Mais non! ce n’est qu’un masque, un décor suborneur, ce visage éclairé d’une exquise grimace, Et, regarde, voici, crispée atrocement, la véritable tête, et la sincère face renversée à l’abri de la face qui ment […] Elle pleure insensé, parce qu’elle a vécu! Et parce qu’elle vit! Mais ce qu’elle déplore surtout, ce qui la fait frémir jusqu’aux genoux, c’est que demain, hélas! il faudra vivre encore!
Why no! it’s but a mask, a lying ornament, that visage enlivened by a dainty grimace, and look, here is, atrociously shriveled, the real, true head, the sincere countenance reversed and hidden by the lying face […] She is weeping, fool, because she has lived! And because she lives! But what she deplores most, what makes her shudder down to her knees, is that tomorrow, alas! she will still have to live!
We’re afraid to look poor and stupid but we’re all poor and stupid no matter what we do because we’re narcissistic, weird looking monkeys that follow crazy, arbitrary rules
Walt Whitman, from “Song of the Open Road”
Listen! I will be honest with you; I do not offer the old smooth prizes, but offer rough new prizes; These are the days that must happen to you:
You shall not heap up what is call’d riches, You shall scatter with lavish hand all that you earn or achieve, You but arrive at the city to which you were destin’d—you hardly settle yourself to satisfaction, before you are call’d by an irresistible call to depart, You shall be treated to the ironical smiles and mockings of those who remain behind you; What beckonings of love you receive, you shall only answer with passionate kisses of parting, You shall not allow the hold of those who spread their reach’d hands toward you.