Only dead men are sincere

Every word men speak, you may presume

Is more or less a fraud because, my dear,

You’ll find us humans at our most sincere

Wrapped in our nappies, later in our tomb.

Then we are wise at last, and all is plain,

We join our fathers down below the ground

And with bare bones we rattle truth around

Though some would rather lie and live again

by Herman Hesse

Reminds me of that sage, Solon, who said

He who unites the greatest number of advantages, and retaining them to the day of his death, then dies peaceably, that man alone, sire, is, in my judgment, entitled to bear the name of ‘happy.’ But in every matter it behoves us to mark well the end: for oftentimes God gives men a gleam of happiness, and then plunges them into ruin.”

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