One of the most powerful (and eloquently short) spiritual autobiographies of modern times is Leo Tolstoy's A Confession. The book is about Tolstoy's growing sense of meaninglessness as he grows into his middle years, despite his being a good person, his fame and wealth, and his being loved by many friends and all his family members. In this book, Tolstoy struggles ­much as Qoheleth (or Solomon?) in The Book of Ecclesiastes struggles ­ with questions about emptiness and meaninglessness that have been so common among spiritually alive persons in all ages. In any case, toward the end of that book Tolstoy reports the following dream, and it is about this dream that I would like to see your reflections.