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.”