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the thought of passing through this world like an unnoticed breeze, of a useless existence, was sometimes so unbearable I could not sleep.
‘It is a paradox,’ he said darkly, ‘that some of the most brilliant, noble people must struggle their entire lives just to keep the scum of humanity in line … those parasites with neither scruples nor brains that only live to suck from society like leeches. And in the end, even if our job is done at its best, the world will not have gained anything … only the chance to keep rolling on with its other usual troubles.’
Such overcrowded slums make me loathe our industrial age. Manufacturing has done little else than snatch people from our countryside, locking them in claustrophobic little factories, making them breathe foul smoke and forcing them to live all hugger-mugger with less space to move than pigs in a slaughterhouse … all for a few more pennies a week. It strips their dignity, I believe, and I wonder what this insatiable hunger for profit will make of our world.
Even the seemingly dullest, most inconsequential person can gather a little crowd at his funeral. In my experience, lonely funerals speak of even more complex stories.
