What is there in life that we should cling to it so?
It is not the pleasures, for those whose hours are one long pain shrink away screaming when they see merciful Death holding his soothing arms out for them.

It is not the associations, for we will change all of them before we walk of our own free-wills down that broad road which every son and daughter of man must tread.

Is it the fear of losing the I, that dear, intimate I, which we think we know so well, although it is eternally doing things which surprise us?
Is it that which makes the deliberate suicide cling madly to the bridge-pier as the river sweeps him by?
Or is it that Nature is so afraid that all her weary workmen may suddenly throw down their tools and strike, that she has invented this fashion of keeping them constant to their present work?
But there it is, and all these tired, harassed, humiliated folk rejoiced in the few more hours of suffering which were left to them..