And now all the poor fellow has to think of is how to make enough to pay for her keep at a private lunatic asylum.

I don't mean to be flippant.

It's the very absurdity of it all that makes the mystery of life--that renders it so hopeless for us to attempt to find our way through it by our own judgment.

It is like the ants making all their clever, laborious plans, knowing nothing of chickens and the gardener's spade.

That is why we have to cling to the life we can order for ourselves--the life within us.