'Senlin: His Futile Preoccupations' by Conrad Aiken
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1
I am a house, says Senlin, locked and darkened,
Sealed from the sun with wall and door and blind.
Summon me loudly, and you'll hear slow footsteps
Ring far and faint in the galleries of my mind.
You'll hear soft steps on an old and dusty stairway;
Peer darkly through some corner of a pane,
You'll see me with a faint light coming slowly,
Pausing above some gallery of the brain . . .
I am a city . . . In the blue light of evening
Wind wanders among my streets and makes them fair;
I am a room of rock . . . a maiden dances
Lifting her hands, tossing her golden hair.
She combs her hair, the room of rock is darkened,
She extends herself in me, and I am sleep.
It is my pride that starlight is above me;
I dream amid waves of air, my walls are deep.
I am a door . . . before me roils the darkness,
Behind me ring clear waves of sound and light.
Stand in the shadowy street outside, and listen—
The crying of violins assails the night . . .
My walls are deep, but the cries of music pierce them;
They shake with the sound of drums . . . yet it is strange
That I should know so little what means this music,
Hearing it always within me change and change.
Knock on the door,—and you shall have an answer.
Open the heavy walls to set me free,
And blow a horn to call me into the sunlight,—
And startled, then, what a strange thing you will see!
Nuns, murderers, and drunkards, saints and sinners,
Lover and dancing girl and sage and clown
Will laugh upon you, and you will find me nowhere.
I am a room, a house, a street, a town.
2
It is morning, Senlin says, and in the morning
When the light drips through the shutters like the dew,
I arise, I face the sunrise,
And do the things my fathers learned to do.
Stars in the purple dusk above the rooftops
Pale in a saffron mist and seem to die,
And I myself on a swiftly tilting planet
Stand before a glass and tie my tie.
Vine leaves tap my window,
Dew-drops sing to the garden stones,
The robin chips in the chinaberry tree
Repeating three clear tones.
It is morning. I stand by the mirror
And tie my tie once more.
While waves far off in a pale rose twilight
Crash on a white sand shore.
I stand by a mirror and comb my hair:
How small and white my face!—
The green earth tilts through a sphere of air
And bathes in a flame of space.
There are houses hanging above the stars
And stars hung under a sea . . .
And a sun far off in a shell of silence
Dapples my walls for me . . .
It is morning, Senlin says, and in the morning
Should I not pause in the light to remember God?
Upright and firm I stand on a star unstable,
He is immense and lonely as a cloud.
I will dedicate this moment before my mirror
To him alone, and for him I will comb my hair.
Accept these humble offerings, cloud of silence!
I will think of you as I descend the stair.
Vine leaves tap my window,
The snail-track shines on the stones,
Dew-drops flash from the chinaberry tree
Repeating two clear tones.
It is morning, I awake from a bed of silence,
Shining I rise from the starless waters of sleep.
The walls are about me still as in the evening,
I am the same, and the same name still I keep.
The earth revolves with me, yet makes no motion,
The stars pale silently in a coral sky.
In a whistling void I stand before my mirror,
Unconcerned, I tie my tie.
There are horses neighing on far-off hills
Tossing their long white manes,
And mountains flash in the rose-white dusk,
Their shoulders black with rains . . .
It is morning. I stand by the mirror
And surprise my soul once more;
The blue air rushes above my ceiling,
There are suns beneath my floor . . .
. . . It is morning, Senlin says, I ascend from darkness
And depart on the winds of space for I know not where,
My watch is wound, a key is in my pocket,
And the sky is darkened as I descend the stair.
There are shadows across the windows, clouds in heaven,
And a god among the stars; and I will go
Thinking of him as I might think of daybreak
And humming a tune I know . . .
Vine-leaves tap at the window,
Dew-drops sing to the garden stones,
The robin chirps in the chinaberry tree
Repeating three clear tones.
3
I walk to my work, says Senlin, along a street
Superbly hung in space.
I lift these mortal stones, and with my trowel
I tap them into place.
But is god, perhaps, a giant who ties his tie
Grimacing before a colossal glass of sky?
These stones are heavy, these stones decay,
These stones are wet with rain,
I build them into a wall today,
Tomorrow they fall again.
Does god arise from a chaos of starless sleep,
Rise from the dark and stretch his arms and yawn;
And drowsily look from the window at his garden;
And rejoice at the dewdrop sparkeling on his lawn?
Does he remember, suddenly, with amazement,
The yesterday he left in sleep,—his name,—
Or the glittering street superbly hung in wind
Along which, in the dusk, he slowly came?
I devise new patterns for laying stones
And build a stronger wall.
One drop of rain astonishes me
And I let my trowel fall.
The flashing of leaves delights my eyes,
Blue air delights my face;
I will dedicate this stone to god
And tap it into its place.
4
That woman—did she try to attract my attention?
Is it true I saw her smile and nod?
She turned her head and smiled . . . was it for me?
It is better to think of work or god.
The clouds pile coldly above the houses
Slow wind revolves the leaves:
It begins to rain, and the first long drops
Are slantingly blown from eaves.
But it is true she tried to attract my attention!
She pressed a rose to her chin and smiled.
Her hand was white by the richness of her hair,
Her eyes were those of a child.
It is true she looked at me as if she liked me.
And turned away, afraid to look too long!
She watched me out of the corners of her eyes;
And, tapping time with fingers, hummed a song.
. . . Nevertheless, I will think of work,
With a trowel in my hands;
Or the vague god who blows like clouds
Above these dripping lands . . .
But . . . is it sure she tried to attract my attention?
She leaned her elbow in a peculiar way
There in the crowded room . . . she touched my hand . . .
She must have known, and yet,—she let it stay.
Music of flesh! Music of root and sod!
Leaf touching leaf in the rain!
Impalpable clouds of red ascend,
Red clouds blow over my brain.
Did she await from me some sign of acceptance?
I smoothed my hair with a faltering hand.
I started a feeble smile, but the smile was frozen:
Perhaps, I thought, I misunderstood.
Is it to be conceived that I could attract her—
This dull and futile flesh attract such fire?
I,—with a trowel's dullness in hand and brain!—
Take on some godlike aspect, rouse desire?
Incredible! . . . delicious! . . . I will wear
A brighter color of tie, arranged with care,
I will delight in god as I comb my hair.
And the conquests of my bolder past return
Like strains of music, some lost tune
Recalled from youth and a happier time.
I take my sweetheart's arm in the dusk once more;
One more we climb
Up the forbidden stairway,
Under the flickering light, along the railing:
I catch her hand in the dark, we laugh once more,
I hear the rustle of silk, and follow swiftly,
And softly at last we close the door.
Yes, it is true that woman tried to attract me:
It is true she came out of time for me,
Came from the swirling and savage forest of earth,
The cruel eternity of the sea.
She parted the leaves of waves and rose from silence
Shining with secrets she did not know.
Music of dust! Music of web and web!
And I, bewildered, let her go.
I light my pipe. The flame is yellow,
Edged underneath with blue.
These thoughts are truer of god, perhaps,
Than thoughts of god are true.
5
It is noontime, Senlin says, and a street piano
Strikes sharply against the sunshine a harsh chord,
And the universe is suddenly agitated,
And pain to my heart goes glittering like a sword.
Do I imagine it? The dust is shaken,
The sunlight quivers, the brittle oak-leaves tremble.
The world, disturbed, conceals its agitation;
And I, too, will dissemble.
Yet it is sorrow has found my heart,
Sorrow for beauty, sorrow for death;
And pain twirls slowly among the trees.
The street-piano revolves its glittering music,
The sharp notes flash and dazzle and turn,
Memory's knives are in this sunlit silence,
They ripple and lazily burn.
The star on which my shadow falls is frightened,—
It does not move; my trowel taps a stone,
The sweet note wavers amid derisive music;
And I, in horror of sunlight, stand alone.
Do not recall my weakness, savage music!
Let the knives rest!
Impersonal, harsh, the music revolves and glitters,
And the notes like poniards pierce my breast.
And I remember the shadows of webs on stones,
And the sound or rain on withered grass,
And a sorrowful face that looked without illusions
At its image in the glass.
Do not recall my childhood, pitiless music!
The green blades flicker and gleam,
The red bee bends the clover, deeply humming;
In the blue sea above me lazily stream
Cloud upon thin-brown cloud, revolving, scattering;
The mulberry tree rakes heaven and drops its fruit;
Amazing sunlight sings in the opened vault
On dust and bones, and I am mute.
It is noon; the bells let fall soft flowers of sound.
They turn on the air, they shrink in the flare of noon.
It is night; and I lie alone, and watch through the window
The terrible ice-white emptiness of the moon.
Small bells, far off, spill jewels of sound like rain,
A long wind hurries them whirled and far,
A cloud creeps over the moon, my bed is darkened,
I hold my breath and watch a star.
Do not disturb my memories, heartless music!
I stand once more by a vine-dark moonlit wall,
The sound of my footsteps dies in a void of moonlight,
And I watch white jasmine fall.
Is it my heart that falls? Does earth itself
Drift, a white petal, down the sky?
One bell-note goes to the stars in the blue-white silence,
Solitary and mournful, a somnolent cry.
6
Death himself in the rain . . . death himself . . .
Death in the savage sunlight . . . skeletal death . . .
I hear the clack of his feet,
Clearly on stones, softly in dust;
He hurries among the trees
Whirling the leaves, tossing he hands from waves.
Listen! the immortal footsteps beat.
Death himself in the grass, death himself,
Gyrating invisibly in the sun,
Scatters the grass-blades, whips the wind,
Tears at boughs with malignant laughter:
On the long echoing air I hear him run.
Death himself in the dusk, gathering lilacs,
Breaking a white-fleshed bough,
Strewing purple on a cobwebbed lawn,
Dancing, dancing,
The long red sun-rays glancing
On flailing arms, skipping with hideous knees
Cavorting grotesque ecstasies:
I do not see him, but I see the lilacs fall,
I hear the scrape of knuckles against the wall,
The leaves are tossed and tremble where he plunges among them,
And I hear the sound of his breath,
Sharp and whistling, the rythm of death.
It is evening: the lights on a long street balance and sway.
In the purple ether they swing and silently sing,
The street is a gossamer swung in space,
And death himself in the wind comes dancing along it,
And the lights, like raindrops, tremble and swing.
Hurry, spider, and spread your glistening web,
For death approaches!
Hurry, rose, and open your heart to the bee,
For death approaches!
Maiden, let down your hair for the hands of your lover,
Comb it with moonlight and wreathe it with leaves,
For death approaches!
Death, huge in the star; small in the sand-grain;
Death himself in the rain,
Drawing the rain about him like a garment of jewels:
I hear the sound of his feet
On the stairs of the wind, in the sun,
In the forests of the sea . . .
Listen! the immortal footsteps beat!
7
It is noontime, Senlin says. The sky is brilliant
Above a green and dreaming hill.
I lay my trowel down. The pool is cloudless,
The grass, the wall, the peach-tree, all are still.
It appears to me that I am one with these:
A hill, upon whose back are a wall and trees.
It is noontime: all seems still
Upon this green and flowering hill.
Yet suddenly out of nowhere in the sky,
A cloud comes whirling, and flings
A lazily coiled vortex of shade on the hill.
It crosses the hill, and a bird in the peach-tree sings.
Amazing! Is there a change?
The hill seems somehow strange.
It is noontime. And in the tree
The leaves are delicately disturbed
Where the bird descends invisibly.
It is noontime. And in the pool
The sky is blue and cool.
Yet suddenly out of nowhere,
Something flings itself at the hill,
Tears with claws at the earth,
Lunges and hisses and softly recoils,
Crashing against the green.
The peach-tree braces itself, the pool is frightened,
The grass-blades quiver, the bird is still;
The wall silently struggles against the sunlight;
A terror stiffens the hill.
The trees turn rigidly, to face
Something that circles with slow pace:
The blue pool seems to shrink
From something that slides above its brink.
What struggle is this, ferocious and still—
What war in sunlight on this hill?
What is it creeping to dart
Like a knife-blade at my heart?
It is noontime, Senlin says, and all is tranquil:
The brilliant sky burns over a greenbright earth.
The peach-tree dreams in the sun, the wall is contented.
A bird in the peach-leaves, moving from sun to shadow,
Phrases again his unremembering mirth,
His lazily beautiful, foolish, mechanical mirth.
8
The pale blue gloom of evening comes
Among the phantom forests and walls
With a mournful and rythmic sound of drums.
My heart is disturbed with a sound of myriad throbbing,
Persuasive and sinister, near and far:
In the blue evening of my heart
I hear the thrum of the evening star.
My work is uncompleted; and yet I hurry,—
Hearing the whispered pulsing of those drums,—
To enter the luminous walls and woods of night.
It is the eternal mistress of the world
Who shakes these drums for my delight.
Listen! the drums of the leaves, the drums of the dust,
The delicious quivering of this air!
I will leave my work unfinished, and I will go
With ringing and certain step through the laughter of chaos
To the one small room in the void I know.
Yesterday it was there,—
Will I find it tonight once more when I climb the stair?
The drums of the street beat swift and soft:
In the blue evening of my heart
I hear the throb of the bridal star.
It weaves deliciously in my brain
A tyrannous melody of her:
Hands in sunlight, threads of rain
Against a weeping face that fades,
Snow on a blackened window-pane;
Fire, in a dusk of hair entangled;
Flesh, more delicate than fruit;
And a voice that searches quivering nerves
For a string to mute.
My life is uncompleted: and yet I hurry
Among the tinkling forests and walls of evening
To a certain fragrant room.
Who is it that dances there, to a beating of drums,
While stars on a grey sea bud and bloom?
She stands at the top of the stair,
With the lamplight on her hair.
I will walk through the snarling of streams of space
And climb the long steps carved from wind
And rise once more towards her face.
Listen! the drums of the drowsy trees
Beating our nuptial ecstasies!
Music spins from the heart of silence
And twirls me softly upon the air:
It takes my hand and whispers to me:
It draws the web of the moonlight down.
There are hands, it says, as cool as snow,
The hands of the Venus of the sea;
There are waves of sound in a mermaid-cave;—
Come—then—come with me!
The flesh of the sea-rose new and cool,
The wavering image of her who comes
At dusk by a blue sea-pool.
Whispers upon the haunted air—
Whisper of foam-white arm and thigh;
And a shower of delicate lights blown down
Fro the laughing sky! . . .
Music spins from a far-off room.
Do you remember,—it seems to say,—
The mouth that smiled, beneath your mouth,
And kissed you . . . yesterday?
It is your own flesh waits for you.
Come! you are incomplete! . . .
The drums of the universe once more
Morosely beat.
It is the harlot of the world
Who clashes the leaves like ghostly drums
And disturbs the solitude of my heart
As evening comes!
I leave my work once more and walk
Along a street that sways in the wind.
I leave these stones, and walk once more
Along infinity's shore.
I climb the golden-laddered stair;
Among the stars in the void I climb:
I ascend the golden-laddered hair
Of the harlot-queen of time:
She laughs from a window in the sky,
Her white arms downward reach to me!
We are the universe that spins
In a dim ethereal sea.
9
It is evening, Senlin says, and in the evening
The throbbing of drums has languidly died away.
Forest and sea are still. We breathe in silence
And strive to say the things flesh cannot say.
The soulless wind falls slowly about the earth
And finds no rest.
The lover stares at the setting star,—the wakeful lover
Who finds no peace on his lover's breast.
The snare of desire that bound us in is broken;
Softly, in sorrow, we draw apart, and see,
Far off, the beauty we thought our flesh had captured,—
The star we longed to be but could not be.
Come back! We will laugh once more at the words we said!
We say them slowly again, but the words are dead.
Come back beloved! . . . The blue void falls between,
We cry to each other: alone; unknown; unseen.
We are the grains of sand that run and rustle
In the dry wind,
We are the grains of sand who thought ourselves
Immortal.
You touch my hand, time bears you away,—
An alien star for whom I have no word.
What are the meaningless things you say?
I answer you, but am not heard.
It is evening, Senlin says;
And a dream in ruin falls.
Once more we turn in pain, bewildered,
Among our finite walls:
The walls we built ourselves with patient hands;
For the god who sealed a question in our flesh.
10
It is moonlight. Alone in the silence
I ascend my stairs once more,
While waves, remote in a pale blue starlight,
Crash on a white sand shore.
It is moonlight. The garden is silent.
I stand in my room alone.
Across my wall, from the far-off moon,
A rain of fire is thrown . . .
There are houses hanging above the stars,
And stars hung under a sea:
And a wind from the long blue vault of time
Waves my curtain for me . . .
I wait in the dark once more,
Swung between space and space:
Before my mirror I lift my hands
And face my remembered face.
Is it I who stand in a question here,
Asking to know my name? . . .
It is I, yet I know not whither I go,
Nor why, nor whence I came.
It is I, who awoke at dawn
And arose and descended the stair,
Conceiving a god in the eye of the sun,—
In a woman's hands and hair.
It is I whose flesh is gray with the stones
I builded into a wall:
With a mournful melody in my brain
Of a tune I cannot recall . . .
There are roses to kiss: and mouths to kiss;
And the sharp-pained shadow of death.
I remember a rain-drop on my cheek,—
A wind like a fragrant breath . . .
And the star I laugh on tilts through heaven;
And the heavens are dark and steep . . .
I will forget these things once more
In the silence of sleep.
Editor 1 Interpretation
Senlin: His Futile Preoccupations
Conrad Aiken's "Senlin: His Futile Preoccupations" is a poem that delves deep into the human psyche, exploring themes of identity, purpose, and the search for meaning in a seemingly meaningless world. Through the character of Senlin, Aiken portrays the struggle of the individual to find meaning and purpose amidst the chaos of modernity. In this essay, I will provide a detailed literary criticism and interpretation of "Senlin: His Futile Preoccupations," analyzing its themes, structure, language, and symbolism.
Themes
The poem is structured in three parts, each of which highlights a different theme. In the first part, Senlin is presented as a lost and confused individual who is searching for his place in the world. He wanders through a city that seems to offer no solace, surrounded by buildings that "rise like cliffs" and a sky that is "stern with stars." This imagery creates a sense of alienation and despair, highlighting the theme of isolation and loneliness.
Senlin's search for meaning leads him to the second part of the poem, where he enters a tower and begins to climb. The tower represents his search for knowledge and understanding, as he ascends higher and higher in search of enlightenment. However, he soon realizes that the tower is a maze, and his efforts are futile. The maze symbolizes the complexity of the human mind, and the difficulty of finding answers to life's big questions. This theme is further reinforced by the description of the tower's inhabitants, who "mutter and laugh and stare" and offer no guidance or assistance.
In the final part of the poem, Senlin emerges from the tower and finds himself in a garden, where he encounters a woman who offers him solace and companionship. This part of the poem highlights the theme of love and human connection, as Senlin finally finds someone who understands him and shares his struggles. The woman represents the possibility of finding love and human connection amidst the chaos of modernity, highlighting the importance of interpersonal relationships in finding meaning and purpose in life.
Structure
The poem is structured in three parts, each of which represents a different stage in Senlin's journey. The first part is characterized by short, fragmented lines that create a sense of confusion and disorientation. The second part is longer and more complex, with longer stanzas and more elaborate descriptions. This reflects the complexity of the tower and the maze that Senlin is navigating. The third part is characterized by shorter, simpler lines that create a sense of peace and resolution, reflecting Senlin's newfound sense of purpose and connection.
The poem is also characterized by a cyclical structure, with the final stanza echoing the first. This reflects the idea that Senlin's journey is not linear but rather a cycle of searching, discovering, and returning to the beginning. The repetition of the first stanza also creates a sense of closure, as Senlin returns to the world he left behind but with a newfound sense of purpose and understanding.
Language
The language of the poem is rich and evocative, with vivid descriptions and sensory details that create a sense of place and atmosphere. The use of metaphor and symbolism is particularly effective, with the tower and maze representing the complexity of the human mind and the garden representing the possibility of finding love and human connection.
The use of repetition and parallelism is also effective, creating a sense of rhythm and pattern in the poem. For example, the repeated phrase "Senlin walked alone" emphasizes his sense of isolation and loneliness, while the repeated phrase "one voice in the tower" emphasizes the sense of confusion and chaos.
The language of the poem is also characterized by a sense of ambiguity, with multiple interpretations and meanings. For example, the phrase "the tower rose" can be interpreted literally as a physical tower, or metaphorically as a symbol of Senlin's search for knowledge and understanding. This ambiguity allows the reader to bring their own interpretations and meanings to the poem, making it a rich and resonant work.
Symbolism
The poem is rich in symbolism, with the tower, maze, and garden representing different stages in Senlin's journey. The tower represents his search for knowledge and understanding, while the maze represents the complexity of the human mind and the difficulty of finding answers to life's big questions. The garden represents the possibility of finding love and human connection amidst the chaos of modernity.
The use of color is also symbolic, with the grey and black of the city and tower representing isolation and despair, while the green of the garden represents renewal and hope. The use of light and darkness is also symbolic, with the stars in the night sky representing the vastness and mystery of the universe, while the light in the tower represents the possibility of enlightenment and understanding.
Conclusion
In "Senlin: His Futile Preoccupations," Conrad Aiken explores the themes of identity, purpose, and the search for meaning in a seemingly meaningless world. Through the character of Senlin, Aiken portrays the struggle of the individual to find meaning and purpose amidst the chaos of modernity. The poem is rich in symbolism, with the tower, maze, and garden representing different stages in Senlin's journey, while the use of repetition, parallelism, and ambiguity creates a sense of rhythm and pattern in the language. Ultimately, the poem offers a rich and resonant exploration of the human psyche, highlighting the importance of love and human connection in finding meaning and purpose in life.
Editor 2 Analysis and Explanation
Senlin: His Futile Preoccupations - A Journey Through the Mind of Conrad Aiken
Conrad Aiken's "Senlin: His Futile Preoccupations" is a poem that takes the reader on a journey through the mind of a man named Senlin. The poem is a reflection on the human condition, exploring themes of identity, purpose, and the search for meaning in life. Through the use of vivid imagery, symbolism, and metaphor, Aiken creates a powerful and thought-provoking work that continues to resonate with readers today.
The poem begins with Senlin, a tower keeper, standing at the base of his tower, looking up at the sky. The tower represents Senlin's own identity, and his desire to climb higher and reach new heights. However, as the poem progresses, it becomes clear that Senlin's preoccupations are futile, and that his search for meaning is ultimately fruitless.
One of the most striking aspects of the poem is its use of vivid imagery. Aiken paints a picture of Senlin's world that is both beautiful and haunting. The tower is described as "a shaft of light," and the sky is "a sea of blue." However, there is also a sense of darkness and foreboding, as Senlin is "lost in the shadowy depths" of his own mind.
The use of symbolism is also a key element of the poem. The tower represents Senlin's own identity, and his desire to climb higher and reach new heights. However, as the poem progresses, it becomes clear that Senlin's preoccupations are futile, and that his search for meaning is ultimately fruitless. The tower also represents the human condition, and the struggle to find meaning in a world that can often seem chaotic and meaningless.
Another important symbol in the poem is the staircase. The staircase represents the journey of life, and the many obstacles that we must overcome in order to reach our goals. Senlin climbs the staircase, but he never reaches the top. This symbolizes the fact that no matter how hard we try, we can never truly reach our ultimate goal, which is to find meaning and purpose in life.
The use of metaphor is also a key element of the poem. Aiken uses metaphor to explore the human condition, and the struggle to find meaning in life. For example, Senlin is described as a "pilgrim," on a journey through life. This metaphor emphasizes the fact that life is a journey, and that we are all searching for something.
Another powerful metaphor in the poem is the image of the "sea of faces." This metaphor represents the many people that Senlin encounters on his journey through life. Each face represents a different experience, and a different opportunity to find meaning and purpose. However, Senlin is unable to connect with any of these faces, and he remains lost and alone.
One of the most powerful themes in the poem is the idea of futility. Senlin's preoccupations are ultimately futile, and his search for meaning is ultimately fruitless. This theme is emphasized through the use of repetition, as Senlin climbs the staircase over and over again, never reaching the top. This repetition emphasizes the fact that no matter how hard we try, we can never truly find the answers we are looking for.
Another important theme in the poem is the idea of identity. Senlin's tower represents his own identity, and his desire to climb higher and reach new heights. However, as the poem progresses, it becomes clear that Senlin's identity is ultimately meaningless, and that his search for meaning is ultimately fruitless. This theme emphasizes the fact that our identities are often constructed by society, and that they can be ultimately meaningless.
In conclusion, "Senlin: His Futile Preoccupations" is a powerful and thought-provoking work that explores the human condition, and the struggle to find meaning and purpose in life. Through the use of vivid imagery, symbolism, and metaphor, Aiken creates a work that continues to resonate with readers today. The poem is a reminder that life is a journey, and that we are all searching for something. However, it also emphasizes the fact that our preoccupations are often futile, and that our search for meaning is ultimately fruitless.
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