I did not think much of him as a philosopher. I noted, rather incoherently, in my diary: ‘I admire his ability to have his own theories about everything. Perhaps because he does not know much about philosophy. I like him enormously.’ He was, in fact, ignorant of any philosophic discipline, but what mattered much more to me was that he opened up paths that I longed to explore without as yet having the courage to do so. The majority of my friends were believers, and I kept evading the issue by trying to find a compromise between their point of view and my own; I didn’t dare disassociate myself from them too much. But Herbaud made me want to wipe out the past that separated me from him: he frowned upon my association with the ‘Holy Willies’. Christian asceticism was repugnant to him. He professed deliberate ignorance of metaphysical soul-searching. He was anti-religious, anti-clerical, anti-natiönalist, and anti-militarist; he had a horror of all mysticisms. I gave him my dissertation on ‘The Personality’ to read, for I was overweeningly proud of it; he pulled a face as he handed it back to me; he felt it smacked of Catholicism and romanticism: he exhorted me to get them out of my system as soon as possible. I accepted his advice with open arms. I had had enough of ‘Catholic complications’, spiritual dead-ends, miraculous make-believes; I felt it was time for me to get my feet back on the ground. That is why, when I got to know Herbaud, I had the feeling of finding myself: he was the shadow thrown by my future. He was neither a pillar of the Church, nor a book-worm, nor did he spend his time propping up bars; he proved by personal example that one can build for oneself, outside the accepted categories, a self-respecting, happy, and responsible existence: exactly the sort of life I wanted for myself.