Meaningless

In my early 20s I was introduced to Harold Hart, whose Wall Street investing had made him a millionaire. One evening I visited Mr. Hart to do a deal.

When I arrived I found him resting in his favorite chair, with servants waiting on him hand and foot. I sat there waiting as he stared blankly into space.

Finally he muttered, “You know, nature has played a great hoax on man. You work all your life, go through an endless number of struggles, play all the petty little games, and if you’re lucky you finally make it to the top. Well I made it a long time ago, and you know what? It doesn’t mean a thing. Nature’s made a fool of man and the biggest fool of all is me. Here I sit, in poor health, exhausted from years of playing the game, well aware that time is running out, and I keep asking myself, ‘Now what, genius? What’s your next brilliant move going to be?’ All that time I spent worrying, maneuvering—it was meaningless. Life is nothing but a big hoax. We think we’re so important, but the truth is, we’re nothing.”

—Robert Ringer, Looking Out for 1 (Fawcett, 1985), quoted in Men of Integrity, Vol. 4, no. 3.