Still others there are who are more subtle and more critical. They have come to see how impracticable are all these schemes to redeem life from its troubles. Thus, after they have tried many half-way measures, they come at last to the confession of the wisest of kings: “Vanity of vanities, all is vanity.” They commit themselves to scepticism concerning any meaning in life and to the worship of non-existence. To them the end of life is to be Nirvana, annihilation, the forgetfulness of that which life has been; and they fancy that they have attained a very noble attitude toward life when, after many years of sharp contention with their healthy human nature, which steadily protests against these subtle negations, they are able at last to repeat the words of the Hindoo sage:
“Through birth and rebirth’s endless round
I ran and sought, but never found
Who framed and built this house of clay.
What misery!—birth for ay and ay!
O builder! thee at last I see!
Ne’er shalt thou build again for me.
Thy rafters all are broken now,
Demolished lies thy ridgepole, low.
My heart, demolished too, I ween,