And so, for us, the human-like driver and guide being gone, all existence,
as we look out at it with our chilled, wondering eyes, is an aimless rise
and swell of shifting waters. In all that weltering chaos we can see no
spot so large as a man's hand on which we may plant our foot.

Whether a man believes in a human-like God or no is a small thing. Whether
he looks into the mental and physical world and sees no relation between
cause and effect, no order, but a blind chance sporting, this is the
mightiest fact that can be recorded in any spiritual existence. It were
almost a mercy to cut his throat, if indeed he does not do it for himself.

We, however, do not cut our throats. To do so would imply some desire and
feeling, and we have no desire and no feeling; we are only cold. We do not
wish to live, and we do not wish to die. One day a snake curls itself
round the waist of a Kaffer woman. We take it in our hand, swing it round
and round, and fling it on the ground--dead. Every one looks at us with
eyes of admiration. We almost laugh. Is it wonderful to risk that for
which we care nothing?

In truth, nothing matters. This dirty little world full of confusion, and
the blue rag, stretched overhead for a sky, is so low we could touch it
with our hand.

Existence is a great pot, and the old Fate who stirs it round cares nothing
what rises to the top and what goes down, and laughs when the bubbles
burst. And we do not care. Let it boil about. Why should we trouble
ourselves? Nevertheless the physical sensations are real. Hunger hurts,
and thirst, therefore we eat and drink: inaction pains us, therefore we
work like galley-slaves. No one demands it, but we set ourselves to build