Nature
is forgetful: the world is almost more so.
However little the
individual may lend himself to it, oblivion soon covers him like a
shroud.
This rapid and inexorable expansion of the universal life, which
covers, overflows, and swallows up all individual being, which effaces
our existence and annuls all memory of us, fills me with unbearable
melancholy.
To be born, to struggle, to disappear—there is the whole
ephemeral drama of human life.
Except in a few hearts, and not even
always in one, our memory passes like a ripple on the water, or a breeze
in the air.
If nothing in us is immortal, what a small thing is life.
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