Life (n.) is a play whose part is chosen by another; your job is to play it well, whether beggar, cripple or official.
Life (n.) is a festival you are invited to; when God signals that it is over, you leave thankful to have watched his works.
Life (n.) is a festival at Olympia: you swelter, are crowded, bathe badly and get drenched — and endure it all for the spectacle.
Life (n.) is a play written by the Fates: we cannot pick our role, beggar or king, only play it as well as we can.
Life (n.) is a dish passed round at a banquet: don't grab it and scoff the lot — take a polite share and hand it along.
Life (n.) may be given up when reason chooses — only not irrationally, not faintheartedly, not on some casual pretext.
Life (n.) is a military campaign: one stands guard, one scouts, one fights, and whoever refuses the hard order is a sailor who will not climb the mast.
Life (n.) is indifferent, like a hypothetical syllogism; what is not indifferent is the use you make of it.
Life (n.) is a banquet where the dish is passed around: take your share as it reaches you, let it go on when it leaves, and do not reach for what is still coming.
Life (n.) is a campaign: one mounts guard, one reconnoitres, one fights; it is neither possible nor better for all to stay in one place.
Life (n.) is a banquet: when the dish comes round take a polite portion; when it passes do not detain it; when it has not reached you, do not stretch your desire toward it.
Life (n.) is a festival: "I wanted to go on with the holiday" — so do the spectators at Olympia; but the festival has ended; depart gratefully and make room, for others must be born.