We are thrust forth into life, against our will. Against our
will we are forced to leave it. We find ourselves, as has been said, "on
a steep incline, where we can veer but little to the left or right";
whichever way we move we fall finally to the very bottom. The fires we
kindle die away in coals; castles we build vanish before our eyes. The
river sinks in the sands of the desert. The character we form by our
efforts disintegrates in spite of our effort. If life be spared we find
ourselves once again helpless children. Whichever way we turn we may
describe the course of life in metaphors of discouragement.
To the pessimistic philosopher the progress of the race is also mere
illusion. There is no progress, only adaptation. Every creature must fit
itself to its environment or pass away. The beast fits the forest for
the same reason that the river fits its bed. Life is only possible under
the rare conditions in which life is not destroyed.
In such fashion we may ring the changes of the despair of philosophy. If
we are to take up the threads of life by the farther end only, we shall
never begin to live, for only those which lie next us can ever be in our
hand. To grasp at ultimate truth is to be forever empty-handed. To reach
for the ultimate end of action is never to begin to act.
Deeper and more worthy of respect is the sadness of science. The effort
"to see things as they really are," to get out of all make-believe and
to secure that "absolute veracity of thought" without which sound action
is impossible does not always lead to hopefulness.
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