Birth (n.) enlists us: there is no discharge from the moment we are born.
Birth (n.) is trivial, ambivalent raw material for good and bad outcomes, the first step but not greater than all that follows just because it is first.
Birth (n.) is the misfortune to avoid: the greatest fortune is never to be born, the next best to die young and return to one's original state.
Birth (n.) makes no man rich: each is commanded at first light to be content with milk and rags — and yet kingdoms are too small for us.
Birth (n.) is entry to a city shared by gods and men: the wonders on offer are marvellous, but to arrive at those marvels you must pass through the dangers.
Birth (n.) is like being briefed before a journey to Syracuse: you are shown the stars, the seas and the arts, and also war, shipwreck and the deaths of those you love — and knowing the terms, you would still choose to go.