Perhaps it is the absence of it that makes me what I am--a body and an intelligence without a soul.

Even the intelligence I begin to doubt.

What sense has there ever been in all my wanderings?
Why have I been in every place, in every city?
What went I forth to see?
Not even a reed shaken by the wind! I have spoken all languages, read thousands of books, known men in every land--and for what?
It is as though I had once had an object in it all, though I know that there was none.

But I have realised the worthlessness of my life since I have been here.

Perhaps you have shown it to me, or helped me to see it.