There may be more beautiful times, but this one is ours. - Jean-Paul Sartre

And there is something that clutches the heart: the melody is absolutely untouched by this tiny coughing of the needle on the record. It is so far — so far behind. I understand that too: the disc is scratched and is wearing out, perhaps the singer is dead; I’m going to leave, I’m going to take my train. But behind the existence which falls from one present to the other, without a past, without a future, behind these sounds which decompose from day to day, peel off and slip towards death, the melody stays the same, young and firm, like a pitiless witness.

Generally speaking there is no irreducible taste or inclination. They all represent a certain appropriative choice of being. It is up to existential psychoanalysis to compare and classify them. Ontology abandons us here; it has merely enabled us to determine the ultimate ends of human reality, its fundamental possibilities, and the value which haunts it.

It is therefore senseless to think of complaining since nothing foreign has decided what we feel, what we live, or what we are.