sity of suicide and who do not have the courage to commit it, if not the weakest, most inconsistent, and, to speak simply, the most foolish kind of men who carry about their foolishness as a fool carries around his painted wallet?
Our wisdom, however incontestable it may be, has not given us the knowledge of the meaning of our life; but all humanity which is carrying on life—the millions—does not doubt the meaning of life.
Indeed, ever since those most ancient, ancient times since when life has existed, of which I know anything, there have lived men who knew the reflection on the vanity of life, which has shown me the meaninglessness of life, and yet they lived, ascribing some kind of a meaning to it.
Ever since any life began with men, they had that meaning of life, and they have carried on the life that has reached me. Everything which is in me and about me,—everything carnal and non-carnal,—all that is the fruit of their knowledge of life. All the tools of thought, with which I judge this life and condemn it,—all that was done by them, and not by me. I was born, educated, and grew up, thanks to them. They mined the iron, taught how to cut down the forest, domesticated cows and horses, taught how to sow, how to live together, and arranged our life; they taught me to think and to speak. And I, their product, nurtured and fed by them, taught by them, thinking their thoughts, and speaking their words,—I have proved to them that they are meaningless! “There is something wrong there,” I said to myself. “I must have made a mistake somewhere.” But where the mistake was, I was unable to discover.
