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Given the final futility of our struggle, is the sudden jolt of meaning that art gives us valuable? Or is the only value in passing the time as comfortably as possible? What should a story seek to emulate? A ringing alarm? A call to arms? A morphine drip? Of course, like all interrogation of the universe, this line of argument inevitably reduces us to asking what it means to be human, and whether— to borrow the phrase from the angst-encumbered sixteen-year-olds you no doubt revile— there is a point to it all.The Fault In Our Stars, Chapter 5 (page 68 US Edition)
If life is just a collection of random things you pick along the way, then I guess this is a very sad reflection of my life.
