.. They have no just reason, says one: these
complaints proceed only from their discontented, repining,
anxious disposition.... And can there possibly, I reply, be a
more certain foundation of misery, than such a wretched temper?
But if they were really as unhappy as they pretend, says my
antagonist, why do they remain in life? ...
Not satisfied with life, afraid of death.
This is the secret chain, say I, that holds us. We are terrified,
not bribed to the continuance of our existence.
It is only a false delicacy, he may insist, which a few
refined spirits indulge, and which has spread these complaints
among the whole race of mankind. . . . And what is this delicacy,
I ask, which you blame? Is it any thing but a greater sensibility
to all the pleasures and pains of life? and if the man of a
delicate, refined temper, by being so much more alive than the
rest of the world, is only so much more unhappy, what judgement
must we form in general of human life?
Let men remain at rest, says our adversary, and they will be
easy. They are willing artificers of their own misery. . . . No!
reply I: an anxious languor follows their repose; disappointment,
vexation, trouble, their activity and ambition.
I can observe something like what you mention in some
others, replied C/LEANTHES\: but I confess I feel little or
nothing of it in myself, and hope that it is not so common as you
represent it.
If you feel not human misery yourself, cried D/EMEA\, I
congratulate you on so happy a singularity.
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