“I could not become anything; neither good nor bad; neither a scoundrel nor an honest man; neither a hero nor an insect. And now I am eking out my days in my corner, taunting myself with the bitter and entirely useless consolation that an intelligent man cannot seriously become anything, that only a fool can become something.”
— Fyodor Dostoevsky
serge 
Sigh.
I fear this is true. Why though? Is it because an intelligent soul recognizes moderation and practicallity as virtues and so is reluctant to give into the passionate episodes of joie de vivre or esprit de corps that typically accompany “something”?
My take? because the state of nirvana precludes accepting that you are anything other than a figment.