After all, that dreadful aspect of the thing never really took hold of me; I could put it

After all, that dreadful aspect of the thing never really took hold of me; I could put it by without much effort. Life is done—and what matter？ Whether it has been, in sum, painful or enjoyable, even now I cannot say—a fact which in itself should prevent me from taking the loss too seriously. What does it matter？ Destiny with the hidden face decreed that I should come into being, play my little part, and pass again into silence; is it mine either to approve or to rebel？ Let me be grateful that I have suffered no intolerable wrong, no terrible woe of flesh or spirit, such as other—alas! alas! —have found in their lot. Is it not much to have accomplished so large a part of the mortal journey with so much ease？ If I find myself astonished at its brevity and small significance, why, that is my own fault; the voices of those gone before had sufficiently warned me. Better to see the truth now, and accept it, than to fall into dread surprise on some day of weakness, and foolishly to cry against fate. I will be glad rather than sorry, and think of the thing no more.

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