By Guyau:
« Maudit soit ce travail qui, semblable à la flamme,
Dévore notre vie et la disperse au vent ;
Maudit ce luxe vain, ces caprices de femme
Toujours prêts à payer sa vie à qui la vend ! »
Oh, despair! And the impressive, the unbelievable thing, is to see that such verses today can only come out of very rare feathers, those unable to adapt to the prevailing normality. Undoubtedly, such an unacknowledged feeling is a sin against modern society, which demands the acceptance and exaltation of these qualities and this conduct that seems to strangle human dignity. I believe it was Dostoevsky who reflected, in the freezing cold prison of Siberia, that any work is bearable, but to see it useless, to see oneself striving for nothing, that is absolutely revolting and intolerable to man: in such a situation, the best thing, no doubt, is not to exist. But Dostoevsky, perhaps, was too hasty: at least today, very few seem to fit his observation.