There is little ease in a world so rich in forms and still in process, the end of which for every part is waste and death. Buds must break, maggots must breed, and man may not curse though his heart must break, and even at last his reason. This is not evil, for why should it be otherwise? The heart of the wise is where there is mourning: and the heart of fools where there is mirth.

Still the death of one is the birth of another; what is lost on the roundabouts is gained on the swings. The wiser heart will withdraw from mourning as well as from mirth, and without personal ache will consider the balance of loss and gain in the general scheme. Wherefore I left off and my heart renounced labouring any more under the sun.

Vain hope, for we are in the world and labour we must if we are to live, making and destroying, pleasing and hurting ourselves and others. So many things, and all so different: all can be at peace only when all are still. But all are moving, and better so. They cannot be still. A time of love, and a time of hatred. A time of war, and a time of peace.

Violence is inevitable. We are part of the world and needs must join in the making and the breaking: cut down our trees, kill our cattle, deny our friends. Be not over just.

Why, then, should we not fight and hasten the death of others to postpone our own?