How sensible I am to the restless
change which rules the world. To appear, and to vanish—there is
then biography of all individuals, whatever
may be the length of the cycle of existence which they describe, and
the
drama of the universe is nothing more. All life is the shadow of
a smoke−wreath, a gesture in the empty air, a
hieroglyph traced
for an instant in the sand, and effaced a moment afterward by a
breath of wind, an
air−bubble expanding and vanishing on the
surface of the great river of being—an appearance, a vanity, a
nothing. But this nothing is, however, the symbol of the universal
being, and this passing bubble is the
epitome of the history of the
world.
Amiel's Journal
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