Shall I travel the entire world, roam through every corner of discovery, only to return to where I started, to find I needed go nowhere to find who I am? For that is the one thing that escapes us, is it not — to he who has everything, having not found oneself means only to lose oneself in various intoxications, lulled by fruitless dreaming? To awake, then, would be to see the emptiness of it all, would it not? And so, the destitute man who knows who he is, is he not fully satisfied? Is it not thus that when he has meaning, when he has purpose, a man can withstand unheard of sufferings — and even pray for those who murder him? Or is it so that sometimes to ask the question of why is enough, or is it that there are some things that no answer will satisfy, be it from God’s own mouth? (And I ask, who has not wanted the impossible, at one time or another?) Who wants to know?