Trilogy on human nature (part 1)

The Duality of Human Nature: We are Monsters with a Heart.

What is a human, this strange and trembling creature, who walks the earth with a heart capable of divine love, yet carries within itself shadows dark enough to rival the abyss? To contemplate humanity is to stand at the edge of a precipice, gazing into depths where monsters lurk, and yet, in fleeting moments, to glimpse the spark of a heart striving to overcome its own fragility. We are, in truth, monsters with a heart—a paradox that shapes our existence. Though it may seem to demand our lifelong contemplation, this is not so, for a resolution to this dichotomy exists.

Imagine, if you will, the human soul as a vast, ancient forest, where rays of sunlight pierce the canopy to illuminate paths of virtue, while tangled roots, many resembling Gordian knots, and shadowy clearings conceal less noble impulses. In both the silence and the clamor of our daily lives, we are not only the heroes of our own stories, as Goethe might have led us to dream, but also the villains, driven by those dark impulses that, over time, grow into desires we scarcely recognize. The monster within us does not always roar; often, it whispers. Whatever form it takes, every dark thought and deed increases its scope and, with it, its hunger. Humanity has long sensed this truth, and countless individuals capable and willing to write have created a myriad of fairy tales, stories, and legends that are not only projections of their own states but also mysterious mirrors for the monsters in all of us. Thus, when you read a fairy tale and suddenly feel a connection to the story or its characters—or, in some cases, something far deeper—you sense that you are following the writer on their profound spiritual journey, confronting or battling that monster. Not all of us are immediately aware that a monster lives within us, that we are all monsters. But this awareness is not essential, for the monster and its hunger grow—sometimes in the fleeting sneer with which we judge a neighbor, in the quiet satisfaction at another’s downfall, or in the cold ambition that drives us to climb the ladder of status, heedless of those we trample. The examples are endless, so numerous that many believe this is simply life. These are not the great evils of history’s tyrants but small, insidious cruelties that weave through the fabric of our society, binding us to a world of illusion and power. And though this is not truly life, nor need it be our life, through adaptation to our environment and our deeper understanding of ourselves, a transformation occurs, turning what was once merely the potential for cruelty and evil into a habit. We become accustomed to evil, carrying yet another habit we scarcely notice.

Within the same human breast beats a heart—a fragile, trembling thing, capable of acts so tender they defy the darkness, yet, sadly, also capable of falling in love with that darkness. Dostoevsky, that master of the soul’s labyrinth, saw even in the most wretched human a flickering spark of redemption, a capacity for sublime love that, though often dormant, awaits only the courage to be awakened. But that heart is small and sinful, as you, dear readers, may have noticed in your own reflections. It is easily overshadowed by the clamor of societal expectations, that relentless master urging us to conform, compete, and prove our worth through trivial victories. Just as easily, it falls in love with the proud and the cruel. Learning to measure ourselves against others not by the depth of our compassion but by the height of our status, we often become devilish in this pursuit, our hearts shrinking and darkening as our ambitions and habits of cruelty and evil grow.

Love, the most sublime of all human endeavors, is not simply a refuge from this darkness, nor must it be confused with infatuation. As Montaigne, with a knowing smile and sigh, might confide in his essays, love itself can be a battlefield where the monster and the heart collide. We love, and in love, we risk possessiveness, jealousy, or the subtle tyranny of expecting others to mirror our desires. True love—Christian love, or that selfless devotion we aspire to—stands at the pinnacle of the hierarchy we build in our philosophies, but how few reach those heights! More often, we confuse love with infatuation or power, masking self-interest with a cloak of affection. To love truly means to strive, to expand the heart through conscious acts of sacrifice and understanding, to choose another above oneself. This is a task as arduous as it is noble, requiring us to confront the monster within—not by denying it but by accepting it—and to recognize that habits, especially those hungry for cruelty and evil, are not only hard to kill but often nearly indestructible. How do we love the monster?

Here lies the core of our nature: we cannot banish the monster, nor should we love it, but we can learn to tame it. As Kipling might weave into a tale of moral struggle, the path to wisdom is not in pretending we are angels but in wrestling with our darker selves until we emerge stronger, with hearts expanded. This is not mere metaphor but a call to action. No one is ever alone in this struggle; it is shared with all those we truly love. Through reflection, or as Nietzsche, somewhat crudely, called it, “ruminating,” we strive to uncover the roots of our cruelty and evil within our souls and learn to redirect their energy. Through education, we can teach our children not to fear their shadows but to walk beside them, knowing their power yet choosing the light. And through courage, we can expand our hearts, creating space for a love that does not dominate but liberates.

This duality, dear readers, is the great drama of humanity since the dawn of civilization. We are neither condemned to be monsters nor destined to be angels. We are both, and the tension between these poles shapes every choice we make. To live well is to embrace this truth, to walk the narrow path between our baser instincts and higher aspirations. It means standing, like Goethe’s Faust, at the crossroads of despair and hope, always choosing to rise, even as the monster tugs at our heels. Yet Goethe did not fully know the Orthodox saints, those elders who, among the Slavic peoples for thousands of years, have walked this path. They live humble lives, yet those who meet them feel as though they have encountered someone who has “lived a thousand lives” in spirit. From my perspective, they are Orthodox philosophers, devoting their lives to God and the heart, knowing that though the heart is small, its potential is infinite. With every act of kindness, every moment of reflection, it expands, making us ever more human and, from an Orthodox perspective, closer to our divine nature.

Why, then, should we shrink from the mirror of our nature? Let us look more closely, with equal honesty, at both the monster and the heart within us, for in their interplay lies the secret of our redemption. To be human is to struggle, to love, to stumble, and to rise again. It is a journey worthy of our greatest devotion, and it begins with a single, courageous step: to know ourselves as we are and to dare to become what we can be. No masks, no preoccupation with masks, but engagement with what we truly are. Life is too short for masks. Nor do we wish to become mere animals, be they mighty lions or dragons, for that would mean forfeiting our hearts. Nor should we aspire to the impossible—to become superhuman or angelic, free of our monster. One loud German leader once urged his people to equally strengthen their loving and destructive sides—but that, too, is not the true path; it does not make us human. Instead, we seek to deepen our understanding of the monster within and learn to restrain it; we neither wish to strengthen the monster nor to unleash it thoughtlessly upon others, causing harm. Some Orthodox Christians know these truths, for their saints and saintesses have penetrated to their core. The Serbian Patriarch Pavle encapsulated this essence, teaching that the wisdom of the serpent, when left to grow alone, leads to cruelty and evil, just as the innocence of the dove, when left to grow alone, leads to naivety and simplicity. Thus, he called us to unite our divided souls, echoing the eternal words of Jesus Christ: “Be wise as serpents and innocent as doves.” Above all, he urged us to be what we are meant to be - not divided between mere love or cruelty, nor pretending to be good while secretly doing evil, but united as a whole, the whole of a human. He told us: “Let us be human."