Danish philosopher Soren Kierkegaard was born on this day in 1813.
"My life is absolutely meaningless." -- Soren Kierkegaard.
That was the dream
of all men, the dream within a dream, to live life again, surely and flawlessly
this go-around, but of what that perfect life would consist not one had any
inkling. The Buddhists said it was one shorn of all desire, of all
self-interest, and that once achieved it led directly to a stepping-off, a
release from the endless, idiotic cycle of reincarnation. In that case, one
could start now, stripping away the impediments to that ideal state of
existence. So even this meager life, seen in that light, offered a great
opportunity. By renouncing the clamorous self we could court annihilation, the
consummation devoutly to be wished.
As to how that might
work, though, Sully was at a loss. If matter was imperishable, how could one be
said to be obliterated? No, if existence was recurrent then it had to be
eternally so, sad to say. The lunatic will to live was embodied in so many
meaningless lives, in such relentless replication. Lives unloved, unwanted,
unremembered. Misforgotten.
-- Chapter 22, The Misforgotten.
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