believes in the finite; if he understands the illusory nature of the finite, he
must believe in the infinite. Without faith he cannot live.
And I recalled the whole course of my mental labour and was horrified. It
was now clear to me that for man to be able to live he must either not see
the infinite, or have such an explanation of the meaning of life as will
connect the finite with the infinite. Such an explanation I had had; but as
long as I believed in the finite I did not need the explanation, and I began to
verify it by reason. And in the light of reason the whole of my former
explanation flew to atoms. But a time came when I ceased to believe in the
finite. And then I began to build up on rational foundations, out of what I
knew, an explanation which would give a meaning to life; but nothing
could I build. Together with the best human intellects I reached the result
that ø equals ø, and was much astonished at that conclusion, though nothing
else could have resulted.
What was I doing when I sought an answer in the experimental sciences? I
wished to know why I live, and for this purpose studied all that is outside
me. Evidently I might learn much, but nothing of what I needed.
What was I doing when I sought an answer in philosophical knowledge? I
was studying the thoughts of those who had found themselves in the same
position as I, lacking a reply to the question "why do I live?" Evidently I
could learn nothing but what I knew myself, namely that nothing can be
known.
What am I? -- A part of the infinite. In those few words lies the whole
problem.
Is it possible that humanity has only put that question to itself since
yesterday? And can no one before me have set himself that question -- a
question so simple, and one that springs to the tongue of every wise child?
Surely that question has been asked since man began; and naturally for the
solution of that question since man began it has been equally insufficient to
compare the finite with the finite and the infinite with the infinite, and since