nothing. One breaks one's neck in living. Life is a theatre set in
which there are but few practicable entrances. Happiness is an antique
reliquary painted on one side only. Ecclesiastes says: 'All is vanity.'
I agree with that good man, who never existed, perhaps. Zero not wishing
to go stark naked, clothed himself in vanity. O vanity! The patching up
of everything with big words! a kitchen is a laboratory, a dancer is a
professor, an acrobat is a gymnast, a boxer is a pugilist, an apothecary
is a chemist, a wigmaker is an artist, a hodman is an architect, a
jockey is a sportsman, a wood-louse is a pterigybranche. Vanity has a
right and a wrong side; the right side is stupid, it is the negro with
his glass beads; the wrong side is foolish, it is the philosopher with
his rags. I weep over the one and I laugh over the other. What are
called honors and dignities, and even dignity and honor, are generally
of pinchbeck. Kings make playthings of human pride. Caligula made a
horse a consul; Charles II. made a knight of a sirloin. Wrap yourself
up now, then, between Consul Incitatus and Baronet Roastbeef. As for
the intrinsic value of people, it is no longer respectable in the least.
Listen to the panegyric which neighbor makes of neighbor. White on white
is ferocious; if the lily could speak, what a setting down it would give
the dove! A bigoted woman prating of a devout woman is more venomous
than the asp and the cobra. It is a shame that I am ignorant, otherwise
I would quote to you a mass of things; but I know nothing. For instance,
I have always been witty; when I was a pupil of Gros, instead of
daubing wretched little pictures, I passed my time in pilfering apples;
rapin[24] is the masculine of rapine. So much for myself; as for
the rest of you, you are worth no more than I am. I scoff at your
perfections, excellencies, and qualities. Every good quality tends
towards a defect; economy borders on avarice, the generous man is next
door to the prodigal, the brave man rubs elbows with the braggart; he
who says very pious says a trifle bigoted; there are just as many vices
in virtue as there are holes in Diogenes' cloak. Whom do you admire, the
slain or the slayer, Caesar or Brutus? Generally men are in favor of the
slayer. Long live Brutus, he has slain! There lies the virtue. Virtue,
granted, but madness also. There are queer spots on those great men. The
Brutus who killed Caesar was in love with the statue of a little boy.