Melancholy men are always witty and I wonder why

Good art often has a bittersweet tinge to it. Tolstoy said the purpose of art is to justify it's existence, but to justify itself is to highlight the wonder of existence at all. It is to say: "I exist! I have value despite the utter void I've come from and will eventually return to!" In showing it's value, it juxtaposes itself against the backdrop of utter impermanence, and makes the impending ultimate loss feel that much more tangible. Or maybe I just consume too much morbid art.