Allons!—there is no road before us.
Plato said that ahead, ahead was the perfect Idea, gleaming in the brow of the dragon.
We have pretty well caught up with the perfect Idea, and we find it a sort of vast, white, polished tomb-stone.
If the mouth of the serpent is the open grave, into which the tail disappears, then three cheers for the Logos, and down she goes.
We children of a later Pa, know that Life is real, Life is earnest, and the Grave is not its Goal.
Let us side-step.
All goals become graves.
Every goal is a grave, when you get there.
Well, I came out of an egg-cell, like an amœba, and I go into the grave. I can’t help it. It’s not my fault, and it’s not my business.
I don’t want eternal life, nor length of days for ever and ever. Nothing so long drawn out.