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"Every possession and every happiness is but lent by chance for an uncertain time, and may therefore be demanded back the next hour."
I can't recall offhand whether it was Arthur Schopenhauer or Winnie the Pooh's mate Eeyore who said it but it doesn't much matter.
Tottenham supporters found this weekend that it was a self-evident and undeniable truth.
For a few seconds yesterday afternoon it seemed that they were going to beat Manchester City in the Etihad Stadium, revenging themselves for their 5-1 defeat at White Hart Lane in late August last year and pulling ever closer to the League leaders in their improbable attempt to win a first English championship since 1961.
Then Jermain Defoe prodded a good cross inches wide of Joe Hart's goal. Minutes later Mario Balotelli had scored at the other end and all of Spurs's giddy hopefulness had been extinguished. How do you like them apples?
Following a team, whatever the sport, is to submit your mental wellbeing to the vicissitudes of fortune. Since fortune is generally unkind, that means enduring a great deal of pain punctuated unreliably and fleetingly by moments of wild elation. The usual analogy trotted out is that the sporting life, to paraphrase the great philosopher Ronan Keating, is a rollercoaster.
But that's inaccurate. Riding a rollercoaster is fun. The lows are equally as pleasant as the highs. The experience is wholly exhilarating.
Enduring a defeat like the 3-2 loss Spurs suffered yesterday, however, is more like suffering a session on the ducking stool in a medieval village, or an hour's waterboarding at the hands of a couple of moustachioed Bush-era CIA operatives.
The modal norm is pain and discomfort; the highs are merely gasps for air; the overall experience adds up to something you would neither recommend nor wish to repeat.
Examining the statistical analysis of Spurs's defeat in Manchester reveals something fairly obvious: City were the better side.
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Roberto Mancini's team had 53.3 per cent of the match possession and 57.1 per cent of the territory. They had 16 shots, with four on target, as opposed to Spurs's 14, with three on target. Although their pass completion was 84 per cent, only a whisker better than Spurs's 82 per cent, City, with David Silva, Sergio Aguero and Samir Nasri all in fine form, had far more penetration, making 127 successful passes in the attacking third of the pitch. Spurs, for whom Rafael van der Vaart and Luka Modric were quiet, only made 93.
Moreover, City made more tackles, more interceptions and completed five of their 23 attempted crosses (Spurs completed none of their 11). According to the pure data, Harry Redknapp's men deserved to lose, albeit only by a sliver.
But sport is not data alone. If it were, we would all be following the currency exchanges for kicks. Sky Sports would be showing roulette (live and in HD, natch). We are not and they are not, because sport is also about the emotional narrative that overlays the numbers. And that is why, even though Spurs were not better than City yesterday and did not do enough to revenge, their loss was still a heartbreaking experience.
It was heartbreaking for lots of reasons. The character and composure Spurs showed to attack City after going 2-0 down was admirable. The guts with which they defended against Nasri and Silva's intricate attacking game was highly cheering. Gareth Bale's goal was one of the most skilful, technically accomplished strikes that you will see all season.
Scott Parker's all-round display of fair, honest midfield graft was further proof that he is among the most honourable and upright players in English football, who nobly refused to descend into a fit of agg even when Balotelli tried to stand on his head.
None of it, however, counted for anything, because Defoe's failure to score in the 92nd minute, and the great Ledley King's clumsy decussation of Balotelli's legs 90 seconds later, which gave away the decisive penalty, handed the game to City and probably terminated Spurs's hopes of staying in contention for the Premier League title.
All that good work turned to dust and scattered on the wind in less time than it takes to toast a pop-tart. Sport, and fortune, and life, can all be so terribly, unrelentingly cruel.
The only consolation, my dears, is The Drink.
Follow me on Twitter@dgjones