ABSTRACT
There is in each man something sacred. But it is not his person. Nor is it the human person. It is he, this man, plain and simple. It is neither his person nor the human person in him which is sacred to me. It is he. All of him. Arms, eyes, thoughts, everything. The author would not damage any of it without infinite scruples. If the human person in him were what was sacred to him, he could easily gouge out his eyes. Once blind, he will be a human person exactly as much as before. He would not have touched at all the human person in him. He would have destroyed only his eyes. It is impossible to define respect for the human person. It is not only impossible to define in words. This is case for many luminous ideas. But this idea cannot be conceived either; it cannot be defined or delimited by a silent operation of thought.
