The absurdist claim—life is nonsense—seems to me an arbitrary value judgment: for is life not also plenty of sense? Think of how much there is still between us and absolute chaos. Do we not then have some order and sense about how we might live, albeit not the whole picture. But history has sentenced people to death with much less than a whole picture, so might we get along and live with the puzzle pieces?

Too simple a way to view our life: certainty and uncertainty. Why must that scale be the only place where we find meaning? Do we not find meaning in uncertain art? The mathematician might say we feign artistic meaning. But by what justification? By his maths?