[14] A realistic author, who chiefly wrote sketches of peasant life.
When the officer was tired of reading he put the book down on the table and lit a cigarette.
"How true, how true it all is!" said the widow, gazing pensively towards Beshtau. "I look on life just as Schopenhauer does. There is nothing that can bear being analysed without being dispersed like smoke. Truly, life is not worth living."
"Yes, certainly life is a pretty considerable muddle. But still, for all that, why not try and live without analysing and reflecting about everything?"
"No, once you know that life is worthless, it's not worth while living."
"No, it's worth trying just for the sake of being convinced."
"But if you know beforehand it's not worth while?"
"But why isn't it worth while? Why, Schopenhauer himself went through it all before writing about it."
"But then, what sort of a life did he live? Well, yes, he found out that everything is falsehood, fancy, and vanity, that we deceive ourselves. And we all come to the same conclusion. Is it worth while wasting strength to come to a result already known, even though it be only known from books?"