Complex Numbers

The Meaning of Life

The tradition on Christmas, I believe, is to post something happy and uplifting, some sort of paean to the best side of human nature and to hope for the future.

I should hope you know me better than that.

https://getpocket.com/explore/item/the-day-dostoyevsky-discovered-the-meaning-of...

One November night in the 1870s, legendary Russian writer Fyodor Dostoyevsky (November 11, 1821–February 9, 1881) discovered the meaning of life in a dream — or, at least, the protagonist in his final short story did.

What is the polar opposite of everything that is happy and uplifting? Russian literature, of course.

Not that I've actually read any. Well, I did once read The Master and Margarita, but apart from that, I settle for excerpts like what you have here.

But that fatalistic, profoundly hopeless style appeals to me, and perhaps I'll tackle Dostoyevsky at some point, or maybe Tolstoy because what the hell, right?

Anyway, that article I linked quotes Dostoyevsky extensively and kind of sums up a lot of the existential issues I've been dealing with here. Dreams. Depression. Emotions. Symbolism. Questioning everything.

And yet...

And yet, reading through to the end, something else happens. Something, perhaps, not very Russian at all, but something that maybe touches on, if not the meaning of life, at least a reason to live.

I don't believe there is a meaning of life. Or, rather, I believe that we must impose our own meaning upon it - or not, as suits each of us. Me, I long ago abandoned the idea of "meaning" or "purpose" or "goals" and just started living.

I'm not sure if that was the best course of action. But I'm not about to give up on it now.

(Please don't say "42" in the comments. One, I've already thought of it; two, 42 is the Answer to the Ultimate Question, not the meaning of life.)