I sometimes thought about the same things that led Bartleby to leave life altogether. If we are just tiny, insignificant specks in the grand scheme of space and time, then what is the point of working so diligently? If life itself is nothing more than a compilation of memories and reactions chemically stored in the brain, then why bother? If love itself is the result of millennia of evolution to make us live longer, why love if love itself is false? These questions haunted my evening after reading Bartleby the Scrivener, plunging me into a reflective depression. Oddly enough, I enjoyed this depression, as contradictory as it may sound, because I was amazed that a story could create these feelings in