This piece goes headlong into the lovely messy richness of what life is—all from philosophers, poets, scientists and professional overthinkers. Along with them is a chain of posters marking these diametrically opposite and absurdly tremendous definitions of life, one paradox at time. Is it Dostoevsky’s hell of self-consciousness, a cosmos where pain is the sole hard currency? Or Socrates' surprise pop quiz with no correct answers—save, of course, for self-knowledge, obtained only through flunking. Is life Aristotle's intellectual jigsaw puzzle, best solved by a good mind and better definitions? Nietzsche smiles, showing off metaphysical biceps: life is will to power, baby—take the day or go down. Freud protests, puffing on a cigar (which, cynically, is never really a cigar): life is a grand overture to death, libido and Thanatos in a prize fight. Marx rolls into the factory: it’s the notion, comrade—material dialectics and sharing of existential fear. Picasso grasps a brush. “N...