“Other animals do not need a purpose in life. A contradiction to itself, the human animal cannot do without one. Can we not think of the aim of life as being simply to see?” (–John Gray, in “Straw Dogs: Thoughts on Human and Other Animals, Farrar, Strauss and Giroux, New York 2003)
Thus, the closing paragraph of a book by Gray once again reflects his pleasure in poetic, but oblique narrative. I find it appealing, an intellectual challenge to extract his meaning. But for those less inclined to mental effort, he might have ended more explicitly: “There is no purpose to life. Get over it!”
Gray generally interchanges meaning and purpose, and his arguments seem directed at the human tendency to seek or create either. More correctly, his premise is that there is no more meaning to human life than to that of non-humans. Granted, many seem to find it in everything, but Gray is not buying it. He’s talking about a fundamental, existential reason for human existence that sets us apart from the rest of the biosphere. He is more inclined to say that, if it’s there, it is beyond us to perceive it.
Apart from the minor existential challenge of abandoning all hope, Gray’s book is an insightful work, if a difficult one to review. Ironically, its most maddening aspect was also its most enjoyable. The entire book is one long, tangential approach to his point. He comes at it so indirectly that it only surfaces in the last chapter, and only then after a second read. While frustrating, the technique makes for a thought provoking ride. It forces you to consider ideas you may have shut out if he’d hit you over the head with them.
His ultimate premise is human insignificance, and the story behind the title is illustrative. It is a reference to the ritual use of dogs fashioned from straw in ancient Chinese tradition. To paraphrase Gray, the models were treated with great respect during the ritual, but afterwards tossed out with the trash. To bring this home, Gray points to Chapter Five of the Tao te Ching. Paraphrased as well, the passage says that, in the great scheme of things, living creatures (including humans) are no more significant than ritual dogs made of straw. Gray’s book is an a systematic deconstruction of our illusions to the contrary.
While the author moves from point to point to build his argument, his general whipping boy is secular humanism, which he pillories repeatedly and throughout. And it’s more than just a foil against his dark view. He clearly has a distaste for what he sees as a secular religion. In his view, humanism sets itself on a pedestal as the solution to theistic pluralism, or as “right” thinking in our current morass of interreligious tension. But that is far too positivist for his dark view. He sees humanism as simply a derivative of Christian mindset but without a deity. It keeps Christianity’s moral code and idea of human “specialness,” but substitutes as a savior science and a belief in progress towards some manifest destiny. In his mind, such faith is just as misplaced as faith in Jesus.
There is much to consider in Gray’s thinking, but also a major flaw. He meticulously dismantles our illusions of ruling some existential world order, but he gives little credit to the fact that we are still a sentient and social species. This discounts the immediacy of our value to one another, both as individuals and in social groups. It is tempting to label him a misanthrope, but that would be harsh. He’s more of a “philosopher grump,” who comes off as though he’s trying to help by pointing out that life is much simpler than we try to make it: “Stop wasting energy on convoluted, contradictory and destructive rationalization. Let all that go. Think of yourself and your fate as a fox or an ant would, that is, not at all. Relax and enjoy the mystery, however transient, until your lights go out.”
The problem with this view is that it is cruel. We are sentient beings and we do need and seek meaning…and we are perfectly happy (happier, really) living with a myth than with the dead end of Gray’s alternative. For one thing, few could cope with the bleakness of his reality. But perhaps more important, the vast majority of humanity lead Jobian lives of poverty, deprivation, fear and displacement. This is true even in the West, where the wealthy and comfortable seldom take an honest look inward at the poverty and desperation surrounding them, and where even they cloak themselves in mythologies to keep out the cold fear of meaninglessness. So why take away even our myths? The misanthropic flaw in Gray’s reasoning is the assumption that people are capable of living with his worldview; when, in fact, it would likely drive most to despair.
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TRUTH QUOTES
Anytime you find that truth stands in your way, you can be certain that you are headed in the wrong direction.
As scarce as truth is, the supply has always been in excess of the demand. (Josh Billings)
Being entirely honest with oneself is a good exercise. (Sigmund Freud)
Convictions are more dangerous enemies of truth than lies. (Friedrich Nietzsche)
Every man who says frankly and fully what he thinks is doing a public service. (Leslie Stephen)
Everyone wishes to have truth on his side, but not everyone wishes to be on the side of truth. (Alfred North Whitehead)
Facts do not cease to exist because they are ignored. (Aldous Huxley)
A half truth is a whole lie. (Yiddish Proverb)
I believe that it is better to tell the truth than a lie. I believe it is better to be free than to be a slave. And I believe it is better to know than to be ignorant. (H. L. Mencken)
I have found that being honest is the best technique I can use. Right up front, tell people what you’re trying to accomplish and what you’re willing to sacrifice to accomplish it. (Lee Iacocca)
If one cannot invent a really convincing lie, it is often better to stick to the truth. (Angela Thirkell)
Integrity is not a 90 percent thing, not a 95 percent thing; either you have it or you don’t. (Peter Scotese)
Integrity is telling myself the truth. And honesty is telling the truth to other people. (Spencer Johnson)
It is an old maxim of mine that when you have excluded the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. (Conan Doyle)
It is easier to find a score of men wise enough to discover the truth than to find one intrepid enough, in the face of opposition to stand up for it. (A. A. Hodge)
It is easier to perceive error than to find truth, for the former lies on the surface and is easily seen, while the latter lies in the depth, where few are willing to search for it. (Johann Wolfgang von Goethe)
It’s discouraging to think how many people are shocked by honesty and how few by deceit. (Noel Coward)
Learn to see things as they really are, not as we imagine they are. (Vernon Howard)
A lie can be half ’round the world before the truth gets it’s boots on. (James Callaghan)
Life is simpler when you tell the truth.
Look a man in the eye and say what you really think, don’t just smile at him and say what you’re supposed to think.
Lying makes a problem part of the future; truth makes a problem part of the past. (Rick Pitino)
Never tell the truth to people who are not worthy of it. (Mark Twain)
No matter what you believe, it doesn’t change the facts. (Al Kersha)
Nothing so completely baffles one who is full of trick and duplicity himself, than straightforward and simple integrity in another. (Charles Caleb Colton)
Once you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. (Sherlock Holmes)
People who are brutally honest often get more satisfaction out of the brutality than out of the honesty. (Richard J. Needham)
One of the hardest things to teach a child is that the truth is more important than the consequences. (O. A. Battista)
Real integrity stays in place whether the test is adversity or prosperity. (Charles Swindoll)
Respect for the truth comes close to being the basis for all morality. (Frank Herbert)
Speak the truth, but leave immediately after!
There are truths that are not for all men, nor for all times. (Richard Whately)
Truth and credibility are usually incompatible.
Truth exists. Only lies are invented. (Georges Braque)
Truth is a point, the subtlest and finest; harder than adamant; never to be broken, worn away or blunted. Its only bad quality is, that it is sure to hurt those who touch it; and likely to draw blood, perhaps the life blood of those who press earnestly upon it. (Walter Savage Landor)
The truth is cruel, but it can be loved and it makes free those who have loved it. (Henry David Thoreau)
Truth is not determined by majority vote. (Doug Gwyn)
The truth is rarely pure and never simple. (Oscar Wilde)
Truth is tough. It will not break, like a bubble, at the touch, nay, you may kick it about all day like a football, and it will be round and full at evening. (Oliver Wendell Holmes, Jr.)
The TRUTH: It may not lead you to where you thought you were going, but it will always lead you somewhere better. When ignored, it will eventually show itself. The closeness of your relationships is directly proportional to the degree to which you have revealed the truth about yourself. It can be painful.
We must have strong minds, ready to accept facts as they are. (Harry S. Truman)
Whatever separates you from the Truth, throw it away, it will vanish anyhow. (Yumus Emre)
When I tell the truth, it is not for the sake of convincing those who do not know it, but for the sake of defending those that do. (William Blake)
You never find yourself until you face the truth. (Pearl Bailey)
The View from Mount Zapffe
Gisle Tangenes describes the life and ideas of a cheerfully pessimistic, mountain-climbing Norwegian existentialist.
“This world,” mused Horace Walpole, “is a comedy to those that think, a tragedy to those that feel.” And for Peter Wessel Zapffe (1899-1990), humans are condemned to do both. We have evolved a yearning for metaphysical purpose – for intrinsic justice and meaning in any earthly event – that is destined for frustration by our real environment. The process of life is oblivious to the beings it makes and breaks in the course of its perpetuation. And while no living creature escapes this carnage, only humans bear the burden of awareness. An uninhabited globe, argues Zapffe, would be no unfortunate thing.
Born in the arctic city of Tromsø, in Norway, Zapffe was a luminous stylist and wit, whose Law examination paper (1923) – in rhyming verse – remains on display at the University of Oslo. Following some years as a lawyer and judge, he had a revelatory encounter with the plays of Ibsen and reentered university to attack “the ever burning question of what it means to be human.” The answer he reached is an original brand of existentialist thought, which, unlike the more optimistic views of Heidegger, Sartre, and Camus, concludes in a minor key. Among its earliest airings was a little essay called ‘The Last Messiah’ (1933).
The piece begins with a fable of a stone age hunter who, as he leaves his cave at night, is stricken by pity for his prey and has a fatal existential crisis. This is a parable resonating with two archetypical tales of Western culture. Firstly, it recalls the Allegory of the Cave in Plato’s Republic, which also relates the eye opening exit of a cave; secondly, it alludes to that origin myth of moral sentiment, the Fall of Man in Genesis. Zapffe chimes in with an exegesis to the effect that his caveman was a man who knew too much. Evolution, he argues, overdid its act when creating the human brain, akin to how a contemporary of the hunter, a deer misnamed the ‘Irish elk’, became moribund by its increasingly oversized antlers. For humans can perceive that each individual being is an ephemeral eddy in the flow of life, subjected to brute contingencies on his or her way to annihilation. Yet only rarely do persons lose their minds through this realization, as our brains have evolved a strict regime of self-censorship – better known as ‘civilization.’ Betraying a debt to Freud, Zapffe expands on how “most people learn to save themselves by artificially limiting the content of consciousness.” So, ‘isolation’ is the repression of grim facts by a code of silence; ‘anchoring,’ the stabilizing attachment to specific ends; ‘distraction,’ the continuous stream of divertive impressions; and ‘sublimation,’ the conversion of anguish into uplifting pursuits, like literature and art. The discussion is sprinkled with allusions to the fate of Nietzsche: the poster case, as it were, of seeing too much for sanity.
Lastly, Zapffe warns that civilization cannot be sustained forever, as technology liberates ever more time for us to face our demons. In a memorably ironic finish, he completes the tribute to Plato and Moses by foretelling a ‘last Messiah’, to appear in a tormented future.
This prophet of doom, an heir to the visionary caveman, will be as ill-fated. For his word, which subverts the precept to “be fruitful, and multiply, and replenish the earth,” is not to please his fellow man: “Know yourselves – be infertile, and let the earth be silent after ye.”
The Messiah’s ideas are developed at greater length in the treatise On the Tragic (1941), unaccountably never translated into any major language. The work is rigorously argued, yet so suffused with carnivalesque humor that one critic acclaimed its author as ‘the Chaplin of philosophy.’ Nor is there want of poetic imagery; at one point, for instance, a sea eagle bred in cage is evoked as an analogy to the human predicament. While unable to manifest its potential in captivity, such an eagle should doubtless perish if released into the open sky.
That dilemma highlights a fundamental concept of Zapffe’s tome: the ‘objectively tragic’ sequence, that is, any narrative in which excellence is linked to misadventure. Aristotle’s theory of tragedy in the Poetics centers on the debacle of a generally virtuous individual who makes a fateful error of judgment, expressing a latent flaw of character. By contrast, objectively tragic tales do not hinge on any fault of the protagonist; rather a manifestation of ‘culturally relevant greatness’ prefigures his demise. Such excellence either engenders the calamity or is else instilled in the protagonist by whatever does, for instance a disease. To clarify his model, Zapffe introduces a hierarchy of ‘interest fronts’: biological, social, auto telic (pertaining to whatever is rewarding in itself), and metaphysical. The latter one, essential to humanity, requires a dual virtue for objectively tragic sequences to unfold: (i) aspirations to secure a just and meaningful world; and (ii) intellectual honesty. Insofar as (i) alone is found in a character, whether real or a fictional, her response to absurdity and injustice should be to sacrifice lower-ranking interests on behalf of the metaphysical one. This sets the stage for what Zapffe labels a ‘heroic’ sequence of events. A tragic sequence demands the addition of (ii), and peaks with a devastating realization that existence never will become satisfactory in terms of meaning and justice. For Zapffe, such resignation to futility marks the apex of many classic tragedies, from Prometheus Bound to Hamlet. His most intriguing case in point is The Book of Job, in the Bible, which given its seemingly happy ending was never anybody’s idea of a tragic tale. Yet on Zapffe’s reading, Job has the misfortune to uncover the Lord’s genuine nature: a benighted tyrant, mistaking might for right. Even martyrdom would be lost on this ‘godly Caliban’, and the disillusioned Job takes cover behind a mask of repentance. His is a timeless tragedy, for Jehovah ‘holds sway in our experience’ even today, as the symbol of ‘a familiar social and biological environment:’
“He represents… the blind natural forces oblivious to the human craving for order and meaning, the unpredictable strikes of illness and death, the transience of fame, the betrayal of friends and kin. He is the god of machines and might, of rule by violence, Moscow tribunals, party yoke and conquest, of copper pipes and armor plates. Job is not alone to face him with spiritual arms. Some are downtrodden in heroic martyrdom; others see the limitations of martyrdom as well, yielding in the outer things, but hiding despair in their hearts.”
The human condition is so structured, then, that objectively tragic sequences will readily arise (which is ultimately why they are described as ‘objective’.) Not only is humankind distinguished by an impossible interest, the need for purpose in a realm of pure causality; it also excels at comprehending that realm. We relate to the truth as do moths to a flame.
Thus the ‘thousand consolatory fictions’ that deny our captivity in dying beasts, afloat on a speck of dust in the eternal void. And after all, if a godly creator is waiting in the wings, it must be akin to the Lord in The Book of Job, since it allows its breathing creations to be “tumbled and destroyed in a vast machinery of forces foreign to interests.” Asserts Zapffe: “The more a human being in his worldview approaches the goal, the hegemony of love in a moral universe, the more has he become slipshod in the light of intellectual honesty.” The only escape from this predicament should be to discontinue the human race. Though extinction by agreement is not a terribly likely scenario, that is no more than an empirical fact of public opinion; in principle, all it would require is a global consensus to reproduce below replacement rates, and in a few generations, the likening of humankind would “not be the stars or the ocean sand, but a river dwindling to nothing in the great drought.” This rather less than life-affirming message is actually not without historical precedence.
In a preface to the 1983 edition of On the Tragic, Zapffe refers to “the insight, or Gnosis, that the Mystery of Life is amoral.” That is no mere figure of speech: his philosophy does indeed suggest the mystical viewpoint known as Gnosticism, influenced by Judaism and Platonism and flourishing early in the Christian era. Gnostic doctrines generally teach as follows. Our innermost selves began on a deific plane, the ‘Fullness’ (Pleroma), but were dispersed around the earthly shadow land, and locked into a cycle of rebirths, at the dawn of time. They may break free and reunite through Gnosis: the awareness of their divinity, promoted by holy messengers. Yet the majority keep mistaking the dominion of death for home and partake in its reproduction, encouraged by cosmic slavers (archons) who serve the ignoble creator of matter – the deity of the Old Testament. As Hans Jonas noted in the 1950s, this esoteric lore resembles, to some degree, the outlook of modern existentialism. Both depict the human self as somehow thrown into, and incarcerated in, a foreign world, in which it mindlessly acquiesces unless woken by a sense of alienation. With Zapffe, the match appears closer than usual, for if he denies, like most existentialists, that humankind belongs in a heavenly home, he also echoes Gnostics in rejecting its continuance on earth.
Zapffe defended On the Tragic for his doctoral degree, not a risk-free act in the German-occupied Norway of the day; his friend Arne Næss, later the originator of ‘deep ecology’, took a break from resistance work to serve as opponent. After liberation, Zapffe turned down a professorship to live instead by his essays, monographs, poetry, plays and humorous writings.
Many of the latter address a favorite activity, the art of mountain climbing. This he extolled for being “as meaningless as life itself.” (Destinations included, incidentally, the spire of Tromsø Cathedral, whence he proclaimed that he could not ascend further by means of the Church!)
Some find his zeal as a mountaineer, humorist and early champion of environmental conservation rather at odds with his philosophical pessimism. According to another friend and eco-philosopher, Sigmund Setreng, this paradox is resolved by considering the ‘light bliss founded on dark insight’ of the bodhisattva in Mahayana Buddhism – a wakened sage who accepts the futility of human accomplishment. In any case, Zapffe lived as he taught in reproductive matters, staying childless by design. Apart from Berit Zapffe, his spouse through 47 years, his name is now borne only by one of the arctic mountains he pioneered. As for Mt. Zapffe’s philosophical counterpart, it presents an austere, yet impressive, vista of the earthly vale of tears. In a letter dated 1990, its conqueror described his ‘view from the final cairn:’ “The human race come from Nothing and go to Nothing. Above that, there is Nothing.” At the close of his last major writing, Zapffe answers all who despair of this view. “ ‘Unfortunately,’ rues the playful pessimist, ‘I cannot help you. All I have for facing death myself, is a foolish smile.’ ”
© GISLE R. TANGENES 2004
Gisle R. Tangenes is soon to graduate in Philosophy from the University of Oslo. He is too pessimistic even for mountaineering.
THE TRUTH ABOUT LIFE
A quick test of the assertion that enjoyment outweighs pain in this world, or that they are at any rate balanced, would be to compare the feelings of an animal engaged in eating another with those of the animal being eaten. . . Each individual misfortune, to be sure, seems an exceptional occurrence; but misfortune in general is the rule.
In our early youth we sit before the life that lies ahead of us like children sitting before the curtain in a theatre, in happy and tense anticipation of whatever is going to appear. Luckily we do not know what really will appear. For to him who does know, children can sometimes seem like innocent delinquents, sentenced not to death but to life, who have not yet discovered what their punishment will consist of. Nonetheless, everyone desires to achieve old age, that is to say a condition in which one can say: ‘Today it is bad, and day by day it will get worse—until at last the worst of all arrives.’
You can also look upon our life as an episode unprofitably disturbing the blessed calm of nothingness. In any case, even he who has found life tolerably bearable will, the longer he lives, feel the more clearly that on the whole it is a disappointment, nay a cheat. If two men who were friends in youth meet in old age after the lapse of an entire generation, the principal feeling the sight of one another, linked as it is with recollections of earlier years, will arouse in both will be one of total disappointment with the whole of life, which once lay so fair before them in the rosy dawn of youth, promised so much and performed so little. This feeling will dominate so decidedly over every other that they will not even think it necessary to speak of it but will silently assume it as the basis of their conversation.
If the act of procreation were neither the outcome of a desire nor accompanied by feelings of pleasure, but a matter to be decided on the basis of purely rational considerations, is it likely the human race would still exist? Would each of us not rather have felt so much pity for the coming generation as to prefer to spare it the burden of existence, or at least not wish to take it upon himself to impose that burden upon it in cold blood?
For the world is Hell, and men are on the one hand the tormented souls and on the other the devils in it.
—Schopenhauer (1788–1860), from Parerga and Paralipomena
One man’s pain, one man’s wounds are of no importance, the healthy pays no heed to what torments the sick, and if this life, that man keeps on inheriting from man, were not short, there would be nothing more lamentable in the whole wide world. Nature reproduces herself uniformly, but her death may take a thousand shapes, the world does not inquire about my goal or your last hour; and the man who does not willingly submit to this iron fate, which threatens him, only worries himself into his grave in helpless anger, and in fate’s maw he feels nothing; everyone knows this, but each man likes to forget it every day, so let me say nothing more of it. Forget that the world deceives you and that the desire for it only engenders more desire, let nothing elude your love or escape your knowledge. Let each man hope that time will give him what it has never given anyone, for each man tries to be a universal whole, and every man is at bottom nothing at all.
—August Von Platen (1796-1835), One Man’s Pain, trans. Leonard Forster
In many persons, happiness is congenital and irreclaimable. ‘Cosmic emotion’ inevitably takes in them the form of enthusiasm and freedom. I speak not only of those who are animally happy. I mean those who, when unhappiness is offered or proposed to them, positively refuse to feel it, as if it were something mean and wrong. . . If, then, we give the name of healthy-mindedness to the tendency which looks on all things and sees that they are good, we find that we must distinguish between a more involuntary and a more voluntary or systematic way of being healthy-minded. In its involuntary variety, healthy-mindedness is a way of feeling happy about things immediately. In its systematical variety, it is an abstract way of conceiving things as good. Every abstract way of conceiving things selects some one aspect of them as their essence for the time being, and disregards the other aspects. Systematic healthy-mindedness, conceiving good as the essential and universal aspect of being, deliberately excludes evil from its field of vision; and although, when thus nakedly stated, this might seem a difficult feat to perform for one who is intellectually sincere with himself and honest about facts, a little reflection shows that the situation is too complex to lie open to so simple a criticism.
In the first place, happiness, like every other emotional state, has blindness and insensibility to opposing facts given it as its instinctive weapon for self-protection against disturbance. When happiness is actually in possession, the thought of evil can no more acquire the feeling of reality than the thought of good can gain reality when melancholy rules. To the man actively happy, from whatever cause, evil simply cannot then and there be believed in. He must ignore it; and to the bystander he may then seem perversely to shut his eyes to it and hush it up.
But more than this: the hushing of it up may, in a perfectly candid and honest mind, grow into a deliberate religious policy, or parti pris. Much of what we call evil is due entirely to the way men take the phenomenon. It can so often be converted into a bracing and tonic good by a simple change of the sufferer’s inner attitude from one of fear to one of fight; its sting so often departs and turns into a relish when, after vainly seeking to shun it, we agree to face about and bear it cheerfully, that a man is simply bound in honor, with reference to many of the facts that seem at first to disconcert his peace, to adopt this way of escape. Refuse to admit their badness; despise their power; ignore their presence; turn your attention the other way; and so far as you yourself are concerned at any rate, though the facts may still exist, their evil character exists no longer. Since you make them evil or good by your own thoughts about them, it is the ruling of your thoughts which proves to be your principal concern.
The deliberate adoption of an optimistic turn of mind thus makes its entrance into philosophy. And once in, it is hard to trace its lawful bounds. Not only does the human instinct for happiness, bent on self-protection by ignoring, keep working in its favor, but higher inner ideals have weighty words to say. The attitude of unhappiness is not only painful, it is mean and ugly. What can be more base and unworthy than the pining, puling, mumping mood, no matter by what outward ills it may have been engendered? What is more injurious to others? What less helpful as a way out of the difficulty? It but fastens and perpetuates the trouble which occasioned it, and increases the total evil of the situation. At all costs, then, we ought to reduce the sway of that mood; we ought to scout it in ourselves and others and never show it tolerance. But it is impossible to carry on this discipline in the subjective sphere without zealously emphasizing the brighter and minimizing the darker aspects of the objective sphere of things at the same time. And thus our resolution not to indulge in misery, beginning at a comparatively small point within ourselves, may not stop until it has brought the entire frame of reality under a systematic conception optimistic enough to be congenial with its needs. . . .
The systematic cultivation of healthy-mindedness as a religious attitude is therefore consonant with important currents in human nature, and is anything but absurd. In fact, we all do cultivate it more or less, even when our professed theology should in consistency forbid it. We divert our attention from disease and death as much as we can; and the slaughter-houses and indecencies without end on which our life is founded are huddled out of sight and never mentioned, so that the world we recognize officially in literature and in society is a poetic fiction far handsomer and cleaner and better than the world that really is.
The normal process of life contains moments as bad as any of those which insane melancholy is filled with, moments in which radical evil gets its innings and takes its solid turn. The lunatic’s visions of horror are all drawn from the material of daily fact. Our civilization is founded on the shambles, and every individual existence goes out in a lonely spasm of helpless agony. If you protest, my friend, wait till you arrive there yourself! To believe in the carnivorous reptiles of geologic time, is hard for our imagination—they seem too much like mere museum specimens. Yet there is no tooth in any one of those museum-skulls that did not daily through long years of the foretime hold fast to the body struggling in despair of some fated living victim. Forms of horror just as dreadful to their victims, if on a smaller spatial scale, fill the world about us to day. Here on our very hearths and in our gardens the infernal cat plays with the panting mouse, or holds the hot bird fluttering in her jaws. Crocodiles and rattlesnakes and pythons are at this moment vessels of life as real as we are; their loathsome existence fills every minute of every day that drags its length along; and whenever they or other wild beasts clutch their living prey, the deadly horror which an agitated melancholiac feels is the literally right reaction on the situation.
The method of averting one’s attention from evil, and living simply in the light of good is splendid as long as it will work. It will work with many persons; it will work far more generally than most of us are ready to suppose; and within the sphere of its successful operation there is nothing to be said against it as a religious solution. But it breaks down impotently as soon as melancholy comes; and even though one be quite free from melancholy one’s self, there is no doubt that healthy-mindedness is inadequate as a philosophical doctrine, because the evil facts which it refuses positively to account for are a genuine portion of reality; and they may after all be the best key to life’s significance, and possibly the only openers of our eyes to the deepest levels of truth.
—William James (1842–1910), from The Varieties of Religious Experience
[W]hen a trouble is grave no method is of much avail unless it penetrates below the level of consciousness. There has been a great deal of study by psychologists of the operation of the unconscious upon the conscious, but much less of the operation of the conscious upon the unconscious. Yet the latter is of vast importance in the subject of mental hygiene, and must be understood if rational convictions are ever to operate in the realm of the unconscious. This applies in particular in the matter of worry. It is easy enough to tell oneself that such and such a misfortune would not be so very terrible if it happened, but so long as this remains merely a conscious conviction it will not operate in the watches of the night or prevent the occurrence of nightmares. My own belief is that a conscious thought can be planted in the unconscious if a sufficient amount of vigor and intensity is put into it. Most of the unconscious consists of what were once highly emotional conscious thoughts, which have now become buried. It is possible to do this process of burying deliberately, and in this way the unconscious can be led to do a lot of useful work. . . When some misfortune threatens, consider seriously and deliberately what is the very worst that could possibly happen. Having looked this possible misfortune in the face, give yourself sound reasons for thinking that after all it would be no such very terrible disaster. Such reasons always exist, since at the worst nothing that happens to oneself has any cosmic importance. When you have looked for some time steadily at the worst possibility and have said to yourself with real conviction, “Well, after all, that would not matter so very much,” you will find that your worry diminishes to a quite extraordinary extent. It may be necessary to repeat the process a few times, but in the end, if you have shirked nothing in facing the worst possible issue, you will find that your worry disappears altogether and is replaced by a kind of exhilaration.
This is part of a more general technique for the avoidance of fear. . . Now fear, in its most harmful form, arises where there is some danger which we are unwilling to face. At odd moments horrible thoughts dart into our minds; what they are depends upon the person, but almost every-body has some kind of lurking fear. With one man it is cancer, with another financial ruin, with a third the discovery of some disgraceful secret; a fourth is tormented by jealous suspicions, a fifth is haunted at night by the thought that perhaps the tales of hellfire told him when he was young may be true. Probably all these people employ the wrong technique for dealing with their fear; when-ever it comes into their mind, they try to think of something else; they distract their thoughts with amusement or work, or what not. Now every kind of fear grows worse by not being looked at. The effort of turning away one’s thoughts is a tribute to the horribleness of the spectre from which one is averting one’s gaze; the proper course with every kind of fear is to think about it rationally and calmly, but with great concentration, until it has become completely familiar. In the end familiarity will blunt its terrors; the whole subject will become boring, and our thoughts will turn away from it, not, as formerly, by an effort of will, but through mere lack of interest in the topic.. When you find yourself inclined to brood on anything, no matter what, the best plan is always to think about it even more than you naturally would until at last its morbid fascination is worn off.
Courage in war has been recognized from time immemorial as an important virtue, and a great part of the training of boys and young men has been devoted to producing a type of character capable of fearlessness in battle. But moral courage and intellectual courage have been much less studied; they also, however, have their technique. Admit to yourself every day at least one painful truth; you will find this quite as useful as the Boy Scout’s daily kind action. Teach yourself to feel that life would still be worth living even if you were not, as of course you are, immeasurably superior to all your friends in virtue and in intelligence. Exercises of this sort prolonged through several years will at last enable you to admit facts without flinching, and will, in so doing, free you from the empire of fear over a very large field.
—Bertrand Russell (1872–1970), from The Conquest of Happiness
Russell has never denied that in some respects a “godless” philosophy like his has to be gloomy. The beginning of wisdom, he teaches, is acceptance of the fact that the universe does not care about our aspirations and that happiness and unhappiness are not meted out in accordance with what people deserve. “The secret of happiness,” he observed during a television program commemorating his 92d birthday, “is to face the fact that the world is horrible.” What Russell meant by this becomes clear from a story related by his biographer, Alan Wood. Wood’s wife had expressed her opinion that it seemed horribly unjust that the young men who had been killed in the war should not somehow or somewhere have a second chance to achieve happiness. “But the universe is unjust,” Russell replied, “the secret of happiness is to face the fact that the world is horrible, horrible, horrible . . . you must feel it deeply and not brush it aside . . . you must feel it right here”—hitting his breast—“and then you can start being happy again” (Bertrand Russell: The Passionate Sceptic, p. 237). Once a person has stopped looking at the universe in terms of anthropomorphic demands, he can concentrate on what is attainable and not waste his time in self-pity and cosmic complaints. For those whose philosophy is shaped not by a respect for facts but by their wishes Russell has always been scathing in his contempt. He expresses his amazement that courage is praised in all types of situations but not when it comes to forming a view about the world. “Where traditional beliefs about the universe are concerned,” he writes, “craven fears . . . are considered praiseworthy, while intellectual courage, unlike courage in battle, is regarded as unfeeling and materialistic.” Writing in 1957, he notes that this attitude is perhaps less widespread than it was in his youth, but he adds that it “still inspires vast systems of thought which have their root in unworthy fears.” “I cannot believe,” he concludes, “that there can ever be any good excuse for refusing to face the evidence in favor of something unwelcome. It is not by delusion, however exalted, that mankind can prosper, but only by unswerving courage in the pursuit of truth” (Fact and Fiction, p. 46).
—Paul Edwards, from article on Russell in The Encyclopedia of Philosophy
Time is a river, the resistless flow of all created things. One thing no sooner comes in sight than it is hurried past and another is borne along, only to be swept away in its turn.
Reflect often upon the rapidity with which all existing things, or things coming into existence, sweep past us and are carried away. The great river of Being flows on without a pause; its actions for ever changing, its causes shifting endlessly, hardly a single thing standing still; while ever at hand looms infinity stretching behind and before—the abyss in which all things are lost to sight. In such conditions, surely a man were foolish to gasp and fume and fret, as though the time of his troubling could ever be of long continuance.
We shrink from change; yet is there anything that can come into being without it? What does Nature hold dearer, or more proper to herself? Could you have a hot bath unless the firewood underwent some change? Could you be nourished if the food suffered no change? Is it possible for any useful thing to be achieved without change? Do you not see, then, that change in yourself is of the same order, and no less necessary to Nature?
All bodies pass through the universal substance, as it were into and out of a rushing stream; cohering and cooperating with the whole, as do our physical members with one another. How many a Chrysippus, a Socrates, an Epictetus has been engulfed by time! Remember this when you have to do with any man or thing whatsoever.
Were you to live three thousand years, or even thirty thousand, remember that the sole life which a man can lose is that which he is living at the moment; and furthermore, that he can have no other life except the one he loses. This means that when the longest and the shortest-lived of us come to die, their loss is precisely equal. For the passing minute is every man’s equal possession, but what has once gone by is not ours. Our loss, therefore, is limited to that one fleeting instant, since no one can lose what is already past, nor yet what is still to come—for how can he be deprived of what he does not possess?
All the cycles of creation since the beginning of time exhibit the same recurring pattern, so that it can make no difference whether you watch the identical spectacle for a hundred years, or for two hundred, or for ever.
This mortal life is a little thing, lived in a little corner of the earth; and little, too, is the longest fame to come—dependent as it is on a succession of fast-perishing little men who have no knowledge even of their own selves, much less of one long dead and gone.
The man whose heart is palpitating for fame after death does not reflect that out of all those who remember him everyone will himself soon be dead also, and in course of time the next generation after that, until in the end, after flaring and sinking by turns, the final spark of memory is quenched. Furthermore, even supposing that those who remember you were never to die at all, nor their memories to die either, yet what is that to you? Clearly, in your grave, nothing; and even in your lifetime, what is the good of praise—unless maybe to subserve some lesser design? Surely, then, you are making an inopportune rejection of what Nature has given you today, if all your mind is set on what men will say of you tomorrow.
Look down from above on the numberless herds of mankind, with their mysterious ceremonies, their divers voyagings in storm and calm, and all the chequered pattern of their comings and gatherings and goings. Go on to consider the life of bygone generations; and then the life of all those who are yet to come; and even at the present day, the life of the hordes of far-off savages. In short, reflect what multitudes there are who are ignorant of your very name; how many more will have speedily forgotten it; how many, perhaps praising you now, who will soon enough be abusing you; and that therefore remembrance, glory, and all else together are things of no worth.
—Marcus Aurelius (121–180), from Meditations
[T]o enjoy the world requires something more than mere good health and good spirits; for this world, as we all now surely know, is horrendous. “All life,” said the Buddha, “is sorrowful”; and so, indeed, it is. Life consuming life: that is the essence of its being, which is forever a becoming. “The world,” said the Buddha, “is an ever-burning fire.” And so it is. And that is what one has to affirm.
[L]et me recount now a really marvelous Hindu legend to this point, from the infinitely rich mythology of the god Shiva and his glorious world-goddess Parvati. The occasion was of a time when there came before this great divinity an audacious demon who had just overthrown the ruling gods of the world and now came to confront the highest of all with a non-negotiable demand, namely, that the god should hand over his goddess to the demon. Well, what Shiva did in reply was simply to open that mystic third eye in the middle of his forehead, and paff! a lightning bolt hit the earth, and there was suddenly there a second demon, even larger than the first. He was a great lean thing with a lion-like head, hair waving to the quarters of the world, and his nature was sheer hunger. He had been brought into being to eat up the first, and was clearly fit to do so. The first thought: “So what do I do now?” and with a very fortunate decision threw himself upon Shiva’s mercy.
Now it is a well-known theological rule that when you throw yourself on a god’s mercy the god cannot refuse to protect you; and so Shiva had now to guard and protect the first demon from the second. Which left the second, however, without meat to quell his hunger and in anguish he asked Shiva, “Whom, then, do I eat?” to which the god replied, “Well, let’s see: why not eat yourself?”
And with that, no sooner said than begun. Commencing with his feet, teeth chopping away, that grim phenomenon came right on up the line, through his own belly, on up through his chest and neck, until all that remained was a face. And the god, thereupon, was enchanted. For here at last was a perfect image of the monstrous thing that is life, which lives on itself. And to that sun-like mask, which was now all that was left of that lion-like vision of hunger, Shiva said exulting, “I shall call you ‘Face of Glory’, Kirttimukha, and you shall shine above the doors to all my temples. No one who refuses to honor and worship you will come ever to knowledge of me.”
The obvious lesson of all of which is that the first step to the knowledge of the highest divine symbol of the wonder and mystery of life is in the recognition of the monstrous nature of life and its glory in that character: the realization that this is just how it is and that it cannot and will not be changed. Those who think—and their name is legion—that they know how the universe could have been better than it is, how it would have been had they created it, without pain, without sorrow, without time, without life, are unfit for illumination. Or those who think—as do many—“Let me first correct society, then get around to myself” are barred from even the outer gate of the mansion of God’s peace. All societies are evil, sorrowful, inequitable; and so they will always be. So if you really want to help this world, what you will have to teach is how to live in it. And that no one can do who has not himself learned how to live in it in the joyful sorrow and sorrowful joy of the knowledge of life as it is. That is the meaning of the monstrous Kirttimukha “Face of Glory,” over the entrances to the sanctuaries of the god of yoga, whose bride is the goddess of life. No one can know this god and goddess who will not bow to that mask in reverence and pass humbly through.
—Joseph Campbell (1904–1987) from Myths To Live By
(Note: This is a third comment from Michael Weise, which I am posting formhim because of a technical problem.)
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THE TRUTH ABOUT LIFE
A quick test of the assertion that enjoyment outweighs pain in this
world, or that they are at any rate balanced, would be to compare the
feelings of an animal engaged in eating another with those of the animal
being eaten. . . Each individual misfortune, to be sure, seems an
exceptional occurrence; but misfortune in general is the rule.
In our early youth we sit before the life that lies ahead of us
like children sitting before the curtain in a theatre, in happy and
tense anticipation of whatever is going to appear. Luckily we do not
know what really will appear. For to him who does know, children can
sometimes seem like innocent delinquents, sentenced not to death but to
life, who have not yet discovered what their punishment will consist of.
Nonetheless, everyone desires to achieve old age, that is to say a
condition in which one can say: ‘Today it is bad, and day by day it will
get worse—until at last the worst of all arrives.’
You can also look upon our life as an episode unprofitably
disturbing the blessed calm of nothingness. In any case, even he who has
found life tolerably bearable will, the longer he lives, feel the more
clearly that on the whole it is a disappointment, nay a cheat. If two
men who were friends in youth meet in old age after the lapse of an
entire generation, the principal feeling the sight of one another,
linked as it is with recollections of earlier years, will arouse in both
will be one of total disappointment with the whole of life, which once
lay so fair before them in the rosy dawn of youth, promised so much and
performed so little. This feeling will dominate so decidedly over every
other that they will not even think it necessary to speak of it but will
silently assume it as the basis of their conversation.
If the act of procreation were neither the outcome of a desire nor
accompanied by feelings of pleasure, but a matter to be decided on the
basis of purely rational considerations, is it likely the human race
would still exist? Would each of us not rather have felt so much pity
for the coming generation as to prefer to spare it the burden of
existence, or at least not wish to take it upon himself to impose that
burden upon it in cold blood?
For the world is Hell, and men are on the one hand the tormented
souls and on the other the devils in it.
—Schopenhauer (1788–1860), from Parerga and Paralipomena
One man’s pain, one man’s wounds are of no importance, the healthy
pays no heed to what torments the sick, and if this life, that man keeps
on inheriting from man, were not short, there would be nothing more
lamentable in the whole wide world. Nature reproduces herself uniformly,
but her death may take a thousand shapes, the world does not inquire
about my goal or your last hour; and the man who does not willingly
submit to this iron fate, which threatens him, only worries himself into
his grave in helpless anger, and in fate’s maw he feels nothing;
everyone knows this, but each man likes to forget it every day, so let
me say nothing more of it. Forget that the world deceives you and that
the desire for it only engenders more desire, let nothing elude your
love or escape your knowledge. Let each man hope that time will give him
what it has never given anyone, for each man tries to be a universal
whole, and every man is at bottom nothing at all.
—August Von Platen (1796-1835), One Man’s Pain, trans. Leonard Forster
In many persons, happiness is congenital and irreclaimable.
‘Cosmic emotion’ inevitably takes in them the form of enthusiasm and
freedom. I speak not only of those who are animally happy. I mean those
who, when unhappiness is offered or proposed to them, positively refuse
to feel it, as if it were something mean and wrong. . . If, then, we
give the name of healthy-mindedness to the tendency which looks on all
things and sees that they are good, we find that we must distinguish
between a more involuntary and a more voluntary or systematic way of
being healthy-minded. In its involuntary variety, healthy-mindedness is
a way of feeling happy about things immediately. In its systematical
variety, it is an abstract way of conceiving things as good. Every
abstract way of conceiving things selects some one aspect of them as
their essence for the time being, and disregards the other aspects.
Systematic healthy-mindedness, conceiving good as the essential and
universal aspect of being, deliberately excludes evil from its field of
vision; and although, when thus nakedly stated, this might seem a
difficult feat to perform for one who is intellectually sincere with
himself and honest about facts, a little reflection shows that the
situation is too complex to lie open to so simple a criticism.
In the first place, happiness, like every other emotional state,
has blindness and insensibility to opposing facts given it as its
instinctive weapon for self-protection against disturbance. When
happiness is actually in possession, the thought of evil can no more
acquire the feeling of reality than the thought of good can gain reality
when melancholy rules. To the man actively happy, from whatever cause,
evil simply cannot then and there be believed in. He must ignore it; and
to the bystander he may then seem perversely to shut his eyes to it and
hush it up.
But more than this: the hushing of it up may, in a perfectly
candid and honest mind, grow into a deliberate religious policy, or
parti pris. Much of what we call evil is due entirely to the way men
take the phenomenon. It can so often be converted into a bracing and
tonic good by a simple change of the sufferer’s inner attitude from one
of fear to one of fight; its sting so often departs and turns into a
relish when, after vainly seeking to shun it, we agree to face about and
bear it cheerfully, that a man is simply bound in honor, with reference
to many of the facts that seem at first to disconcert his peace, to
adopt this way of escape. Refuse to admit their badness; despise their
power; ignore their presence; turn your attention the other way; and so
far as you yourself are concerned at any rate, though the facts may
still exist, their evil character exists no longer. Since you make them
evil or good by your own thoughts about them, it is the ruling of your
thoughts which proves to be your principal concern.
The deliberate adoption of an optimistic turn of mind thus makes
its entrance into philosophy. And once in, it is hard to trace its
lawful bounds. Not only does the human instinct for happiness, bent on
self-protection by ignoring, keep working in its favor, but higher inner
ideals have weighty words to say. The attitude of unhappiness is not
only painful, it is mean and ugly. What can be more base and unworthy
than the pining, puling, mumping mood, no matter by what outward ills it
may have been engendered? What is more injurious to others? What less
helpful as a way out of the difficulty? It but fastens and perpetuates
the trouble which occasioned it, and increases the total evil of the
situation. At all costs, then, we ought to reduce the sway of that mood;
we ought to scout it in ourselves and others and never show it
tolerance. But it is impossible to carry on this discipline in the
subjective sphere without zealously emphasizing the brighter and
minimizing the darker aspects of the objective sphere of things at the
same time. And thus our resolution not to indulge in misery, beginning
at a comparatively small point within ourselves, may not stop until it
has brought the entire frame of reality under a systematic conception
optimistic enough to be congenial with its needs. . . .
The systematic cultivation of healthy-mindedness as a religious
attitude is therefore consonant with important currents in human nature,
and is anything but absurd. In fact, we all do cultivate it more or
less, even when our professed theology should in consistency forbid it.
We divert our attention from disease and death as much as we can; and
the slaughter-houses and indecencies without end on which our life is
founded are huddled out of sight and never mentioned, so that the world
we recognize officially in literature and in society is a poetic fiction
far handsomer and cleaner and better than the world that really is.
The normal process of life contains moments as bad as any of those
which insane melancholy is filled with, moments in which radical evil
gets its innings and takes its solid turn. The lunatic’s visions of
horror are all drawn from the material of daily fact. Our civilization
is founded on the shambles, and every individual existence goes out in a
lonely spasm of helpless agony. If you protest, my friend, wait till you
arrive there yourself! To believe in the carnivorous reptiles of
geologic time, is hard for our imagination—they seem too much like mere
museum specimens. Yet there is no tooth in any one of those
museum-skulls that did not daily through long years of the foretime hold
fast to the body struggling in despair of some fated living victim.
Forms of horror just as dreadful to their victims, if on a smaller
spatial scale, fill the world about us to day. Here on our very hearths
and in our gardens the infernal cat plays with the panting mouse, or
holds the hot bird fluttering in her jaws. Crocodiles and rattlesnakes
and pythons are at this moment vessels of life as real as we are; their
loathsome existence fills every minute of every day that drags its
length along; and whenever they or other wild beasts clutch their living
prey, the deadly horror which an agitated melancholiac feels is the
literally right reaction on the situation.
The method of averting one’s attention from evil, and living
simply in the light of good is splendid as long as it will work. It will
work with many persons; it will work far more generally than most of us
are ready to suppose; and within the sphere of its successful operation
there is nothing to be said against it as a religious solution. But it
breaks down impotently as soon as melancholy comes; and even though one
be quite free from melancholy one’s self, there is no doubt that
healthy-mindedness is inadequate as a philosophical doctrine, because
the evil facts which it refuses positively to account for are a genuine
portion of reality; and they may after all be the best key to life’s
significance, and possibly the only openers of our eyes to the deepest
levels of truth.
—William James (1842–1910), from The Varieties of Religious Experience
[W]hen a trouble is grave no method is of much avail unless it
penetrates below the level of consciousness. There has been a great deal
of study by psychologists of the operation of the unconscious upon the
conscious, but much less of the operation of the conscious upon the
unconscious. Yet the latter is of vast importance in the subject of
mental hygiene, and must be understood if rational convictions are ever
to operate in the realm of the unconscious. This applies in particular
in the matter of worry. It is easy enough to tell oneself that such and
such a misfortune would not be so very terrible if it happened, but so
long as this remains merely a conscious conviction it will not operate
in the watches of the night or prevent the occurrence of nightmares. My
own belief is that a conscious thought can be planted in the unconscious
if a sufficient amount of vigor and intensity is put into it. Most of
the unconscious consists of what were once highly emotional conscious
thoughts, which have now become buried. It is possible to do this
process of burying deliberately, and in this way the unconscious can be
led to do a lot of useful work. . . When some misfortune threatens,
consider seriously and deliberately what is the very worst that could
possibly happen. Having looked this possible misfortune in the face,
give yourself sound reasons for thinking that after all it would be no
such very terrible disaster. Such reasons always exist, since at the
worst nothing that happens to oneself has any cosmic importance. When
you have looked for some time steadily at the worst possibility and have
said to yourself with real conviction, “Well, after all, that would not
matter so very much,” you will find that your worry diminishes to a
quite extraordinary extent. It may be necessary to repeat the process a
few times, but in the end, if you have shirked nothing in facing the
worst possible issue, you will find that your worry disappears
altogether and is replaced by a kind of exhilaration.
This is part of a more general technique for the avoidance of
fear. . . Now fear, in its most harmful form, arises where there is
some danger which we are unwilling to face. At odd moments horrible
thoughts dart into our minds; what they are depends upon the person, but
almost every-body has some kind of lurking fear. With one man it is
cancer, with another financial ruin, with a third the discovery of some
disgraceful secret; a fourth is tormented by jealous suspicions, a fifth
is haunted at night by the thought that perhaps the tales of hellfire
told him when he was young may be true. Probably all these people employ
the wrong technique for dealing with their fear; when-ever it comes into
their mind, they try to think of something else; they distract their
thoughts with amusement or work, or what not. Now every kind of fear
grows worse by not being looked at. The effort of turning away one’s
thoughts is a tribute to the horribleness of the spectre from which one
is averting one’s gaze; the proper course with every kind of fear is to
think about it rationally and calmly, but with great concentration,
until it has become completely familiar. In the end familiarity will
blunt its terrors; the whole subject will become boring, and our
thoughts will turn away from it, not, as formerly, by an effort of will,
but through mere lack of interest in the topic.. When you find yourself
inclined to brood on anything, no matter what, the best plan is always
to think about it even more than you naturally would until at last its
morbid fascination is worn off.
Courage in war has been recognized from time immemorial as an important
virtue, and a great part of the training of boys and young men has been
devoted to producing a type of character capable of fearlessness in
battle. But moral courage and intellectual courage have been much less
studied; they also, however, have their technique. Admit to yourself
every day at least one painful truth; you will find this quite as useful
as the Boy Scout’s daily kind action. Teach yourself to feel that life
would still be worth living even if you were not, as of course you are,
immeasurably superior to all your friends in virtue and in intelligence.
Exercises of this sort prolonged through several years will at last
enable you to admit facts without flinching, and will, in so doing, free
you from the empire of fear over a very large field.
—Bertrand Russell (1872–1970), from The Conquest of Happiness
Russell has never denied that in some respects a “godless” philosophy
like his has to be gloomy. The beginning of wisdom, he teaches, is
acceptance of the fact that the universe does not care about our
aspirations and that happiness and unhappiness are not meted out in
accordance with what people deserve. “The secret of happiness,” he
observed during a television program commemorating his 92d birthday, “is
to face the fact that the world is horrible.” What Russell meant by this
becomes clear from a story related by his biographer, Alan Wood. Wood’s
wife had expressed her opinion that it seemed horribly unjust that the
young men who had been killed in the war should not somehow or somewhere
have a second chance to achieve happiness. “But the universe is unjust,”
Russell replied, “the secret of happiness is to face the fact that the
world is horrible, horrible, horrible . . . you must feel it deeply
and not brush it aside . . . you must feel it right here”—hitting his
breast—“and then you can start being happy again” (Bertrand Russell: The
Passionate Sceptic, p. 237). Once a person has stopped looking at the
universe in terms of anthropomorphic demands, he can concentrate on what
is attainable and not waste his time in self-pity and cosmic complaints.
For those whose philosophy is shaped not by a respect for facts but by
their wishes Russell has always been scathing in his contempt. He
expresses his amazement that courage is praised in all types of
situations but not when it comes to forming a view about the world.
“Where traditional beliefs about the universe are concerned,” he writes,
“craven fears . . . are considered praiseworthy, while intellectual
courage, unlike courage in battle, is regarded as unfeeling and
materialistic.” Writing in 1957, he notes that this attitude is perhaps
less widespread than it was in his youth, but he adds that it “still
inspires vast systems of thought which have their root in unworthy
fears.” “I cannot believe,” he concludes, “that there can ever be any
good excuse for refusing to face the evidence in favor of something
unwelcome. It is not by delusion, however exalted, that mankind can
prosper, but only by unswerving courage in the pursuit of truth” (Fact
and Fiction, p. 46).
—Paul Edwards, from article on Russell in The Encyclopedia of Philosophy
Time is a river, the resistless flow of all created things. One thing no
sooner comes in sight than it is hurried past and another is borne
along, only to be swept away in its turn.
Reflect often upon the rapidity with which all existing things, or
things coming into existence, sweep past us and are carried away. The
great river of Being flows on without a pause; its actions for ever
changing, its causes shifting endlessly, hardly a single thing standing
still; while ever at hand looms infinity stretching behind and
before—the abyss in which all things are lost to sight. In such
conditions, surely a man were foolish to gasp and fume and fret, as
though the time of his troubling could ever be of long continuance.
We shrink from change; yet is there anything that can come into
being without it? What does Nature hold dearer, or more proper to
herself? Could you have a hot bath unless the firewood underwent some
change? Could you be nourished if the food suffered no change? Is it
possible for any useful thing to be achieved without change? Do you not
see, then, that change in yourself is of the same order, and no less
necessary to Nature?
All bodies pass through the universal substance, as it were into
and out of a rushing stream; cohering and cooperating with the whole, as
do our physical members with one another. How many a Chrysippus, a
Socrates, an Epictetus has been engulfed by time! Remember this when you
have to do with any man or thing whatsoever.
Were you to live three thousand years, or even thirty thousand,
remember that the sole life which a man can lose is that which he is
living at the moment; and furthermore, that he can have no other life
except the one he loses. This means that when the longest and the
shortest-lived of us come to die, their loss is precisely equal. For the
passing minute is every man’s equal possession, but what has once gone
by is not ours. Our loss, therefore, is limited to that one fleeting
instant, since no one can lose what is already past, nor yet what is
still to come—for how can he be deprived of what he does not possess?
All the cycles of creation since the beginning of time exhibit the
same recurring pattern, so that it can make no difference whether you
watch the identical spectacle for a hundred years, or for two hundred,
or for ever.
This mortal life is a little thing, lived in a little corner of
the earth; and little, too, is the longest fame to come—dependent as it
is on a succession of fast-perishing little men who have no knowledge
even of their own selves, much less of one long dead and gone.
The man whose heart is palpitating for fame after death does not
reflect that out of all those who remember him everyone will himself
soon be dead also, and in course of time the next generation after that,
until in the end, after flaring and sinking by turns, the final spark of
memory is quenched. Furthermore, even supposing that those who remember
you were never to die at all, nor their memories to die either, yet what
is that to you? Clearly, in your grave, nothing; and even in your
lifetime, what is the good of praise—unless maybe to subserve some
lesser design? Surely, then, you are making an inopportune rejection of
what Nature has given you today, if all your mind is set on what men
will say of you tomorrow.
Look down from above on the numberless herds of mankind, with
their mysterious ceremonies, their divers voyagings in storm and calm,
and all the chequered pattern of their comings and gatherings and
goings. Go on to consider the life of bygone generations; and then the
life of all those who are yet to come; and even at the present day, the
life of the hordes of far-off savages. In short, reflect what multitudes
there are who are ignorant of your very name; how many more will have
speedily forgotten it; how many, perhaps praising you now, who will soon
enough be abusing you; and that therefore remembrance, glory, and all
else together are things of no worth.
—Marcus Aurelius (121–180), from Meditations
[T]o enjoy the world requires something more than mere good health
and good spirits; for this world, as we all now surely know, is
horrendous. “All life,” said the Buddha, “is sorrowful”; and so, indeed,
it is. Life consuming life: that is the essence of its being, which is
forever a becoming. “The world,” said the Buddha, “is an ever-burning
fire.” And so it is. And that is what one has to affirm.
[L]et me recount now a really marvelous Hindu legend to this point, from
the infinitely rich mythology of the god Shiva and his glorious
world-goddess Parvati. The occasion was of a time when there came before
this great divinity an audacious demon who had just overthrown the
ruling gods of the world and now came to confront the highest of all
with a non-negotiable demand, namely, that the god should hand over his
goddess to the demon. Well, what Shiva did in reply was simply to open
that mystic third eye in the middle of his forehead, and paff! a
lightning bolt hit the earth, and there was suddenly there a second
demon, even larger than the first. He was a great lean thing with a
lion-like head, hair waving to the quarters of the world, and his nature
was sheer hunger. He had been brought into being to eat up the first,
and was clearly fit to do so. The first thought: “So what do I do now?”
and with a very fortunate decision threw himself upon Shiva’s mercy.
Now it is a well-known theological rule that when you throw
yourself on a god’s mercy the god cannot refuse to protect you; and so
Shiva had now to guard and protect the first demon from the second.
Which left the second, however, without meat to quell his hunger and in
anguish he asked Shiva, “Whom, then, do I eat?” to which the god
replied, “Well, let’s see: why not eat yourself?”
And with that, no sooner said than begun. Commencing with his
feet, teeth chopping away, that grim phenomenon came right on up the
line, through his own belly, on up through his chest and neck, until all
that remained was a face. And the god, thereupon, was enchanted. For
here at last was a perfect image of the monstrous thing that is life,
which lives on itself. And to that sun-like mask, which was now all that
was left of that lion-like vision of hunger, Shiva said exulting, “I
shall call you ‘Face of Glory’, Kirttimukha, and you shall shine above
the doors to all my temples. No one who refuses to honor and worship you
will come ever to knowledge of me.”
The obvious lesson of all of which is that the first step to the
knowledge of the highest divine symbol of the wonder and mystery of life
is in the recognition of the monstrous nature of life and its glory in
that character: the realization that this is just how it is and that it
cannot and will not be changed. Those who think—and their name is
legion—that they know how the universe could have been better than it
is, how it would have been had they created it, without pain, without
sorrow, without time, without life, are unfit for illumination. Or those
who think—as do many—“Let me first correct society, then get around to
myself” are barred from even the outer gate of the mansion of God’s
peace. All societies are evil, sorrowful, inequitable; and so they will
always be. So if you really want to help this world, what you will have
to teach is how to live in it. And that no one can do who has not
himself learned how to live in it in the joyful sorrow and sorrowful joy
of the knowledge of life as it is. That is the meaning of the monstrous
Kirttimukha “Face of Glory,” over the entrances to the sanctuaries of
the god of yoga, whose bride is the goddess of life. No one can know
this god and goddess who will not bow to that mask in reverence and pass
humbly through.
—Joseph Campbell (1904–1987) from Myths To Live By