One sticks one's finger into the soil to tell by the smell in what land one is: I stick my finger into existence - it smells of nothing. Where am I? What is this thing called the world? Who is it that has lured me into the thing, and now leaves me here? Who am I? How did I come into the world? Why was I not consulted? Why was I not made acquainted with its manners and customs instead of being thrown into its ranks, as if I had been bought by a kidnapper, a dealer in souls? How did I obtain an interest in this big enterprise they call reality? Why should I have an interest in it? Is it not a voluntary concern? And if I am to be compelled to take part in it, where is the Director? I should like to make a remark to him. Is there no Director? Then where shall I turn with my complaint?
From Repetition (1843), Voice: Young Man