Bring on the tough stuff - there’s not just one right answer.
Do any of us ever truly communicate with each other? How do we know for sure? How do you know if you've really been heard and understood?
In the Absurdist view, how can one bring meaning to their life?
Read another Absurdist play, like Beckett's Waiting for Godot, Sartre's No Exit, or Ionesco's The Chairs. Compare and contrast the play with The Bald Soprano. Why might all these plays be lumped into the same category?
How do we know the difference between what is real and unreal?
What is the true nature of time? (Please, call us if you figure this one out.)