“There will never be a golden age. If the world and mankind could become better all in a moment, then, perhaps, a golden age would be possible. But that cannot be. Progress towards improvement is slow, and man can only see the step in front of him, and that immediately behind him. You and I have not lived the life of a Roman slave, nor that of some savage of the Stone Age, and therefore we cannot appreciate the boon of our civilization. Thus, if there should ever be a golden age, the men of that period will not perceive any difference between their lives and those of their ancestors. Man moves along an endless road, and to wish to level the road to happiness would be like adding new units to a number that is infinite.” “Then you believe that it all means nothing—that all is of no avail?” “Yes, that is what I think.” “But what about your friend Lande? You yourself were—” “I loved Lande,” said Sanine gravely, “not because he was a Christian, but because he was sincere, and never swerved from his path, being undaunted by obstacles either ridiculous or formidable. It was as a personality that I prized Lande. When he died, his worth ceased to exist.” “And don’t you think that such men have an ennobling influence upon life? Might not such men have followers or disciples?” “Why should life be ennobled? Tell me that, first of all. And, secondly, one doesn’t want disciples. Men like Lande are born so. Christ was splendid; Christians, however, are but a sorry crew. The idea of his doctrine was a beautiful one, but they have made of it a lifeless dogma.” Tired with talking, Sanine said no more. Soloveitchik remained silent also. There was great stillness around them, while overhead the stars seemed to maintain a conversation wordless and unending. Then Soloveitchik suddenly whispered something that sounded so weird that Sanine, shuddering, exclaimed: “What’s that you said?” “Tell me,” muttered Soloveitchik, “tell me what you think. Suppose a man can’t see his way clear, but is always thinking and worrying, as everything only perplexes and terrifies him—tell me, wouldn’t it be better for him to die?” “Well,” replied Sanine, who clearly read the other’s thoughts, “perhaps death in that case would be better. Thinking and worrying are of no avail. He only ought to live who finds joy in living; but for him who suffers, death is best.” “That is what I thought, too,” exclaimed Soloveitchik, and he excitedly grasped Sanine’s hand. His face looked ghastly in the gloom; his eyes were like two black holes. “You are a dead man,” said Sanine with inward apprehension, as he rose to go; “and for a dead man the best place is the grave. Good-bye.”