What is the point of life? I have land, sons, and a loving wife. Upkeep more than anything else requires the labors of man, yet even with the understanding that wine and labor fulfill the sum of the human task, I cannot escape the feeling of being a foreigner in a foreign land. My sons are disobedient. My wife is delicate and selfish. Nature is forever trying to eliminate my labors. I mold things of clay and the rain takes them away. I wipe the dust from my feet but my feet are dirtied on my first step outside. The sun beats down and harries my sleep. There is no rest.
There is no one to consult; no one to ask for salvation. Solomon is dead. Gotama is dead. Patanjali is dead. Bruno is dead. Abelard is dead. Bruno is dead. Christ remains mute in the ossified words of the Gospel.
Is this as good as it gets?