“Hoch auf dem alten Thurme steht
  Des Helden edler Geist.”

That man is nothing but a phenomenon, that he is not-the-thing-in-itself—­I mean that he is not [Greek:  ontos on]—­is proved by the fact that death is a necessity.

And how different the beginning of our life is to the end!  The former is made up of deluded hopes, sensual enjoyment, while the latter is pursued by bodily decay and the odour of death.

The road dividing the two, as far as our well-being and enjoyment of life are concerned, is downhill; the dreaminess of childhood, the joyousness of youth, the troubles of middle age, the infirmity and frequent misery of old age, the agonies of our last illness, and finally the struggle with death—­do all these not make one feel that existence is nothing but a mistake, the consequences of which are becoming gradually more and more obvious?

It would be wisest to regard life as a desengano, a delusion; that everything is intended to be so is sufficiently clear.

Our life is of a microscopical nature; it is an indivisible point which, drawn out by the powerful lenses of Time and Space, becomes considerably magnified.

Time is an element in our brain which by the means of duration gives a semblance of reality to the absolutely empty existence of things and ourselves.

How foolish it is for a man to regret and deplore his having made no use of past opportunities, which might have secured him this or that happiness or enjoyment!  What is there left of them now?  Only the ghost of a remembrance!  And it is the same with everything that really falls to our lot.  So that the form of time itself, and how much is reckoned on it, is a definite way of proving to us the vanity of all earthly enjoyment.

Our existence, as well as that of all animals, is not one that lasts, it is only temporary, merely an existentia fluxa, which may be compared to a water-mill in that it is constantly changing.

It is true that the form of the body lasts for a time, but only on condition that the matter is constantly changing, that the old matter is thrown off and new added.  And it is the chief work of all living creatures to secure a constant supply of suitable matter.  At the same time, they are conscious that their existence is so fashioned as to last only for a certain time, as has been said.  This is why they attempt, when they are taking leave of life, to hand it over to some one else who will take their place.  This attempt takes the form of the sexual instinct in self-consciousness, and in the consciousness of other things presents itself objectively—­that is, in the form of genital instinct.  This instinct may be compared to the threading of a string of pearls; one individual succeeding another as rapidly as the pearls on the thread.  If we, in imagination, hasten on this succession, we shall see that the matter is constantly changing in the whole row just as it is changing in each pearl, while it retains the same form:  we will then realise that we have only a quasi-existence.  That it is only Ideas which exist, and the shadow-like nature of the thing corresponding to them, is the basis of Plato’s teachings.