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Some time ago a classmate of my daughter's came to see me, a youngster who'd already cut his wrists once, and who asked me: Why should a person live?
What could i say to him? We live because that is the law of existence, we live so we should pass on a message whose significance we cannot quite fathom because it is mysterious and unrevealable. My father, for instance, lived for his work: whenever he'd managed to set some inert matter in motion he'd be so pleased he'd think of nothing else, and for that goal he would give up all other pleasures and even his sleep. But maybe just because of that he was able to be startled when he saw the sun rise or when he heard a Schubert quintet. It also occurs to me that we live because there are a number of encounters ahead of us for the sake of which living is worthwhile. Encounters with people who will emerge when we least expect them. Or else encounters with other creatures whose lives will touch on ours with a single shy glance. What more could i say to him?
Anyway he cut his wrists again one evening, and with his hands bleeding even managed to hang himself on a tree at the northern tip of the Zofin island in the Vlatva while his young friends were having a good time in the old dance hall there. My daughter cried bitterly as she told me about it, and in conclusion she said of her dead classmate: But otherwise he was quite normal.

Ivan Klima, Love and Garbage