Only one of two things can comfort: To put the world under one's feet;
or, to keep a God over one's head: only

He who is "captain of his soul", or he who commits his soul to God, can
rise above fate.

There is a vacuum in every human heart. And the human heart abhors it as
much as nature.

What will fill this cardiac void no mortal to this moment has found out.
Art cries, "Beauty", and tries to depict it; Philosophy cries, "Truth,
and strives to define it; Religion cries, "Good", and does its best to
embody it; and numberless lesser voices in the wilderness cry, "Power",
or "Gold", or "Work",--which is a narcotic, or "Excitement",--which is
an intoxicant; and a many-toned changeful siren with sweetly-saddening
music cries, "Love". And one pursues a phantom, and another clasps a
shadow, and a third cloaks his eyes with a transparent veil, or steeps
his senses in floods that will not drown.--No, what the human heart
wants it does not know. And, what is more,

Pathetic problem amongst problems pathetic, often it puzzles this human
heart to distinguish between the things which it is right and proper to
seek wherewith to fill that void, and the things which are wrong and
improper. Furthermore:

How apt is the heart to seek in the illegitimate for the satisfaction
which the legitimate fails to give!--Problems ancient as Eden.

What does it want, this human heart, what does it so earnestly desire, so