“. . . Louis XVI. was executed because they considered him
to be a criminal, and a year later his judges were killed too for something.
What is wrong? What is right? What must one love, what must one hate? What is
life for, and what am I? What is life? What is death? What force controls it
all?” he asked himself. And there was no answer to one of these questions,
except one illogical reply that was in no way an answer to any of them. That
reply was: “One dies and it’s all over. One dies and finds it all out or ceases
asking.” But dying too was terrible.
[ . . . ]
“. . . Nothing has been discovered,” Pierre said to himself
again, “nothing has been invented. We can only know that we know nothing. And
that’s the highest degree of human wisdom.”
Everything within himself and around him struck him as confused, meaningless, and loathsome. But in this very loathing of everything surrounding him Pierre found a sort of tantalising satisfaction.