“Oh literature, oh the glorious Art, how it preys upon the marrow in our bones. It scoops the stuffing out of us, and chucks us aside. Alas!”
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Creation destroys as it goes, throws down one tree for the rise of another. But ideal mankind would abolish death, multiply itself million upon million, rear up city upon city, save every parasite alive, until the accumulation of mere existence is swollen to a horror.
So long as you don't feel life's paltry and a miserable business, the rest doesn't matter, happiness or unhappiness.
Ours is essentially a tragic age, so we refuse to take it tragically.
There is no such thing as liberty. You only change one sort of domination for another. All we can do is to choose our master.
