One sticks one’s finger into the soil to tell by the smell in what land one is: I stick my finger in existence — it smells of nothing. Where am I? Who am I? How came I here? What is this thing called the world? What does this world mean? Who is it that has lured me into the world? Why was I not consulted, why not made acquainted with its manners and customs instead of throwing me into the ranks, as if I had been bought by a kidnapper, a dealer in souls? How did I obtain an interest in this big enterprise they call reality? Why should I have an interest in it? Is it not a voluntary concern? And if I am to be compelled to take part in it, where is the director? I should like to make a remark to him. Is there no director? Whither shall I turn with my complaint?
Søren Kierkegaard
I am still reading Cyrano's Voyage to the Moon. "What is this thing called the world?" It's a sentiment that would undoubtedly crossed the mind of our fair narrator, and it's certainly one that crosses my mind at least half a dozen times a day. I told myself that until my generals exams are over, I'm not allowed to read any theater of the absurd-- it's just to demoralizing. I suppose that goes double for thinking about Kierkegaard.
