How empty, and insipid, and insignificant is almost every day which we
have lived through! How few traces it leaves behind it! In what a
thoughtlessly-stupid manner have those hours flown past, one after
another!
And, nevertheless, man desires to exist; he prizes life, he hopes in it,
in himself, in the future.... Oh, what blessings he expects from the
future!
And why does he imagine that other future days will not resemble the one
which has just passed?
But he does not imagine this. On the whole, he is not fond of
thinking--and it is well that he does not.
"There, now, to-morrow, to-morrow!" he comforts himself--until that
"to-morrow" over-throws him into the grave.
Well--and once in the grave,--one ceases, willy-nilly, to think.
May, 1879.