In the blessings as well as in the ills of life, less depends upon what befalls us than upon the way in which it is met.
Whereas I think: I’m lying here in a haystack. . . The tiny space I occupy is so infinitesimal in comparison with the rest of space, which I don’t occupy and which has no relation to me. And the period of time in which I’m fated to live is so insignificant beside the eternity in which I haven’t existed and won’t exist. . . And yet in this atom, this mathematical point, blood is circulating, a brain is working, desiring something. . . What chaos! What a farce!