Wise men have often reminded me that thinking about meaning is a wasted exercise. They will add, that what a person needs in order to find solace or comfort here on earth is a sense of purpose. Those who have none, are doomed to a sort of madness, because meaning is always invented. Wise men have also told me that sometimes it is necessary to find solace through that combination which is summarized by the words anger, fear and hatred. This visceral moment, they tell me, boils the blood and should be raised as a substitute for usefulness, then followed until something less volatile comes along.
When you get to my age, and I keep being reminded that I'm not as old as I feel, there is the traditional temptation to find a visceral inspiration, and therefore continued existence, from observing the ambitions of youth. Fortunately for the preservation of my soul and its sense of purpose, I have irregular contact, some of it quite personal, with managerial and supervisory lackeys who without my actually asking for drivers license or birth certificate or species identification, I would guess come in somewhere between fourteen and twenty five years of age. And I'll save you the trouble by calling this solution to the problem of meaning, devil worship.