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From the day they are born, people are alien in the world. Birth itself is a separation, just like creation. Birth thrusts people into a new action, just as Kierkegaard says: without anyone asking them about it. Iam at the end of my rope. I am nauseated by life; it is insipid—without salt and meaning. If I were hungrier than Pierrot. I would not choose to eat the explanation people offer. One sticks a finger into the ground to smell what country one is in; I stick my finger into the world—it has no smell. Where am I? What does it mean to say: the world? What is the meaning of that word? Who tricked me into this whole thing and leaves me standing here? Who am I? How did I get into the world? Why was I not asked about it, why was I not informed of the rules and regulations but just thrust into the ranks as if I had been bought from a peddling shanghaier21 of human beings? How did I get involved in this big enterprise called actuality? Why should I be involved? Isn't it a matter of choice? And if I am compelled to be involved, where is the manager—I have something to say about this. Is there no manager? To whom shall I make my complaint? (Kierkegaard 1983.a. p. 330.)
