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knows that he will inevitably perish； but while still hanging he
looks around； sees some drops of honey on the leaves of the twig；
reaches them with his tongue and licks them。 So I too clung to the
twig of life； knowing that the dragon of death was inevitably
awaiting me； ready to tear me to pieces； and I could not understand
why I had fallen into such torment。 I tried to lick the honey
which formerly consoled me； but the honey no longer gave me
pleasure； and the white and black mice of day and night gnawed at
the branch by which I hung。 I saw the dragon clearly and the honey
no longer tasted sweet。 I only saw the unescapable dragon and the
mice； and I could not tear my gaze from them。 and this is not a
fable but the real unanswerable truth intelligible to all。
The deception of the joys of life which formerly allayed my
terror of the dragon now no longer deceived me。 No matter how
often I may be told； 〃You cannot understand the meaning of life so
do not think about it； but live；〃 I can no longer do it： I have
already done it too long。 I cannot now help seeing day and night
going round and bringing me to death。 That is all I see； for that
alone is true。 All else is false。
The two drops of honey which diverted my eyes from the cruel
truth longer than the rest： my love of family； and of writing
art as I called it were no longer sweet to me。
〃Family〃。。。said I to myself。 But my family wife and
children are also human。 They are placed just as I am： they
must either live in a lie or see the terrible truth。 Why should
they live？ Why should I love them； guard them； bring them up； or
watch them？ That they may come to the despair that I feel； or else
be stupid？ Loving them； I cannot hide the truth from them： each
step in knowledge leads them to the truth。 And the truth is death。
〃Art； poetry？〃。。。Under the influence of success and the praise
of men； I had long assured myself that this was a thing one could
do though death was drawing near death which destroys all
things； including my work and its remembrance； but soon I saw that
that too was a fraud。 It was plain to me that art is an adornment
of life； an allurement to life。 But life had lost its attraction
for me； so how could I attract others？ As long as I was not living
my own life but was borne on the waves of some other life as
long as I believed that life had a meaning； though one I could not
express the reflection of life in poetry and art of all kinds
afforded me pleasure： it was pleasant to look at life in the
mirror of art。 But when I began to seek the meaning of life and
felt the necessity of living my own life； that mirror became for me
unnecessary； superfluous； ridiculous； or painful。 I could no
longer soothe myself with what I now saw in the mirror； namely；
that my position was stupid and desperate。 It was all very well to
enjoy the sight when in the depth of my soul I believed that my
life had a meaning。 Then the play of lights comic； tragic；
touching； beautiful； and terrible in life amused me。 No
sweetness of honey could be sweet to me when I saw the dragon and
saw the mice gnawing away my support。
Nor was that all。 Had I simply understood that life had no
meaning I could have borne it quietly； knowing that that was my
lot。 But I could not satisfy myself with that。 Had I been like a
man living in a wood from which he knows there is no exit； I could
have lived； but I was like one lost in a wood who； horrified at
having lost his way； rushes about wishing to find the road。 He
knows that each step he takes confuses him more and more； but still
he cannot help rushing about。
It was indeed terrible。 And to rid myself of the terror I
wished to kill myself。 I experienced terror at what awaited me
knew that that terror was even worse than the position I was in；
but still I could not patiently await the end。 However convincing
the argument might be that in any case some vessel in my heart
would give way； or something would burst and all would be over； I
could not patiently await that end。 The horror of darkness was too
great； and I wished to free myself from it as quickly as possible
by noose or bullet。 that was the feeling which drew me most
strongly towards suicide。
V
〃But perhaps I have overlooked something； or misunderstood
something？〃 said to myself several times。 〃It cannot be that this
condition of despair is natural to man！〃 And I sought for an
explanation of these problems in all the branches of knowledge
acquired by men。 I sought painfully and long； not from idle
curiosity or listlessly； but painfully and persistently day and
night sought as a perishing man seeks for safety and I found
nothing。
I sought in all the sciences； but far from finding what I
wanted； became convinced that all who like myself had sought in
knowledge for the meaning of life had found nothing。 And not only
had they found nothing； but they had plainly acknowledged that the
very thing which made me despair namely the senselessness of
life is the one indubitable thing man can know。
I sought everywhere； and thanks to a life spent in learning；
and thanks also to my relations with the scholarly world； I had
access to scientists and scholars in all branches of knowledge； and
they readily showed me all their knowledge； not only in books but
also in conversation； so that I had at my disposal all that science
has to say on this question of life。
I was long unable to believe that it gives no other reply to
life's questions than that which it actually does give。 It long
seemed to me； when I saw the important and serious air with which
science announces its conclusions which have nothing in common with
the real questions of human life； that there was something I had
not understood。 I long was timid before science； and it seemed to
me that the lack of conformity between the answers and my questions
arose not by the fault of science but from my ignorance； but the
matter was for me not a game or an amusement but one of life and
death； and I was involuntarily brought to the conviction that my
questions were the only legitimate ones； forming the basis of all
knowledge； and that I with my questions was not to blame； but
science if it pretends to reply to those questions。
My question that which at the age of fifty brought me to
the verge of suicide was the simplest of questions； lying in the
soul of every man from the foolish child to the wisest elder： it
was a question without an answer to which one cannot live； as I had
found by experience。 It was： 〃What will come of what I am doing
today or shall do tomorrow？ What will come of my whole life？〃
Differently expressed； the question is： 〃Why should I live；
why wish for anything； or do anything？〃 It can also be expressed
thus： 〃Is there any meaning in my life that the inevitable death
awaiting me does not destroy？〃
To this one question； variously expressed； I sought an answer
in science。 And I found that in relation to that question all
human knowledge is divided as it were into tow opposite hemispheres
at the ends of which are two poles： the one a negative and the
other a positive； but that neither at the one nor the other pole is
there an answer to life's questions。
The one series of sciences seems not to recognize the
question； but replies clearly and exactly to its own independent
questions： that is the series of experimental sciences； and at the
extreme end of it stands mathematics。 The other series of sciences
recognizes the question； but does not answer it； that is the series
of abstract sciences； and at the extreme end of it stands
metaphysics。
From early youth I had been interested in the abstract
sciences； but later the mathematical and natural sciences attracted
me； and until I put my question definitely to