I've also noticed that the only
difference between humans and animals is the way they deceive
themselves and remain ignorant about the life they live. Animals
don't know what they do: they're born, they grow up, they die without
thought, reflection or a real future. And how many man live
differently from animals? We all sleep, and the only difference is in
what we dream, and in the degree and quality of our dreaming. Perhaps
death will awaken us, but we can't even be sure of that unless it's
by faith (for which believing is having), and hope (for which wanting
is possessing), or by charity (for which giving is receiving).
It's raining, and as if the rain had
made them hunch forward, my feelings lower their stupid gaze to the
ground, where water flows and nourishes nothing, washes nothing,
cheers up nothing. It's raining, and I suddenly feel the terrible
weight of being an animal that doesn't know what it is, dreaming its
thought and emotion, withdrawn into spatial region of being as into a
hovel, satisfied by a little heat as by an eternal truth.
Fernando Pessoa
The Book of Disquiet
translation: Richard Zenith
p. 323
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