Soren Kierkegaard
One sticks one's finger into the soil to tell by the smell in what land one is: I stick my finger in existence---it smells of nothing.
Where am I?
Who am I?
How came I here?
What is this thing called the world?
What does this world mean?
Who is it that has lured me into the world?
Why was I not consulted, why not made acquainted with its manners and customs instead of throwing me into the ranks, as if I had been bought by a kidnapper, a dealer in souls?
How did I obtain an interest in this big enterprise they call reality?
Why should I have an interest in it?
Is it not a voluntary concern?
And if I am to be compelled to take part in it, where is the director?
I should like to make a remark to him.
via.
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