The Life of a Stupid Man

‘I do have the will to create, though.’

‘But surely the will to create is a form of the will to live … ?’

Why did this one have to be born – to come into the world like all the others, this world so full of suffering? Why did this one have to bear the destiny of having a father like me?

‘It is unfortunate for the gods that, unlike us, they cannot commit suicide.’

he was ashamed of himself and afraid of them – afraid of the society he so despised.

She did once give him a bottle of cyanide with the remark, ‘As long as we have this, it will give us both strength.’

And it did indeed give him strength. Sitting in a rattan chair, observing the new growth of a shii tree, he often thought of the peace that death would give him.

Why do you attack the present social system?

Because I see the evils that capitalism has engendered.

Evils? I thought you recognized no difference between good and evil. How do you make a living, then

Why did this one have to be born – to come into the world like all the others, this world so full of suffering? Why did this one have to bear the destiny of having a father like me

Ah, what is the life of a human being – a drop of dew, a flash of lightning? This is so sad, so sad. What can I say?

The hand with the pen began to tremble, and before long he was even drooling. The only time his head ever cleared was after a sleep induced by eight-tenths of a gram of Veronal, and even then it never lasted more than thirty minutes or an hour. He barely made it through each day in the gloom, leaning as it were upon a chipped and narrow sword.

Just as he reached the point of utter exhaustion, he happened to read Raymond Radiguet’s dying words, ‘God’s soldiers are coming to get me,’ and sensed once again the laughter of the gods. He tried to fight against his own superstitions and sentimentalism, but he was physically incapable of putting up any kind of struggle.