Immortality

Joy and anger, sorrow and happiness, caution and remorse, come upon us by turns, with ever changing mood. They come like music from hollowness, like mushrooms from damp. Day and night they alternate within us, but we cannot tell whence they spring. How can we hope in the spur of the moment to lay our finger upon their true cause?

Without these emotions I would not be. Without me, they would not exist. So far we can go. But we do not know what brings these emotions into play. It would seem to be something in charge, but the clue to its existence is wanting. That something is actively in charge is credible enough, though we cannot see its form. Perhaps it has functions without form.

Think of the human body with all its manifold divisions. Which part of it does a man love best? Does he treat them all with equal affection, or does he have favorites? Don’t they all serve him equally? And do these servants then govern themselves, or are they subdivided into rulers and subjects? Surely there is some thing in charge that rules them all.

But whether or not we ascertain its functions matters little to the thing itself. For coming into existence with my mortal body, its mandate will also terminate with the exhaustion of my body. To be harassed by the wear and tear of life, and to pass rapidly through it without possibility of arresting one’s course—is not this pitiful indeed? To labor without ceasing, and then, worn out and not living to enjoy the fruit, to depart, suddenly, to one knows not where—is not that a just cause for grief?

What advantage is there in what men call immortality? The body decomposes, and the mind goes with it. This is our real cause for sorrow. Can the world be so dull as not to see this? Or is it I alone who am dull, and others not so?