On personal misery of a 19th century man

Got the blues one time nearly put the face in a permanent frown😂

François-René, vicomte de Chateaubriand was a French writer, politician, diplomat and historian who had a notable influence on French literature of the nineteenth century.

More and more fettered to my phantom, and unable to enjoy what did not exist, I was like one of those mutilated men who dream of unattainable ecstasies and construct fantastic pleasures to equal the tortures of hell. Beyond this, I had a presentiment of my miserable future. Ingenious at inventing sufferings, I had positioned myself between two poles of despair. Sometimes, I considered myself to be no more than a cipher, incapable of rising above the vulgar herd; sometimes, I seemed to sense in myself qualities that would never be appreciated. A secret instinct warned me that, as I made my way in the world, I would find nothing of what I sought.

Everything nourished my bitterness and disgust. Lucile was unhappy; my mother did not console me; my father only made me conscious of the agonies of my life. His peevishness had increased with age; the years had stiffened his soul as well as his body. He spied on me incessantly in order to scold me. When I came back from my wild excursions and saw him sitting on the staircase, I would as soon have died as have to enter the castle. But to flee would only mean delaying my punishment. Obliged to appear at dinner, I would sit exiled on the edge of my chair, my cheeks wet with rain and my hair tangled. Beneath my father’s gaze, I would hold myself motionless and feel the sweat beading on my brow. The last glimmer of reason fled from me.

I now come to a moment when I need some strength to confess my weakness. The man who attempts to take his own life shows not so much the vigor of his soul as the failure of his character.

I had a hunting rifle with a damaged trigger that often went off uncocked. I loaded this gun with three bullets and went to an unfrequented corner of the Grand Mall. I cocked the rifle, put the muzzle in my mouth, and struck the butt-end against the ground. I repeated this action several times, but the gun did not go off. When a game-keeper appeared, I suspended my resolution. A fatalist, lacking willpower and knowledge, I reasoned that my hour had not come, and I delayed the execution of my plan. If I had killed myself, everything that I was would be buried with me. No one would know what had led me to my death. I would have gone to swell the crowd of nameless unfortunates, and no one could have followed the trail of my sorrows as one follows a wounded man by the trail of his blood.

Those who might be troubled by these descriptions and tempted to imitate these follies, those who wish to attach themselves to my memory by sympathizing with my delusions, must remember that they are hearing only the voice of a dead man. Reader, whom I shall never meet, know that nothing is left. All that remains of me is in the hands of the living God who has judged me.

Then the misery of 21st Century Schizoid Man

Look at it this way, by reducing carbon dioxide to nil (zero carbon) all plant life dependent for its growth on this natural gas, will die. By extension, all humans and animals dependent upon the oxygen that plants produce, via the conversion of carbon dioxide into oxygen, will also die. Basic biology reveals that is indeed the case. Goldman Sachs Research presents modelling for two paths to net zero carbon, with two global models of de-carbonization by sector and technology, leveraging the team’s proprietary Carbonomics cost curve. One scenario is consistent with the Paris Agreement’s goal to keep global warming well below 2°C, and a more aspirational path, aiming for global net zero by 2050, consistent with limiting global warming to 1.5°C.

https://ko-fi.com/thejournaloflingeringsanity