I sometimes reflected on the same things that led Bartleby to leave life altogether. If we are nothing more than small, insignificant dots 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 collection of memories and reactions stored chemically in the brain, then why care about them? If love itself is the result of millennia of evolution that push us to live longer, why love if love itself is false? These questions plagued my evening after reading Bartleby the Writer, putting me into a deep depression. I strangely enjoyed this depression, as contradictory as it may seem, as I was amazed that a story could create these feelings