The word Siddhartha is formed from two Sanskrit roots: Siddha, that which is achieved and Artha, that which was sought. Together, it means one who has found what he was looking for or more simply, one who has found meaning. It is no accident that this was the name borne by the Buddha before renunciation, when he was still Siddhartha Gautama, prince of Kapilavastu. Long before enlightenment became a destination, meaning was already the question.
The question about what life means has trailed humanity like a shadow and is present in our myths, prayers, philosophies, and funeral rites. From the Epic of Gilgamesh to the Rig Veda, from the Upanishads to the Book of Job, humans have wrestled with suffering, mortality, purpose and the good life. In the West, the modern phrasing “What is the meaning of life?” appears relatively late. The German romantic writer Novalis seems to have used der Sinn des Lebens in his notebooks in the late 1790s, followed soon after by Friedrich Schlegel. Arthur Schopenhauer would later pose the question bluntly – ‘What is the meaning of life at all?’
Across cultures, thinkers arrived at different answers, but circled the same terrain. Plato spoke of the Good, Aristotle of eudaimonia (meaning human flourishing), Aquinas of divine purpose and Kant of moral duty. Laozi urged alignment with the Tao; the Buddha diagnosed suffering and prescribed liberation. None used the phrase as we do today, but all were searching for what makes life worth enduring. In my own reading, several books have shaped how I think about this question: Viktor Frankl’s Man’s Search for Meaning, Hermann Hesse’s Siddhartha, Hector Garcia’s Ikigai, Randy Pausch’s The Last Lecture, Mitch Albom’s Tuesdays with Morrie and David Brooks’ The Second Mountain. Each, in its own way, gestures toward meaning as something discovered rather than acquired. But I want to linger on a few lesser-discussed works that illuminate the question from unexpected angles. I begin with Susan Wolf’s The Meaning of Life and Why It Matters. Wolf rejects the idea that meaning is found solely in happiness or in moral righteousness. Instead, she proposes that a meaningful life arises when subjective passion meets objective worth. Meaning, she argues, comes from ‘loving something worthy of love’. It is not enough to feel good, nor is it sufficient to do good out of duty alone.
Meaning emerges when we actively engage with projects, people, or causes that matter beyond ourselves. Love, in this sense, is not sentiment but attention – sustained, outward-facing, and generous. John Williams’ 1965 novel Stoner offers a more subdued, tragic meditation on the same theme. William Stoner is no hero in the conventional sense. His life is marked by professional stagnation, a failed marriage, and modest ambition. And yet, through his devotion to literature and teaching, Stoner discovers a form of dignity that resists despair. The novel shows that meaning is often found in persistence, in fidelity to one’s inner calling, even when recognition never comes. David Sheff’s The Buddhist on Death Row pushes the question of meaning into darker terrain. It tells the story of Jarvis Jay Masters, a man sentenced to death who discovers Buddhism while incarcerated. In a place designed to strip life of value, Masters finds compassion, responsibility, and peace.
Ernest Becker’s Pulitzer Prize-winning The Denial of Death offers a bracing diagnosis of the human condition. Becker argues that much of human behaviour is driven by an unacknowledged terror of mortality. We construct cultures and myths to convince ourselves that we matter beyond death. By naming our fear, Becker also opens up the possibility of living more honestly, less driven by illusion. Finally, James P Carse’s Finite and Infinite Games reframes the question altogether.
Finite games (such as wealth, power, status) are played to win; infinite games (parenting, learning, friendship, love, spiritual practice) are played to continue the play. Perhaps the mistake we make is treating life as something to be won, rather than something to be lived. In the end, the meaning of life may not be a single definitive answer. Unlike Siddhartha, we humble mortals fumble between selves and soul, continuing the search – not to arrive, but to become.
(The writer’s views are personal)