A short story from 1909.
It feels like a cliche to say a dystopian story predicted the modern world, but wow.
Men seldom moved their bodies; all unrest was concentrated in the soul.
Man, the flower of all flesh, the noblest of all creatures visible, man who had once made god in his image, and had mirrored his strength on the constellations, beautiful naked man was dying, strangled in the garments that he had woven. Century after century had he toiled, and here was his reward.