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The implication is admittedly fatalist.
In The Unbearable Lightness of Being, Milan Kundera writes:
Happiness is the longing for repetition.
In The Third Policeman, Flann O’Brien writes:
Hell goes round and round. In shape it is circular, and by nature it is interminable, repetitive, and nearly unbearable.
In The Diary of Soren Kierkegaard, our eponymous author writes:
Listen to the cry of a woman in labor at the hour of giving birth - look at the dying man’s struggle at his last extremity, and then tell me whether something that begins and ends thus could be intended for enjoyment.
I’ve stumbled upon these three passages within the span of the past few hours worth of reading. It seems as if the powers that be are trying to tell me something.
