Page 537 The Fountainhead by Ayn Rand

I was thinking of people who say that happiness is impossible on earth. Look how hard they all try to find some joy in life. Look how they struggle for it. Why should any living creature exist in pain? By what conceivable right can anyone demand that a human being exist for anything but his own joy? Every one of them wants it. Every part of them wants t. But they never find it. I wonder why. They whine and say they don't understand the meaning of life. There's a particular kind of people that I despise. Those who seek some sort of higher purpose or "universal goal", who don't know what to live for, who moan that they must "find themselves." You hear it all around us. That seems to be the official bromide of our century. Every book you open, every drooling self-confession. It seems to be a noble thing to confess. I'd think it would be the most shameful one.

To identify what you love the most, the work that gives you the most joy, is how to search for the purpose of your life.