He spent the better part of his life fruitlessly. Nothing was gathered, nothing was made. It was all hard work that bore nothing. In its entirety the many years of living were lived in a state of grace. He pushed against the mountain, he pushed against the Earth’s gravity, he pushed hard and he pushed even harder as he reached the summit. He was happy to do this. For nothing satisfied him greater than his toil and work itself: to feel the muscles’ stretching, his sinews’ torque, his bones’ grinding—all this gave him great joy in being human.