The gods had condemned Sisyphus to ceaselessly rolling a rock to the top of a mountain, whence the stone would fall back of its own weight. They had thought with some reason that there is no more dreadful punishment than futile and hopeless labor.
A constant smirk upon the face, and a whiffing activity of the body, are strong indications of futility.
No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be: am an attendant lord, one that will do to swell a progress, start a scene or two, advise the prince.
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons.
Life is indeed darkness save when there is urge, and all urge is blind save when there is knowledge, and all knowledge is vain save when there is work, and all work is empty save when there is love.
It is the superfluous things for which men sweat.
— Seneca
A walking shadow, a poor player, that struts and frets his hour upon the stage, and then is heard no more.
He is useless on top of the ground; he ought to be under it, inspiring the cabbages.