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In 1920, when Bertrand Russell was 48 years old, he visited China. While there he got sick and nearly died. Until then he had always imagined that he was fundamentally pessimistic and did not greatly value being alive. During his convalescence, however, he discovered that he had been completely mistaken, and that life was infinitely sweet to him. Apparently, rain in Beijing is rare, but at that time there were heavy rains, and they brought the delicious smell of damp earth through the windows of his hospital room. And he thought how dreadful it would have been to have never smelled that smell again. And he had the same feeling about the light of the sun, and the sound of the wind. There were some acacia trees just outside his window, and they came into blossom at the very moment he was well enough to enjoy them. ‘I have known ever since,’ he wrote in his autobiography, ‘that at bottom I am glad to be alive.’ He then added, ‘Most people, no doubt, always know this.’ Do most people always know this?

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