Mark Twain, became morose and weary of life. Shortly before his death, he wrote,
"A myriad of men are born; they labor and sweat and struggle;...they squabble and
scold and fight; they scramble for little mean advantages over each other; age creeps upon
them; infirmities follow; ...those they love are taken from them, and the joy of life is
turned to aching grief. It (the release) comes at last--the only unpoisoned gift earth
ever had for them--and they vanish from a world where they were of no consequence,...a
world which will lament them a day and forget them forever."