pen, in my clothes, in circumstances that are
completely alike. And so it is, for each (Ainsi de chacun).
All of these earths sink, one after the other, into the rekindling flames
to be reborn and die down again—the monotonous stream of an hourglass
eternally emptying and turning itself over; a new that’s always old and an
old that’s always new.
And yet those who are inquisitive about extraterrestrial life will nonethe-
less smile at a mathematical conclusion that grants them, not only immortal-
ity, but eternity. The number of our twins is infinite in time and space. In
conscience, one can hardly insist on this any longer. These twins are twins
in flesh and bone, indeed in pants and cardigan, in crinoline and in chignon.
These are not phantoms at all; it’s the present-day made eternal (c’est de
l’actuatité éternisée).
Nonetheless, there’s a large flaw: there’s no progress. Alas! No, these are
vulgar new editions, needless repetitions. As the copies of past worlds are, so
are the copies of future worlds. Only the chapter of bifurcations is still open
to hope (l’espérance). Let’s not forget that all that one could have been in this
world, one is somewhere else.
The progress in this world is only for our descendants (nos neveux). They
are more fortunate than we are. All of the beautiful things that our globe will
see, our future descendants have already seen; they are seeing them right
now, and they will always see them—though of course, this is in the form of
the twins that have preceded them and will likewise follow them. Sons of a
better humanity, they have already thoroughly scoffed and jeered at us on
dead earths as they pass by after us. They continue to denounce us on the
living earths from which we have already disappeared; and they will forever
follow us in their contempt on the earths that are yet to be born.
Both they and we (eux et nous)—and all the guests of our planet—we
return as prisoners (nous renaissons prisonniers) of the moment and place
that our destinies have assigned to us in the series of its avatars. Our pe-
rennial existence is an appendix of destiny’s own perenniality. We are only
partial phenomena of its resurrections. People of the nineteenth century, the
hour of our appearances is forever fixed, and it will always bring us back the
same; the most it can bring is the prospect of fortunate variants. Nothing
there to really quench one’s thirst for the best. What can you do? I haven’t
sought my pleasure at all; I’ve only looked for the truth. Here there’s neither
revelation nor prophecy, just a simple conclusion based on spectral analysis
and Laplace’s cosmogony. These two discoveries make us eternal. But what
if it’s merely a stroke of luck? Then let’s make the most of it. And what if it’s
merely a hoax? Then let’s resign ourselves to it.
But is it no consolation at all to be constantly aware that, on billions
of earths, one is in the company of the loved ones who, here today, are no
more than a memory for us? And is it not yet another consolation, on the
other hand, to think that one has tasted and will forever savor this happiness
in the figure of a twin—billions of twins? Who are, nonetheless, indeed us.
For plenty of lesser minds, the thrill of these pleasures through substitution
are somewhat lacking in their intoxicating quality. In each of the infinite’s
duplicates, they would prefer to have three or four years added to today’s
edition. One’s grasping has a rather grim aspect in our century of skepticism
and disillusions.
At bottom, it’s melancholy—humanity’s eternity according to the stars
(astres)—and sadder still is the sequestering of these brother-worlds by the
inexorable barrier of space. So many identical populations that pass without
one having suspected their mutual existence! Indeed. And it’s finally revealed
in the nineteenth century. But who will want to believe it?
And then again, until now, the past was for us little more than barba-
rism, and the future meant progress, science, happiness, illusion! On all of
our twin-globes, this past has seen the most brilliant civilizations disappear
without leaving a trace; and they will disappear yet again without leaving a
trace then either. On billions of earths, the future will again see all the acts of
ignorance, the foolishness, and the cruelty of our previous ages!
Right now, the entire life of our planet, from birth until death, is day by
day being minutely detailed on myriads of brother-stars (astres-frères), with
all of its crimes and misfortunes. What we call progress gets slammed shut
within each earth and fades away, disappearing with its earth. Always and
everywhere, on this earthly camp it’s the same drama, the same setting, on
the same, narrow stage. What a noisy humanity, infatuated with its great-
ness, believing itself to be the universe and living in its prison as in the vast
immensity, only to soon sink along with the globe that, in the most profound
disdain, has carried the burden of its pride. The same monotony and the
same apathy (immobilisme) even in the foreign stars (les astres étrangers). The
universe is repeated without end; it’s stomping its hoofs in the same place
(piaffe sur place). Eternity imperturbably plays the same representations over
and over, ad infinitum.
translator’s notes
Throughout my translation, I have made every effort to maintain the style and tone of the origi-
nal text from 1872. This has often resulted in grammatical constructions that are not standard.
Doing otherwise would have meant adding significantly more text than is present in Blanqui’s
version.
1. Blanqui variously employs the terms astre and étoile to signify stars. Although his usage
of the term étoile is almost exclusively reserved for fully formed stars, the term astre has
a range of meaning that is broader and includes a number of other celestial bodies such
as the planets and nebulae, in addition to being applied to a star throughout the various
stages of its development. Apart from the title, I have thus reserved the word “star” to
translate Blanqui’s usage of étoile, and “astral body” or “astral bodies” for the singular
and plural uses of astre(s). In those contexts where I found it better to depart from this
convention, I have made note of Blanqui’s term in parentheses.
2. Blanqui’s use of the noun l’étendue is variously used to denote “extension” and “the ex-
tent.” Because the latter term doesn’t easily lend itself to Blanqui’s use in the cosmologi-
cal context, I have chosen to use the English word “expanse” or “expanses,” sometimes
in combination with the modifier “vast.”
3. Throughout the text, Blanqui discusses numerals and figures through the use of
both French words and Arabic numerals without any apparent regularity. I have thus
reflected these variations in my translation. A league during Blanqui’s time was roughly
equivalent to 4 km.
4. In the following sections, I have capitalized “Earth” and “Sun” only where it is clear—ac-
cording to either the context or the orthography in the original text—that Blanqui is
referring to our own solar system and not one of its “twins.”
5. The names of the chemical elements provided in brackets are Blanqui’s anomalous
spelling variations as they appeared in the original 1872 printing.
6. Though the words “continuity” and “perpetuity” are synonymous with the French sub-
stantive pérennité, neither of the former words captured the range of meanings present
in the adjective perennial. I have therefore translated pérennité with the phrase “peren-
nial existence.”

Blanqui Eternity According To The Stars

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Eternity According to the Stars: L'éternité par les astres

CR: The New Centennial Review, Volume 9, Number 3, Winter

Published by Michigan State University Press

For additional information about this article

Access Provided by Simon Fraser University at 02/26/11 12:29AM GMT

II. The Indefinite

III. The Prodigious Distances of Stars

IV. The Physical Composition of the Stars

Nature is marvelous in the art of adapting organisms to different environ-

1. Hydrogen 18. Lead 35. Cobalt 51. Lithium

The first four—hydrogen, oxygen, nitrogen, and carbon—are the great

globes in unequal proportions; hence, the resulting divergences in density.

V. Observations on Laplace’s Cosmogony—

Laplace drew his hypothesis from Herschel’s telescopic observations. Com-

Earth is certainly far superior to them in strength. Comets, as everyone knows,

couldn’t go above a certain height without being plundered by the centrifu-

But wouldn’t they be more like beseeching captives, enchained for

assimilation of these two kinds of nebulous conglomerations would still

VI. The Origin of Worlds

be so high when, having been reduced entirely to vapors, these enormous

Thus, from the progressive condensation of nebulous matter, one comes to

On the other hand, there’s nothing more spurious than assimilating

“The universe’s!” That’s an exaggeration (“De l’univers,” c’est beaucoup

to the point of resurrection—may be seen as an upheaval (un trouble) of

VII. The Analysis and Synthesis

We now turn directly to the obscurity of language (l’obscurité du langage),

arise from these givens in unimaginable numbers. Do these numbers go on

each of its works (ses ouvrages) in billions of proofs or copies (exemplaires).

method. In various systems, planets are lined up symmetrically according to

of its duration. Its destiny is as a repetition of an original combination; and all

It thus belongs to one of the original combinations of the hundred simple

Without a doubt, these bodies undergo reciprocal influences, and the

crybabies, will perhaps scoff at our partial infinites while congratulating us

perpetual exchange of rebirths through conversion. The universe is life and

The universe as a whole is made up of stellar systems. To create them, na-

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