In Anna Karenina Tolstoy describes the thoughts of Levin upon the death of his brother:
[H]e was horrified not so much by death as by a life without the slightest knowledge of where it came from, what it was for, and why, and what it was. The organism, its dissolution, the indestructibility of matter, the law of conservation of energy, evolution--these were the words that had replaced his former faith. These words and the concepts associated with them were very useful for intellectual purposes, but they made no contribution to life…
What Tolstoy laments here are the limitations of Science, the essential insufficiency of any purely exterior description of the world.
So what would you do if, in your own time and words, you discovered how profoundly correct Tolstoy had been? What if, after a slow dawning over a span of years, you began to see that in choosing a life committed to seeking the kinds of truth about which we seem most certain—objective truths, truths without interiority or meaning—you had been completely blind to the costs? Had not even known there were costs? What would you do?
You might long to send a letter back across the decades, an advisory to your emerging self, explaining the alternatives and making plain the costs. You might have to explain, in simple, stark terms, the relations among Science, Religion and Art—among truth, goodness and beauty—and the relation between community and self-definition. And because letters to the past can never be posted, you might instead find yourself writing for the present youth, to offer them a lesson in seeing meaning.
This, then, is the inspiration for June Rain, a philosophical romance for young adults.