nce upon a time man knew he had a soul; he would have been shocked if he had been told that someday a book would have to be written to inform him, as a scientific discovery, that he had one.
And yet that is what this book is about. It is not about your soul. It is not designed to tell you to be good or bad or a Christian or a Yogi. It is written to tell you the story of the rediscovery of the human soul as a scientific, demonstrable fact.
Here at a moment when all religions everywhere face extinction by Communism, psychiatry, psychology, dialectic materialism and other “ologies” and “isms” without number, one might believe this book was an effort to create adequate religious fervor to stem the onslaught of the propaganda pamphlets which, all other things aside, are really the most hideous aspect of these threats to man; however this volume seeks no such thing: it is doubtful if religious control of man was very successful either. In the scorch of friction created by such conflicts one might not realize that the soul is worth investigating and writing about for its own sake, not for the sake of capital to be gained from its establishment or extinction.
The tale of the rediscovery of the soul is a considerable adventure entirely from the philosophic and experimental aspect; the adventure has been quite heightened by the amount of preconception and rebuff encountered because of these “isms” and “ologies.” One would think that ideologies were quite swollen with their fine opinion of themselves to believe that any investigation of the soul would of course be meant as a personal affront to each or all.
One conceives the view, after he has been awhile investigating the soul, that amongst all these modern disagreements there existed only one agreement: that the subject of the human soul, for bad or good, was only within the personal sphere of each. Thus, publishing this book will in itself be an adventure for it will discover amongst these “isms” and “ologies,” each one, the conceit that it itself is being attacked, and to “attack” that many oppositions at one fell charge requires in an author either the hide of a rhinoceros, the Citadel of a Christophe, or the legs of an impala. Having none of these but only a certain confidence in the stupidity of all these schools of slavery we locate in ourselves a willingness to accept the risk if not the combat.
