That man is nothing but a phenomenon, that he is
not-the-thing-in-itself--I mean that he is not ὄντως ὄν--is proved by
the fact that _death is a necessity_.

And how different the beginning of our life is to the end! The former is
made up of deluded hopes, sensual enjoyment, while the latter is pursued
by bodily decay and the odour of death.

The road dividing the two, as far as our well-being and enjoyment of
life are concerned, is downhill; the dreaminess of childhood, the
joyousness of youth, the troubles of middle age, the infirmity and
frequent misery of old age, the agonies of our last illness, and finally
the struggle with death--do all these not make one feel that existence
is nothing but a mistake, the consequences of which are becoming
gradually more and more obvious?

It would be wisest to regard life as a _desenga�o_, a delusion; that
everything is intended to be so is sufficiently clear.

Our life is of a microscopical nature; it is an indivisible point which,
drawn out by the powerful lenses of Time and Space, becomes considerably
magnified.

Time is an element in our brain which by the means of duration gives a
semblance of reality to the _absolutely empty existence_ of things and
ourselves.

How foolish it is for a man to regret and deplore his having made no use
of past opportunities, which might have secured him this or that