The red wheelbarrow of consciousness, glazed with rainwater, beside the white chickens of experience. It simply doesn’t compute that it all adds up to nothing. In fact, when someone asks about “the meaning of life,” aren’t they really asking about “the meaning of consciousness”? What does this complicated, personality-filled life experience mean? W

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Rather, I remember a scene from Tolstoy’s War and Peace , one I had not thought of in years. It is a scene wherein a character, Prince Andrei, suffers what is perhaps a mortal wound in the historical “Battle of the Three Emperors” in 1805 while fighting on the side of the Russians against his idol Napoleon:

"What is it? Am I falling? Are my legs giv

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