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Life is a journey: some travel through the plains, some � through the books, some � through their dreams�

And the man who travels begins to fear that he may not find a fitting end to his journey. I’ve spent my life trying to see my own place as the end of a journey I never made.

The novel The Plains is this sort of journey. By its ultimate futility the story reminded me of The Castle by Franz Kafka but painted in the hues of The Library of Babel by Jorge Luis Borges.
Endeavouring to find the answers and achieve his purpose the main character spends his time in a library that resembles a department of the Library of Babel and which is big enough to stay there for the entire life reading books�

In this library I have come across whole rooms of works speculating freely on the nature of the plainsman. Many of the authors inhabit systems of thought that are bizarre, bewilderingly unfamiliar, perhaps even wilfully removed from common comprehension. But no writer I have yet found has tried to describe a plainsman as bound by the vicissitudes of his flesh � and certainly not those misfortunes that afflict each body in the years before the heart can properly sustain it.

The nameless protagonist just fritters his days away trying to sieve out the endless nuances of sounds, tints, emotions, patterns and impressions.
And after the years of toil he understands that beyond all his dreams there is nothing but darkness.
Do all our travels through life end there?