ponderous


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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