Back in the forties, they had another war.

It was widely considered, and still is, to be a good one for a change. There was that Nazi guy that killed all the Jews you know, and his friends in the other hemisphere who preemptively sank a bunch of ships in Hawaii. You see this bomb that melted your people?

Sorry, motherfuckers–it was a plain case of self-defense. Justifiable homicide.

Toward the end of the war, a belletrist by the name of Maugham wrote a book on the subject of people.

It was a novel called The Razor’s Edge. It was incredibly successful, so much so that Hollywood treated it grandly on the screen within two years of its publication. You can, and very possibly should, see it here.

The Katha Upanishads tell us: “The path is difficult to cross like the sharpened edge of the razor.”

The path to a truly good life, of course. To heaven on earth. You’ll take some scrapes and cuts at the least, same as if you were a camel trying to get through the eye of the needle.

You might not make it at all.