Is all writing vanity? Only think of the absurdity of it: a man, an organic, perishable thing which death might take at any moment, steadies himself and does a thing entirely alien to any natural purpose, namely, to utter something true and imperishable. Who does he think he is? What can he, a mortal thing, have to do with that which is immortal? At any moment he could take ill, on account of some bad food he ate at supper, leaving him bed-ridden and delirious--and what is it but humiliating, not that he should take ill, but that he should be susceptible to illness in the first place? What is he but a strange tragedy? A thing to be pitied, however erudite and collected he manages to become in a few, spare years, as though he were the only doomed guest at a banquet, as though he were the only intelligence at a forum unfortunate enough to be born in fugitive flesh and sinew? If he can manage to string together a few pleasant words, amidst the horrors of his condition--the daily obligations, stringing him along towards a purpose remote to him--he is an anomaly, a rarity, an accident.
But you will remark that everything I have written thus far is vanity, and you would be right. It is vanity to be horrified, "chilled", and so forth. It is vanity to be humiliated. It is vanity to indulge in pity, both for oneself and others. Therefore, what is there to be remarked? Who wants to hear plain, unadulterated truth? What use is it? What good is it? It is a thing to be noticed; a curiosity, merely. No one can faun over it, or seduce it, or stir it to frivolity--it remains fixed, unfazed, and unmoved; utterly indifferent. If it were a man, people would say he is no fun, people would say he is too serious, too unfeeling. But what do you live for? This is what they would ask. And what could he possibly reply? He does neither strives, nor seeks. What has he to do? What plans to make? He is not touched by pollution or mortal thing. Therefore, the truth is not a man, not an earthly thing. But then, how can we reach it? What purpose does it really serve in our lives?
At least a man could refrain from vanity, but then, what would he write?