[M]an is a machine made expressly for sorrow; he has only five senses with which to receive pleasure, and suffering comes to him through the whole surface of his body…. The man who does not suffer is an ill-made machine, an imperfect creature… – Claude Tillier (1801–1844), My Uncle Benjamin: A Humorous, Satirical, and

Fate stalks us with depressing monotony from womb to tomb, and, when we are least expecting it, deals us a series of crushing blows from behind. – Hesketh Pearson, The Whispering Gallery

I do not believe in revealed religion — I will have nothing to do with your immortality; we are miserable enough in this life, without speculating on another. – Lord Byron, 1778-1824, letter to Rev. Francis Hodgson, 1811