There is a certain fatalism in the old myths and legends that I’ve always relished. This idea that our paths are preordained by some external hand—by God or by the universe or by fate or by some mixture of the three. That from the moment I took my first breath, the date and time of my last were already stitched into determined existence. Why this idea should fascinate me, I don’t know, but it does. I suppose it promises meaning. And meaning, above all, is what I seek. I want to know this isn’t in vain. I want to know my life wasn’t in vain.
