Of being a mortal creature who was essentially alone but needed the myth of togetherness with others. Friends, children, lovers. It was an attractive myth. It was a myth you could easily inhabit.

Because, yes, sure, God could not exist. But then neither could humans. So, if they believed in themselves – the logic must go – why not believe in something that was only a fraction more unlikely?

anarchy.

That it will never come again, Is what makes life so sweet. – Emily Dickinson

And so they are lost, that is how I understand it. And that is why they invented art: books, music, films, plays, painting, sculpture. They invented them as bridges back to themselves, back to who they are.

Civilised life, you know, is based on a huge number of illusions in which we all collaborate willingly. The trouble is we forget after a while that they are illusions and we are deeply shocked when reality is torn down around us.

‘Clair de Lune’ by Debussy.

Names are a symptom of a species which values the individual self above the collective good.’

You can’t find happiness looking for the meaning of life. Meaning is only the third most important thing. It comes after loving and being.