I agree that man is above all a creative animal, condemned consciously to strive towards a goal and to occupy himself with the art of engineering, that is, always and inceccesantly clear with a path for himself wherever it may lead. ANd I should not be at all surprised if that were not the reason why he sometimes cannot help wishing to turn aside from the path just because he is condemned to clear it, and perhaps too, because however stupid the plain man of action may be as a rule, the thought will sometimes occur to him that the path almost always seems to lead nowhere in particular, and that the important point is not where it leads but that it should lead somewhere, and that a well-behaved child, disdaining the art pf engineering, should not indulge the fatal idleness which, as we all know, is the mother of all vices. Man likes to create and clear paths--that is undeniable. But why is he also so passionately fond of destruction and chaos? Tell me that. But, if you don't mind, I'd like to say a few words about myself. Is he not perhaps so fond of destruction and chaos (and it cannot be denied that he is sometimes very fond of it--that is a fact) because he is instinctively afraid of reaching reaching the goal and complete the building he is erecting? How do you know, perhaps he only loves the building from a distance and not living in it, preferring to leave it later aux animaux domestiques, such as ants, sheeps, etc., etc. Now, ants are quite a different matter. They have one marvellous building of this kind, a building that is for ever indestructible--the ant-hill.
The excellent ants begin with the ant-hill and with the ant-hill they will most certainly end, which does great credit to their steadfastness and perserverance. But man is a frivolous and unaccountable creature, and perhaps, like a chess-player, he is only fond of the process of achieving his aim, but not of the aim itself. And who knows (it is impossible to be absolutely sure about it), perhaps the whole aim mankind is striving to achieve on earth merely lies in this incessant process of achievement, or (to put it differently) in life itself, and not really in the attainment of any goal, which, needless to say, can be nothing else but twice-two-makes-four, that is to say, a forumula; but twice-two-makes-four is not life, gentlemen. It is the beginning of death. At least, man seems always to have been afraid of this twice-two-makes-four, and I am afraid of it now. Let us assume that man does nothing but search for this twice-two-makes-four, sails across oceans and sacrifices his life in this search; but to succed in his quest, really to find what he is looking for, he is afraid--yes, he really seems to be afraid of it. For he feels that when he has found it there will be nothing more for him to look for. When workmen have finishing their work they at least receive their wages, and they go to a pub and later find themselves in a police cell--well, there's an occupation for a week. But where can man go? At all events, one observes a certain awkwardness about him every time he achieves one of these aims. He loves the process of achievement but not the achievement itself, which, I'm sure you will agree, is very absurd. In a word, man is a comical creature; I expect there must be some sort of jest hidden in it all. But twice-two-makes-four is for all that a most insupportable thing. Twice-two-makes-four is, in my humble opinion, nothing but a piece of impudence. Twice-two-makes-four is a farcical, dressed-up fellow who stands across your path with arms akimbo and spits at you. Mind you, I quite agree that twice-two-makes-four is a most excellent thing; but if we are to give everything to its due, then twice-two-makes-five is sometimes a most charming little thing, too.