Life, less on
However precocious I had thoroughly believed I was, the age-old lesson of the fool, who must suffer at the hand (and not infrequently, at the ridicule) of life for ever daring to call himself wise, was duly repeated its reproach to a very uneducated young man.
Nor is it politic, I say, to surrender, however comforting ignorance is pledged to secure; for though a dozen well-stitched volumes will expand the library of humanity with vague remonstrance and uninhibited innuendo in which the “ultimate” philosophy is the simplest action or inaction; that, moreover, the brain must embrace its(thin)self and be—simply be, an idiot! No — although philosophy profs will preach, eventually, to accept our feebleness and foolishness, I maintain my doctrine as far as to live by acceptance with endeavour.
If their literature means to say that “letting go” is “natural” and part of man’s nature, then the just-arrived-off-dog-poo fly in their bechamel must be this question: Wherefore must a man’s nature be printed and instructed? Surely the wild man needs not a lengthy lecture of instructions to be wild!