In the depths of the night, lying awake while the world is asleep, W. asks himself the great questions. Why did it all begin? Why, anything at all? It's the fact of existence that confounds him, as it has confounded so many philosophers.
But above all, it is the fact of my existence that confounds him, and that confounds him alone. Why? How? Who put me here? Who's responsible? Was it a joke? A kind of cosmic trial? And why was I placed before him? This is the question, the question of questions, W. says.
