The dreamers of ideals – socialists,
altruists, and humanitarians of whatever ilk – make me physically
sick to my stomach. They're idealists with no ideal, thinkers with no
thought. They're enchanted by life's surface because their destiny is
to love rubbish, which floats on the water and they think it's
beautiful, because scattered shells float on the water too.
Fernando Pessoa
The Book of Disquiet
translation: Richard Zenith
p. 331
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