oma will have none of it. He is neither to be enticed nor cajoled.
The cry of his nature is for light. He must have light. And in burning
revolt he goes seeking the meaning of life. "His thoughts embraced all
those petty people who toiled at hard labour. It was strange--why did
they live? What satisfaction was it to them to live on the earth? All
they did was to perform their dirty, arduous toil, eat poorly; they were
miserably clad, addicted to drunkenness. One was sixty years old, but he
still toiled side by side with young men. And they all presented
themselves to Foma's imagination as a huge heap of worms, who were
swarming over the earth merely to eat."

He becomes the living interrogation of life. He cannot begin living
until he knows what living means, and he seeks its meaning vainly. "Why
should I try to live life when I do not know what life is?" he objects
when Mayakin strives with him to return and manage his business. Why
should men fetch and carry for him? be slaves to him and his money?

"Work is not everything to a man," he says; "it is not true that
justification lies in work . . . Some people never do any work at all,
all their lives long--yet they live better than the toilers. Why is
that? And what justification have I? And how will all the people who
give their orders justify themselves? What have they lived for? But my
idea is that everybody ought, without fail, to know solidly what he is
living for. Is it possible that a man is born to toil, accumulate money,
build a house, beget children, and--die? No; life means something in
itself. . . . A man has been born, has lived, has died--why? All of us
must consider why we are living, by God, we must! There is no sense in
our life--there is no sense at all. Some are rich--they have money
enough for a thousand men all to themselves--and they live without
occupation; others bow their backs in toil all their life, and they
haven't a penny."

But Foma can only be destructive. He is not constructive. The dim
groping spirit of his mother and the curse of his environment press too
heavily upon him, and he is crushed to debauchery and madness. He does
not drink because liquor tastes good in his mouth. In the vile
companions who purvey to his baser appetites he finds no charm. It is
all utterly despicable and sordid, but thither his quest leads him and he
follows the quest. He knows that everything is wrong, but he cannot
right it, c