New Iberia enterprise and independent observer. (New Iberia, La.) 1902-1944, 1905-09-30
LIFE AND DEATH-EACHAP PUZZLE
NeW York Journal.

l
beings swarm on the face of thi
earth at present. We look at eacl
other, study each other, help eacl
other little, swiudle and oppres
each other a great deal more-an'
soon we vanish to make room fo
other swarms.
Of all the hundreds of millions
of whites, blacks, yellows that nov
make up living humanity, no
twenty will be left alive in a hun
dred years from now, Each min
ute scores of us are born and eacl
minute scores die.
AS you read this, human being.
are just breathing their last al
over the planet, and others are JUS
arriving on earth, The feeble cries
of the new born and the last sighs
Of the dying are rising forever from
our wOrld-and from all the hun
dreds of millions af other worlds
The first acquaintance with death
Expresses and mystifies US all. The
child stands besides the dark coffin
and whispers questions that the
child itself can answer as well as
oldest, wisest man.
We know nothing of the mystery
Of death and nothing OF the mys-
terry Of life.
Why and whence we come, why
and whittier we 60, we cannot ans
wer. Religion alone can free men S
minds from doubt, worry and the
strain of a questioning effort that
can bring no response.
Science tries its wisdom and fails
There is talk of chemical comb
nations that ''prOduce life antoma-
tically," and further talk of destruc-
tive organisms within the organism
that end, eventually the life they
have protected.
Energy and matter-the childish
scientists tell us-produce life in
some more or less accidental and
inevitable way-they simply talk
pseudo scientific drivel around the
puzzling questions of existence.
They know nothing, and can tell
nothing.
Our sleeping and our waking,
the half-death that comes to us with
every setting of the sun, typifies
the real life that is so great mys-
terry.
The mind that dealt most broad
ly and powerfully with the mys-
terry of life was that of Shakes
peare. He makes Macbeth resume
in few words what all of us feel.
The King is told that his wife is
dead, and, disguised with his own
efforts, with the uselessness of
struggle, he says:
Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief
candle
Life's but walking shadow; poor
That struts and frets his hour upon the
stage,
And then is heard no more; it is tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.
There is the picture of life as it
seems to the mind dissatisfied and
disappointed.
And that is a picture typifying
the mental condition of a friend
a reader-who has asked that this
editorial be written.
This friend writes is us:
"You write a good deal about
this life and it's duties. You are
always giving advice, and telling
people what to do with their lives.
Why don't you tell us what life isl
Or, rather, why, not tell us what it
is mott
"Tell the people that at best they
are like the gnats that fly around
your head on country road. They
live for a minute and then they die.
"Why should they bother them
selves, anyhow9 What does it all
matterf Suppose you write, for a
change, on life's emptiness and
stop writing advice of other kinds"
This friend-we condense his
long letters an intelligent man.
But he is no longer young, and, al
though he does not know it, his
mind has soured. The brain sours
when neglected, just as milk sours.
And the man who imagines him
self an intelligent pessmist is SIM
ply one whose brain has soured in
his head.
We admit that we cannot explain
life or death-or anything else that
involves knowledge of conditions
preceding or following our exist
ence here.