And why cannot a man live without these losses? . . .

"And why cannot a man live without these losses?
Why had the birch wood and the pine forest both been cut
down? Why is the common pasture unused? Why do
people do exactly what they ought not to do? Why did
he all his life scream, roar, clench his fists, insult his wife?
For what imaginable purpose did he frighten and insult
the Jew? Why, indeed, do people prevent one another from living
in peace? All these are also losses! Terrible losses! If
it were not for hatred and malice people would draw from
one another incalculable profits."

. . .

"In the morning he rose with an effort and went to the
hospital. The same Maksim Nikolaich ordered him to bind
his head with a cold compress, and gave him powders; and
by the expression of his face, and by his tone Yakov saw
that it was a bad business, and that no powders would make
it any better. But upon his way home he reflected that
from death at least there would be one profit; it would
no longer be necessary to eat, to drink, to pay taxes, or to
injure others; and as a man lies in his grave not one year,
but hundreds and thousands of years, the profit was enormous.
The life of man was, in short, a loss, and only his
death a profit. Yet this consideration, though entirely
just, was offensive and bitter; for why in this world is it
so ordered that life, which is given to a man only once,
passes by without profit?"

. . . Anton Chekhov . . . "Rothschild's Fiddle" . . .