Atheism is the Intellectualist’s conceit (see Charles Taylor’s “A Secular Age”). You can dress it up any way you want with brave homages to unblinking consciousness and searing praises to naked existence, but it is a nightmare you praise. It is a requiem. Besides, if Shakespeare couldn’t dress it up, neither can you.
Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day
To the last syllable of recorded time,
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.