Life - the invariable factor by which all theories must be multiplied; even the most delicately assembled calculation, in order to attain consistency with its subject, is ultimately bolted to the brute fact of the continuation of life, and subject to its obtuse momentum.
Thereby pessimism is rendered self-refuting. Where thought truly pierces life and its futility, it becomes unable to speak. Mute, invisible philosophies of death whose presence life will not admit; suicides who die with their secrets. Not all at once, but by an asymptotic spiral, gradually targeting the nadir, the black hole where thought takes control of life for a dull, juddering, final moment of mutual extinction.
Therefore, how could we ever think that life is motivated by thought, that we live out our vital urges subject to rational cogitations; not only is this manifestly not the case, if it were it would be catastrophic for all but the stupid. On the other hand, which of us has not secretly wondered whether this catastrophe has already taken place, that thinking has expired from its own lack of utility?
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