“It doesn't matter," he said, staring at the wall, at the cracking plaster, the waterstain that looked like a giant feeding spider. "Nothing does. We all strive to say something—as if it's important. As if there can be some lasting value . . . And yet we all know mankind is doomed to nothingness. Immortality." He laughed bitterly. "There's no such thing. There's no meaning to anything. We get up in the morning, we push through the day, we go to sleep. Day after day. Endlessness. Meaninglessness.”
Book:The Portrait
