And after all what is the result? Happiness for me? Happiness for any one else? Scarcely the last, and certainly not the first. When now, of my own free will, I give up the position I have won—and which many have envied me—it is with a sincere feeling of its hopeless insecurity.
What in heaven's name do we fight for? Why do we pursue each other, suspect and ill-treat each other, always armed to the teeth, always ready for attack? Perhaps far, far away there is a goal to reach—a higher justice, a better distribution of the boons of existence. Perhaps our children's children may experience a new social revolution. But after all will it make mankind happier when that goal is reached, or will they press on with restless hearts and unsatisfied desires to fight and hate onwards towards a new goal? Surely. No, it is an empty illusion that happiness is to be won by strife. Only in peace, peace with oneself, peace with the world is happiness found.
To think that they are fighting on there still. The big town has not yet laid down to rest, the thousand slaves of envy and anger are still busy under the electric light of the streets, are streaming into the cafes, drinking themselves heavy and dumb to wake up to-morrow morning, after a haunted sleep, with feverish brains and bitter hearts. How can they? Why won't they all, on some beautiful summer morn, jump out of bed with the firm resolution to cease fighting, to lay down their weapons, cool their feverish brows in the
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