In Sickness Not in Health

Western intellectual man, if such a man still exists- perhaps he surfaces during ad breaks- is, or at least was, a great hypochondriac: he keeps telling himself he is sick.
"Ah, but to exist is to be sick."
"But he only feels himself to be sick because he keeps telling himself he is sick."
"No, he tells himself he is sick because he really is sick."

There, what did I tell you. Because the thoughts in his thought-filled being are sick, then voila, the proof of his wisdom all wrapped up in itself.
He kept telling himself he was sick and that he required something to be made better- the right words in the right order perhaps. After enough time of telling himself he is sick, and the inevitable non-appearance of contradicting health, he becomes convinced that this sickness is all there is; there is no getting better as there is no 'better'.

Rather than his unhappiness being the thread that is calling him out of his misery- the intimation that he is going wrong, immersed in false form- he makes himself at home in this sick world, and, justifying the lack of effort to get out of this ugliness, even makes a philosophy of truth out of this baseness: "All is sick. The honest men realise this. It is the ones who say that sickness is not truth who are dishonest." Now he is free to really roll around in the muck, fill his nostrils with the stuff.