In truth, the Devil has constructed a place of infinite torture—the fair green earth, the world.
But he has made that other infinite thing—Happiness. I forgive him for making me wonder, since possibly he may bring me Happiness. I cast myself at his feet. I adore him.
The first third of our lives is spent in the expectation of Happiness. Then it comes, perhaps, and stays ten years, or a month, or three days, and the rest of our lives is spent in peace and rest—with the memory of the Happiness.
Happiness—though it is infinite—is a transient emotion.
It is too brilliant, too magnificent, too overwhelming to be a lasting thing. And it is merely an emotion. But, ah—such an emotion! Through it the Devil rules his domains. What would one not do to have it!
I can think of no so-called vile deed that I would scruple about if I could be happy. Everything is justified if it gives me Happiness. The Devil has done me some great favors; he has made me without a conscience, and without Virtue.
For which I thank thee, Devil.
At least I shall be able to take my Happiness when it comes—even though the piles of nice distinctions between it and me be mountains high.
But meanwhile, the world, I say, and the people are nothing, nothing, nothing. The splendid castles, the strong bridges, that we are building are of small moment. We can only go down the wide roadway wondering and weeping, and without where to lay our heads.