The conundrums he made out of the ideas that recurred on him seemed far more personal than they were. These conundrums were nothing but performances of current ideas, not ideas as bare forms but as organisms, inheritances from the culture alive with the dream potency of contestation, inconclusiveness and unappeasement. He had believed in them, inhabited them, but they were only coterminous with life, a life that arose out of something, and which was to dissolve back into something, either way ungraspable and wholly other to life's forms of comprehension, its toy world of knowledge. Life seen this way is a self-reflexive structure, the transcendence which lends it purpose being only a necessary mirage of its own appetites. It is not in being, has not been gifted with being, in order that being may become aware of itself, to bring self-awareness to the absolute, or to fulfil some mission of praise or worship. Neither is it a bad dream, or the blossoming of an impurity or seed of doubt that fell into the pure, the non-dual, the pleromatic. Its meaning is only in itself, bounded by itself. Interrogation of this meaning is essential to it only as a part of what it is, but has no bearing on what precedes or follows it. Surely this is going too far, can't meaning be purely internal and yet still point beyond itself? Being may not privilege life but the challenge it has thrown to it has not yet been exhausted. Why else would there be death?