Book: Useless beauty

I just don't feel like the mother of unborn children, I rather to be a mother to those that I have, and love them with all my heart. I, like all of us, the woman of the civilized world, sir. We're not just females that inhabit the earth and we refuse to be.

But, my dear, because animals don't have to do anything to live here. They are at home, they have a Desk and flat, they have only to graze or to hunt and devour each other, according to their instinct: God never anticipated the love and peace of manners; he only foresaw the death of living creatures, fiercely killing and devouring each other. And we!.. Oh, how long it took us to work hard, patience, ingenuity, imagination, entrepreneurship, abilities, talent, to make this rocky, sprouted roots in the soil of any habitable! Think about what we just did contrary to nature and against nature, to get at least bearable, in any way, any whether, any gracefully, but still beneath us! And we are more civilized than smarter and more sophisticated, the more we have to conquer and subdue the animal instinct that lies within us according to the will of God.

Look at her, to the land that God gave to its inhabitants. Is it not clear that all the with your plants and forests and is designed exclusively for animals? What is there in it for us? Nothing. And for all of them: caves, trees, leaves, springs - home, food and drink. So picky people like me never can feel good. Happy and satisfied only those who are close to animals. But what about other poets, refined or troubled soul, the dreamers, the explorers? Ah, poor souls!

But it is worth thinking for a moment, and it becomes clear that this world is not made for such creatures as we are. The idea miraculously budded and developed in the cells of our brain, the thought, powerless, ignorant and obscure, what it is and what will always remain, makes all of us humans eternal and wretched exiles on this earth.

You know how I imagine God? he said. In view of the enormous unknown of the productive body scattering in space billions of worlds, like a fish that spawns alone in the sea. He creates because it is his divine function, but he does not know what; its fertility is meaningless, he does not even know what different combinations give scattered the seeds. Human thought - some kind of happy accident in this creative activity, shallow, transient, unexpected accident, which is doomed to disappear along with the earth and, perhaps, to re-emerge somewhere else in space, is to occur in the same or in a different form, in new combinations eternal started. This trifling accident - our consciousness - we owe the fact that we are so bad in this world was not created for us and not adapted to accept, to accommodate, to feed and satisfy sentient beings. Consciousness, what do we have and what are forced - if only we really thinned and cultural - constantly fight against what is still called the ways of Providence.

Yes, I must say that nature is our enemy, with nature you always have to fight because it constantly reduces us to the level of the animal. If there is on earth something pure, beautiful, graceful, perfect, it is not created by God but a human being, the human mind. It's us, singing reality, interpreting it, wondering at it, as a poet, idealizing it as the artists, explaining to her how the scientists who, however, deceived, but still find the phenomena interesting sense - we made a bit of grace, beauty, unknown charm, mystery. God had created only a rough, teeming with germs of all diseases of creatures, which, after several years of animal flourishing get older in infirmities, revealing all the ugliness, all weakness of human decrepitude. I think he created them just so vile they made themselves and then died, how to die on a summer evening one-day insects.