I am alone. I am cold.
What difference does it make?
Indeed it matters little that he is dead.
Why should we mourn? Why should we be disconcerted by anything that may happen?
What man of sense would lend himself to such buffoonery?
He who bursts into tears and whose head is bowed with his sobbing
Will pucker his face into the same wrinkles when he is roaring with laughter. Thus they bawl and contort their mouths. Puppets!
—He is dead and I am alone.—
Am I of stone? The leaves of the trees seem made of cloth or iron
And all outdoors is a painted scene to be looked at or not at one's pleasure.