This, surely, is as far as solipsism can go. Perhaps I, myself, am
merely an idea in my mind, an idea with no real existence. But that
does not seem possible. If I were an idea in my mind, then I would need
a mind to have that idea. Then perhaps there would be an idea above
that mind, and a mind above the new idea. It is hopeless...
Or David Hume could have had the answer. I am merely a collocation of
ideas, with no real existence. Nothing exists. Everything which used to
exist had been my idea, and I destroyed it. I destroyed it all because
it bored me.
All that is left is me, and I am merely a collocation of ideas, with
no real existence. A bundle of impulses, of less than impulses. That
is, perhaps, the greatest joke of all. I destroyed everything because
nothing pleased me--and now I find that my egoism was unwarranted,
since I do not have real existence.
I float in emptiness, with nothing to do, and I am weary. I am
horribly, terribly, endlessly bored. I must find the answer.
If I were to will myself out of existence, and if I ceased to exist,
then I would know the final answer. Only nothingness, having no
existence to begin with, is real. Quididity is meaningless. Then, if I
cease to exist, I’ll know the answer. But I would not know it, because
I would not be...
But I am bored and I must try it. Now...
7
...
Transcriber’s note:
This etext was produced from Dynamic Science Fiction, December 1952
(Vol. 1, No. 1.). Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.
Obvious errors have been silently corrected.