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“None of you!” he cried in a voice like a crossbow bolt. “None of you came simply for Shimeh, because you’re Men, and the hearts of Men are not simple.” He looked from face to face, inviting them to see the obvious. “Our passions are a morass, and because we lack the words to name them, we pretend our words are the only true passions. We make our impoverished schemes the measure. We condemn the complicated and cheer the caricature. What man does not yearn for a simple soul, to love without recrimination, to act without hesitation, to lead without reservation?”

He saw the recognition sparking in a thousand eyes.

“But there is no such soul.”

To speak was to pluck the lute strings of another’s soul. To intone was to strum full chords. He had long ago learned how to speak past meanings, to mine passion with mere voice.

“Conflict is what we are in truth. Conflict. We think it an affliction, an obstruction, an adversary to be overcome, when in fact it is the very quintessence of our souls. Think back on your life. Have any of your motives been pure? Ever? Or is this one more lie you use to appease your gluttonous vanity? Think! Is there anything you’ve done for the love of God alone?”

Again silence, both shamefaced and willing.

“No. There’s nothing simple in your hearts. Even the adoration you bear me is marbled with fear, avarice, doubt … The shadows of conflict darken all of your faces! Conflict. Does this mean that you’re impure, wicked, or unworthy?”

The final word rang like an accusation.

“Or does it mean that you are Men?”

Excerpt From: R. Scott Bakker. “The Thousandfold Thought”