Conditions for the Admissibility of Belief in Lifés Meaning

One often hears discussions about lifés meaning – about what it should consist of and how we ought to arrange our lives so they don't become meaningless. Among youth, this is one of the most cherished topics. Yet when speaking of lifés meaning, most overlook the need to ask themselves: under what conditions is it permissible to admit lifés meaning, using the word «meaning» not in some arbitrary, vague sense where it's associated with now one concept, now another, but always employing it in that generally accepted sense in which we speak of the meaning of any thing. The clarification of these conditions – or rather, the most important among them – is what this discourse is devoted to.

This is precisely why I have titled it «Conditions for the Admissibility of Belief in Lifés Meaning.»¹

Thus I by no means intend to discuss what lifés meaning is or wherein it precisely consists. Moreover, I won't even attempt to prove whether life has any meaning at all or whether it constitutes a completely meaningless phenomenon; I shall take the opinion that life has meaning simply as a fact – as a more or less widespread conviction, or as a belief – and will speak only about under what conditions this belief is logically permissible.

And it is evident that in accordance with this task, we must first clarify the universally binding meaning of the term «meaning of life.» To do this, in turn, we must elucidate the generally accepted meaning of the word «meaning» itself. Once we understand what the word «meaning» signifies when we speak of the meaning of any thing, it will be easy to determine what should be understood by the phrase «meaning of life.» And having clarified this, we can then establish under what conditions it is permissible to believe in the existence of lifés meaning.

Thus, first and foremost: what do we call the meaning of any given thing? What constitutes the generally accepted meaning of this term? An approximate answer is quite simple: the meaning of a thing is its true purpose–that is, its actual (not merely apparent) suitability to serve as a means for achieving the end for which that thing is intended. In other words: we attribute meaning to a given thing only in the case (though perhaps not always–but let us set this aside for now) if it is intended to achieve some purpose and if it is truly suited for that purpose. If, however, the thing has no purpose at all, or if it is intended for some goal but is in fact unsuitable for achieving it, then we consider it meaningless.

Let us examine, then, the most fundamental instances of the word «meaning» in use. First and foremost, it applies to speech–that is, to words, whether considered individually or in relation to one another (this distinction makes no difference here)². A single word possesses meaning if it expresses some concept–in other words, if it is intended for and actually capable of conveying thought to another person. Conversely, a word is deemed meaningless:

If it was not intended for this purpose, or

If it proves incapable of serving this purpose.

If the words of the speech I utter are combined and selected in such a way that their combination turns out to be unsuitable for expressing the thought that my speech is intended to convey, then it is called meaningless. It is also called meaningless if its composition reveals no purpose whatsoever within it. Similarly, all other signs–not only speech but also gestures, labels (such as library labels on books), and various markings (for example, markings placed on identical objects to indicate the locations where these objects should be placed), and so on–have meaning only if these signs are assigned and are indeed suitable for achieving some purpose. Signs that have no purpose at all will be meaningless. Meaningless, too, are those signs that are unsuitable for achieving their intended purpose. For example, markings indicating the order of things are completely meaningless if these markings cannot be used to arrange the given things in the proper order. The use of encrypted writing is meaningless if it can be deciphered by anyone.

In exactly the same way, every measure, every part of a machine, a house–indeed, every machine, structure, and so on–has meaning only if, firstly, it is assigned a purpose and, secondly, it is truly suitable for achieving some goal. The absence of either of these conditions renders the given thing meaningless.

Thus, the meaning of any thing lies in its true purpose–that is, in the fact that it is assigned and genuinely suited to achieving some goal. This is the initial answer to the question: What is the commonly accepted meaning of the term «the meaning of any thing»?

However, although this answer is supported–and I have reinforced it–with numerous examples, we still cannot stop here: it is close to the truth but does not yet fully coincide with it. If it was not difficult to confirm this with diverse and plentiful examples, it is only because, in giving this answer, we implicitly assume something unspoken–something that helps us select the right examples. But to avoid any further misunderstandings, we must articulate everything implied in the concept of «meaning.» The fact is that the goals themselves can vary–and not every goal is considered capable of imparting meaning to the thing that serves as a means to achieve it. Indeed, if the goal in question is one not worth pursuing–that is, if it can only be pursued due to a mistaken assessment of its significance–then the mere fact that a given thing serves as a means to such a goal does not grant it any meaning whatsoever. For example, all our deliberate actions are always aimed at some goal. Suppose they are never futile–on the contrary, let each one achieve its intended purpose. Even so, we would often consider these actions merely purposeful, yet far from all of them would be ascribed meaning. For a goal–for which a given thing is assigned and suited, or even actually serves–to be capable of endowing that thing with meaning, the goal itself must be more or less valuable in our eyes, something worth pursuing.

And the more valuable this goal–that is, the more imperative it is to pursue it–the greater the meaning in the thing assigned and suited to achieve it. For example, every anecdote told during lectures always serves some purpose, and nearly always its telling proves entirely suitable for achieving the intended goal. Yet the inclusion of an anecdote–its introduction into the lecture–will have more or less meaning, or even none at all, depending on the lecturer's purpose in telling it. The anecdote will possess undeniable and greatest meaning if it serves as the optimal means for clarifying the lecturés scientific content. It will have less meaning–though still some–if the lecturer, noticing the audiencés fatigue in following his exposition, wishes to offer them a chance to refresh their attention. But this same anecdote will become utterly meaningless if the lecturer intended merely to amuse the audience or, worse, to pander to its poor taste–for in this case, the pursued goal strikes us as trivial, unworthy of pursuit.

Thus, the final definition of the concept «meaning of a thing» will be as follows: by the meaning of a given [thing], we always imply the purpose and actual suitability of this thing for achieving a goal that is, for some reason, necessary or worth pursuing. This is the commonly accepted meaning of the term «meaning» when we speak about the meaning of any thing³. Having understood this, we can now fully clarify what we should or are logically obliged to imply when speaking about the meaning of life; after all, the concept of «meaning of life» is merely a specific case of the concept «meaning of any thing.» Consequently, if the meaning of any thing lies in its purpose and actual suitability for achieving a valuable goal, then the meaning of life must likewise be understood as the purpose and actual suitability of life for achieving a valuable goal–that is, a goal that is necessary or worth pursuing.

Thus, the question of the meaning of life coincides with the question of the purpose of life.

To ask what constitutes the meaning of life is the same as asking what constitutes life’s valuable purpose. At the same time, it is easy to see that the question of life’s meaning is permissible only if we have in mind a goal that would be absolutely valuable. For we have just observed that the meaning of a thing depends not on just any goal, but only on one that must be pursued. Now, we consider any goal obligatory either for its own sake (in which case it will appear to us as absolutely valuable) or as a means to such an absolutely valuable goal–in which case its value is relative. Relatively valuable goals are not valuable in themselves, but only in relation to the supreme goal they serve as means to achieve. Thus, if there is no absolutely valuable goal at all, there can be no relatively valuable goals either. Consequently, the meaning of life–in the final analysis and at the deepest level–can depend only on an absolutely valuable goal. Therefore, when we ask about the meaning or purpose of life, one of two things must be true: either we use these words carelessly, without fully grasping their meaning, or our question already half-determines the answer. We implicitly assert from the outset that life’s ultimate goal must be absolutely valuable–and merely seek to learn something more about it (for instance, what exactly it consists of, whether it is actually attainable, etc.). From this follows the following definition of the concept of life’s meaning: it consists in our life being assigned and serving as an actual means to achieve an absolutely valuable goal–that is, a goal whose pursuit is obligatory not for the sake of other ends it might serve as a means to, but for its own sake.

Thus, the meaning of life reduces to lifés purpose of achieving an absolutely valuable goal – to life serving as an actual means for attaining such a goal. But for life, as for any thing, a general logical rule must be observed: the goal that gives meaning to a given thing lies not within the thing itself, but outside of it. For example:

The goal that gives meaning to any scientific investigation lies not within itself, not in research for research's sake, but in the truths revealed by this research.

The goal that gives meaning to teaching lies not within teaching itself, but outside of it, in its results.

The goal that gives meaning to any work lies not within the work itself, but outside of it, in its results. These results may consist either in certain transformations we produce in things, or simply in relieving boredom through this work; but in both cases, the goal that gives meaning to our work lies not within it, but outside of it.

Exactly the same principle applies to any part of our organism – the eye, the ear, etc. If they have meaning in existing, this depends on goals that lie not within them, but outside of them. The meaning of the eyés existence consists in enabling us to see – that is, in achieving a goal that lies outside the eye itself. In precisely the same way, every building, every part of a machine, etc. derive their meaning through achieving goals that lie outside that particular building or machine part. We could cite hundreds of similar examples. But therés no need to do so: the idea they confirm is already clear and self-evident. One only needs to contemplate the meaning of the word «means.»

A means is that which leads to something other than itself; and this other, in relation to it, is called its purpose. Consequently, if any thing – including life – serves or ought to serve as a means to some end (that is, if it has meaning), then this end resides not within it, but outside of it.

Thus, one of two possibilities must be true: either human life has absolutely no meaning at all, or its meaning consists in its purpose and actual suitability for achieving a goal that lies beyond human life itself. The only way to avoid this conclusion–that is, to refute it–would be to disregard the proper meaning of the terms we use, specifically the term «meaning.» This would entail either using the term arbitrarily (applying it to lifés meaning in a sense different from how it is used in all other cases) or, while attributing meaning to life, failing to acknowledge what is logically entailed by this concept. However, such methods could be used to refute anything–even any mathematical theorem. If we avoid these logical errors, we must accept the following proposition: if life has any meaning at all, then that meaning consists in lifés purpose and actual suitability for achieving a goal that lies beyond the life of any individual human being. I specify «beyond the life of any individual human being» because all preceding arguments have referred not to the life of this or that person, but to human life in general. Consequently, the conclusion we have reached applies not to the life of any single individual, but to the lives of all people without exception.

Moreover, it would be absurd to think that the meaning of some people’s lives consists in serving as a means for the lives of others. After all, there is no justification that could create such an extreme disparity among humans–where the lives of some become an absolutely valuable end, while the lives of others are reduced to mere means for achieving that end. Thus, one of two things must be true: either human life as a whole has no meaning whatsoever, or its meaning depends on a goal realized beyond the entirety of the human race–past, present, and future. Consequently, one of the conditions–specifically, the logical condition–for justifiably believing in life’s meaning is faith in the existence of an absolutely valuable goal that is realized beyond human life. To believe in life’s meaning is logically permissible only if we accept that our life is a path leading us to an absolutely valuable goal–a goal that lies beyond our life yet is realized through life. But if one refuses to acknowledge the existence of such a goal beyond human life, they must also abandon faith in the meaning of their own life–for the former is a logical consequence of the latter; the first belief is logically implied by the second.

This conclusion is very simple, and to eliminate misunderstandings, I must address the objections that are–or, more accurately, might currently be–raised against our conclusion.

One such objection claims that we cannot posit life’s purpose beyond life itself due to moral imperatives, and that such a premise contradicts them. This objection unfolds as follows: if we place life’s goal outside life, we must then seek it either in the lives of others or concede that the purpose of all human lives lies beyond these lives. The first option is absurd because there exists no moral or logical basis to consider some people’s lives as ends and others’ lives merely as means.

Let us recall what we have meant by the word «life» throughout our reasoning. Let us clarify: which human life have we been discussing until now? Undoubtedly, the very one everyone has in mind when posing the question of life’s meaning. When we seek to know the meaning of human life–or whether it exists at all–we are obviously referring to the life already familiar to us, the actual life we experience here and now; for we cannot inquire about the meaning of an unknown life.

But here arises a question: By what right have we equated a person's earthly existence with their existence in general, or their earthly life (whose meaning we are discussing) with their life as a whole? Undoubtedly, due to various historical and cultural reasons–and perhaps precisely because of our lack of cultural sophistication–we have grown accustomed to thinking that a person's entire existence ceases with the end of their earthly life.

Among such habitual notions belongs this very identification of earthly existence with personal existence in general, of earthly human life with life as such. Yet just because a thought has become thoroughly familiar to us does not mean it constitutes truth. Critical epistemology maintains that personal immortality belongs to those matters inaccessible to our knowledge and must be relegated to faith. According to this theory, one cannot scientifically prove the existence of immortality, yet neither can it be disproven by such arguments. Thus, we can never know the truth of either position–we can only maintain belief in one or the other. That said, let us suppose critical philosophy is mistaken on this point. Let us imagine the question of immortality might someday receive a definitive scientific resolution, one way or another. The fact remains: at present, it has not been scientifically resolved. Therefore, at this very moment, regarding the existence or non-existence of immortality, we can only believe–we do not actually know how matters truly stand.

If this is so, then we must acknowledge the following not as a categorical, but as a conditional proposition: If we do not believe in immortality, then we cannot believe in the meaning of life either. For the logical requirements arising from the very concept of «meaning» compel us to place the life-giving purpose beyond life itself; while moral imperatives forbid us to regard a person–even in the hands of God–as merely a means. Yet if there is no immortality, while lifés purpose remains beyond life, then the person is reduced to nothing more than a means or an instrument. Conversely, if we believe (or wish to believe) in lifés meaning while refusing to violate either logical or moral demands, then we are obligated to believe in immortality. In other words: Faith in personal immortality is both the logical and moral precondition for believing in lifés meaning.

This is the definitive conclusion we must reach when examining the logical relationship between these concepts. And this conclusion retains its validity even if someone were to irrefutably prove the impossibility of personal immortality; for the logical connection between concepts does not cease to exist even if no corresponding objects exist in reality. The relationship between a circle and its properties would not disappear even if all circular objects ceased to exist. Therefore, if someone were to prove the non-existence of immortality, their proof would not invalidate our conclusion in the slightest. It would merely demonstrate that we must abandon belief in lifés meaning – not that such belief is logically permissible without simultaneous belief in immortality.

As we can see, our final conclusion is reached through remarkably simple reasoning: to arrive at it, one need only analyze the concept of «meaning» and remember that – by moral imperative – a person must never be reduced to a mere means or instrument in anyonés hands, not even God's. Yet even this simplicity of reasoning leading to our conclusion sometimes arouses suspicion and prompts attempts to refute it. Such is the depth to which inconsistent materialism has taken root in us: we wish to deny immortality while simultaneously insisting that life is meaningful and valuable.

At the very least, regarding this simplicity, I have encountered the following objection: the meaning of life is readily accepted by many–indeed, by the entire younger generation. For youth is nearly always so idealistic, and at the same time so resolute, bold, and consistent in its actions, that it would hardly continue living if it lost faith in life’s meaning. Yet, if anyone is disinclined to believe in immortality, it is precisely the young. And this is neither a temporary nor local phenomenon–it is entirely natural. On one hand, while a person is young and full of vigor (even overflowing with it), they are naturally disinclined to contemplate what comes after death; they even forget about it entirely. On the other hand, being inexperienced in thought, and reveling in life with their entire being, they unwittingly assume that this life exhausts all reality. This tendency is most easily observed in children: they invariably assume that what they see in their family repeats everywhere; the structure of life they observe, they take to be life’s only possible structure⁴. Now, if the dependence of belief in life’s meaning on belief in immortality is so easily demonstrated, how can those who deny immortality still profess faith in life’s meaning–even speak of it–without sensing some inconsistency or illogicality in their thinking? Granted, they may be inexperienced in reasoning and unable to pinpoint their error–yet they should at least feel it as something amiss, a dissonance in their thoughts. For it is certain that all logical errors are first felt intuitively; only afterward do we trace and identify them. And they are felt more quickly and acutely the simpler the reasoning required to correct them. How, then, are we to explain the psychological puzzle that many disbelieve immortality yet still deem it permissible to believe in life’s meaning–without sensing any logical contradiction?

To address this misunderstanding, I will cite two psychological facts that form the underlying reason preventing us from sensing this error. The first fact is our persistent, subconscious tendency to judge everything according to how things appear or are imagined by us. That is, we involuntarily mistake the way our mind necessarily represents or imagines things for the way things must actually exist. For instance, if you ask anyone why they reject the possibility of things existing outside space–and specifically outside three-dimensional space (with length, width, and height)–the answer will almost always be: We cannot conceive or imagine anything existing beyond space, let alone beyond three-dimensional space. Thus, we conflate the mind's unavoidable mode of imagining things with an unavoidable mode not just of representation, but of existence itself. Even when we deliberately resolve–for whatever reason–not to attribute to something those properties that stem from how we imagine it, few succeed in maintaining this resolution. Take, for example, discussions about God, the soul, and similar matters. People readily agree that, by their very definition, these concepts should not be ascribed spatial attributes, since they imply something purely spiritual, devoid of extension, etc. Yet scarcely anyone manages to speak of them without being guided, in their reasoning, by how these concepts inevitably take shape in our imagination.

Namely: we involuntarily imagine the soul as a tiny human being. And so, although we readily agree that no spatial predicates can be ascribed to it, we nevertheless persistently tend to conceive of it as if it occupied a strictly defined place within the body–so much so that if one were to excise this place, the soul would be severed from the body along with it. All these psychological facts testify to our mind's powerful tendency to reason about things not according to what ought to be thought of them, but according to how we imagine them–and this, covertly.

The second fact, which together with the aforementioned one helps solve our psychological puzzle, might be termed the unimaginability of onés own complete death. It consists in this: despite all our efforts, we can never imagine our spiritual existence–that is, the existence of our spiritual self, our «I«–as having completely ceased. We cannot picture the world and other people without simultaneously imagining ourselves as observers of that world, viewing it from some hidden vantage point. Let us attempt to imagine ourselves dead. Certainly, anyone can easily envision their body lying as a motionless, cold corpse–some mourned with genuine grief, others feigning appropriate solemnity, some whispering gossip, while still others perform funeral rites with due ceremony or indifference (proportionate either to their conscience or expected remuneration). All this is easily imagined. Yet in conjuring this scene, I invariably–and involuntarily–imagine myself quietly observing it all from some concealed corner. Most often, one even imagines wishing to comfort some, reproach others, yet being nightmare-like powerless to utter a sound or make a gesture. However vivid the death-scene, we always envision ourselves peering at it from somewhere. This is inevitable: whenever we imagine anything, we do so as it would be perceived by us.

For example, when I imagine a merchant's courtyard, I imagine it as I would see it. In other words: the representation of oneself as a perceiving subject is inseparable from all our representations. This explains why in all our dreams, we invariably appear as participants in those dreams. Consequently, when imagining myself dead, I inevitably – by the very laws of our mental life – do so in such a way that I simultaneously picture myself observing the scene of my death. This means that although Íve imagined myself dead, I have not yet imagined myself completely vanished. It is impossible to represent or imagine onés own self, onés «I», as having fully disappeared.

Let us now juxtapose this fact of the unimaginability of our own complete death–that is, the death of our «I«–with our tendency to judge things not according to how we ought to think of them, but according to how they involuntarily take shape in our imagination. Then it becomes entirely clear why these factors together prevent us from feeling the impossibility of lifés meaning without personal immortality: while our intellect may reject immortality, our entire being nevertheless approaches the question of lifés meaning not as reason demands, but in accordance with those images that spontaneously arise in our imagination–and for imagination, the representation of our complete death remains inaccessible. Thus, without making special intellectual efforts, we will never truly feel all the logical consequences of immortality's absence.

However, attempts to refute our conclusion naturally do not stop at what has just been indicated, but go much further. Those who have abandoned belief in immortality inevitably seek to find lifés meaning-giving purpose within the bounds of earthly existence. Of course, the best refutation of all such attempts remains the previously established analysis of the concept of «meaning.» Yet the conclusion derived from this analysis becomes even more convincing and, as it were, more tangible when we examine actual attempts to locate lifés meaning elsewhere than where it is indicated by the logical connection of concepts. This is precisely why we shall now examine them.

A common objection runs thus: Why seek lifés meaning beyond life, when my lifés purpose depends entirely on myself? After all, I myself determine the goals of my activity. Of course, not all self-chosen goals could impart meaning to my existence. But I might set myself a purpose so lofty that it would give meaning to my entire life–thus locating lifés meaning within life itself, not beyond it. But let us ask: What goal could I possibly set that would render my life meaningful? Clearly, this desired goal must be absolutely valuable; consequently, the activity leading to it must appear to me as absolutely obligatory. Now, only one type of activity carries this unconditionally binding character: that prescribed by moral duty. All other activities possess merely relative obligation–contingent on how desirable or naturally sought their ends might be. The pursuit of pleasures or comforts binds me only if I value (or am obliged to value) those pleasures. But activity dictated by moral duty is intrinsically obligatory, independent of any pleasures or comforts. It remains binding even if promising nothing but suffering. Thus, if we seek lifés meaning within life rather than beyond it, it can reside only in fulfilling the very purpose that moral duty prescribes. In other words: The sole possible intra-vital meaning of life lies in pursuing the end dictated by moral law⁵.

Let us attempt to assume that lifés meaning lies entirely within itself and consists solely in fulfilling the purpose prescribed by moral law. But here arises a crucial question: Would not moral law itself become the greatest absurdity if personal immortality does not exist? Consider this: if moral law prescribes and pursues a specific goal while that goal remains demonstrably unattainable, then the law becomes utterly meaningless–incapable of imparting meaning to our lives. For, as we have already established, the meaning of anything requires not merely being designated for a valuable end, but actually being capable of achieving it.

And what goal does the moral law most certainly prescribe for us? Everyone, undoubtedly, would agree that if it does prescribe any definite goal at all, it can only be the happiness of all people. But what kind of goal is this–achievable or unachievable? One could cite thousands of examples and numerous psychological arguments proving the complete unattainability of this goal if we assume that human life is confined solely to earthly existence.

Thus, if the moral law prescribes the pursuit of universal happiness, then it itself has not the slightest meaning and, consequently, cannot give meaning to my life if there is no immortality. But let us consider: under what conditions could it give meaning to my life–that is, under what conditions would universal happiness not be obviously unattainable? For this, it is first necessary that human happiness be composed not only of what they experience within the bounds of earthly life but also of something else. And for this, it is necessary that their life continues beyond earthly existence–and in such a way that all the evil they inevitably endure here is redeemed.

I hasten, however, to clarify: this is not at all because my service to the happiness of others would remain meaningless if it were not rewarded a hundredfold in the afterlife. On the contrary, if I demand immortality as a condition for the possibility of meaning in my life, I no longer have the logical right to care about myself and my own advantages. After all, by seeking the meaning of my life, I am thereby searching for my purpose–which means I have already resolved to regard myself as a means. So why even speak of selfish gains? But when I speak of the conditions without which the binding nature of moral duty has no meaning, immortality–and with it, the redemption of earthly suffering–is needed not primarily in relation to myself, but in relation to those whom I am called to serve by the moral law. Without this condition, my purpose, being unattainable, would be absurd; my reason would find no meaning in fulfilling the moral law without it.

The outcome will be different if we assume immortality. Under this assumption, we have the right to believe (I do not say know, but we may believe) that beyond earthly life, everything that remains unattainable in this life is realized–and that this is necessary to preserve the meaning behind the binding nature of moral duty. Once immortality is granted, it opens the possibility to believe that the fulfillment of moral duty serves as an impeccable means to achieve an absolutely valuable goal, one that is realized in the afterlife. Moral activity, then, is nothing other than the path leading to this goal, and conscience is nothing other than the echo of this goal in our earthly life.

In other words, with the belief in immortality comes the possibility to believe that my fulfillment of moral duty redeems all suffering endured not by me, but by others–those whose happiness I am bound to serve; that this suffering will even be transformed into good (not for me, but for others), and that this good will reconcile not only the one who endured the suffering, but even all those who, in serving moral duty, waged what seemed like a futile struggle to liberate the world from evil. I say «seemed futile» because if all this is granted, universal happiness becomes achievable–just not here, not in earthly life, but in the life beyond.

Therefore, it’s entirely possible to encounter people who, despite not believing in immortality, still strive to follow moral precepts. They may act this way either out of habit–conditioned to certain behavior–or simply because they personally prefer to act this way rather than otherwise, much like many feel an irresistible urge to dress fashionably. Moreover, we must not overlook that for some, it seems more elegant, more aesthetically pleasing not to contradict moral precepts through their actions; thus, they will adhere to them even if they find no meaning in them whatsoever–merely for their own pleasure, as if for aesthetic gratification.

But if we analyze the concept of «the meaning of life» and remember that it implies genuine suitability for achieving an absolutely valuable goal, we must admit that in the absence of immortality, subordinating one’s life to moral demands lends it no more meaning than subordinating it to the demands of fashion. It may well be that a life in harmony with moral law proves more pleasant, beautiful, or aesthetically satisfying in this case–but by no means more meaningful than an immoral one.

In short, we invariably arrive at the same conclusion: one must either renounce belief in the meaning of life (and with it, the meaning of moral law), or–if one maintains this belief–one must also believe in personal immortality.

«But,» I may be asked, «what then is the practical significance of this conclusion?»

The answer is quite simple: it eliminates what might be termed intellectual depravity–arguably the most pernicious form of depravity. Under the recent dominance of materialism and the complete decline of philosophy, multitudes have unlearned faith in immortality, even scoff at it, while simultaneously discoursing on lifés meaning and clinging to that belief. Thus, they corrupt their intellects, gradually accustoming them to extreme inconsistency, to illogicality, thereby dulling the mind's capacity to discern truth. The practical significance of our conclusion lies precisely in eradicating this habit of inconsistent materialism–a habit that depraves our reason.