Book: The theatre of shadows

They chatted and pretended to be light-hearted, and Maitland tried a joke which fell flat upon its face and died, squirming beneath the insincerity of the laughter that its telling had called forth.
They talked about nothing and pretended nothing disturbs, and Maitland even made an attempt to joke, but his joke fell out of place and writhing breathed his last, crushed with false laughter, which responded to rest.

A thing is never ugly to itself because it knows itself. Have we any proof that bipedal man is any happier than an insect or a toad?
No living creature never think yourself ugly, because it is, without thinking, accept yourself the way it is. How can we prove that Man is pleased with himself more than an insect or a toad?