He was evidently in a pessimistic mood.
"Then to what end ?" he demanded abruptly, turning back to me.

"If I am immortal--why ?" I halted.

How could I explain my idealism to this man?
How could I put into speech a something felt, a something like the strains of music heard in sleep, a something that convinced yet transcended utterance?
"What do you believe, then ?" I countered.
"I believe that life is a mess," he answered promptly.

"It is like yeast, a ferment, a thing that moves and may move for a minute, an hour, a year, or a hundred years, but that in the end will cease to move.

The big eat the little that they may continue to move, the strong eat the weak that they may retain their strength.