Quick survey, two questions: Have you found joy? Have you made joy?
In Roberto Bolaño’s By Night in Chile, a stream of consciousness novella, the narrator says on his deathbed, “One has a moral obligation to take responsibility for one’s actions, and that includes one’s words and silences...I am responsible in every way.” Existential stuff, that.
But not a sign of the times, that is, these times when people look to blame, times when people look for scapegoats, times when victimhood has been raised to the level of an art. Pervasive irresponsibility, or lack of responsibility. By far, these are the least existential times. In victimhood, freedom dies, and personal freedom is the heart of existentialism. Joy, in times of blame, scapegoating, and victimhood, comes from the outside.
Yet, maybe even those who spent decades blaming others for this, that, and even for their own lives and who now face the threat death by a virus—yes, those who lie on their potential deathbeds—might, like Bolaño’s narrator, admit they had a personal responsibility. Some probably regret both words and silences, and maybe, too, for actions inimical to others’ wellbeing, words and actions that changed little if anything but that aimed to harm and in doing so, simply raised the mean spirit of elitism, condescension, and hate. And some might regret they did not live a life of joy, consistent joy, if not constant joy; and, maybe shared joy.
Remember reading about those existentialist philosophers who proclaimed that humans are free, but who said freedom elicits negative feelings or thoughts about life? One of those thoughts is that life can be dreadful. That it can be boring, also. Angst, Weltschmerz, ennui: All three seem to be the downside of living with personal responsibility during a finite life that is under constant threat. One can run and hide from threats, but then hiding imposes other negative thoughts that arise when contact with others is interrupted. What’s a modern existentialist to do? Certainly, the temporary distractions of modern life don’t erase an underlying ennui because it returns when the distractions are over. And certainly, the sense of confidence that defies anxiety never lasts through a dark and stormy night as winds threaten to destroy even the biggest and strongest of luxury homes. And certainly, the daily grind grinds on until it ends in some form of retirement and seeming irrelevance. All joy seems for the existentialist to be little more than a temporary distraction from life in an indifferent world. Angst, Weltschmerz, and ennui rise to the foreground of thought and feeling during those moments when people are most isolated, as in the dark of night, and, in the midst of a pandemic, in the isolation from social circles and the general public. Miss crowds nowadays? Miss hustle and bustle? Miss the rat race? Asking, “What’s next?”
I get the feeling that Sartre, Kierkegaard, and others within and on the periphery of the existentialism movement were not happy campers. Did these guys ever smile? Would they have laughed at the most existential of cartoonists, guys like Gary Larson? Really, had I known Kierkegaard, I might have said. “Soren, lighten up. You can’t wallow. Remember what you said about 1838, that in May that year you found ‘indescribable joy’? And then what, was life an uphill struggle before and after that month? Yes, I know you wrote parody, but wasn’t its purpose the denigration of those with whom you disagreed? Surely, that doesn’t equate to joy.”
Surely, even for the most brooding among us, joy can persist over days, months, and even years.
You can frame existentialists in another picture. No matter how much thinking one does, he or she can never reach an ultimate explanation of the process of living. Over millennia, thinkers haven’t produced an ultimate philosophy or psychology. I suppose Sartre acknowledged the inadequacy of others’ thinking. Philosophies always undergo some change, if not in contradiction or abandonment, then in subtle refinements that reiterate the thinking du jour in neologisms. And those who refine others’ thinking find themselves eventually questioning or redefining the “meaning of life” spiraling ever smaller into an infinity of mystery. No one seems to have the ultimate answer, not for others, and not ultimately for himself or herself. Of course, on can self-dupe, and possibly all dupe themselves. No one can ever know the final thought of the dying representative of a particular philosophy. Does, one might ask, the atheist really go into nonexistence thinking, “I’m going into nonexistence”? Does the believer die in total belief? Does the bored person die realizing, “Hey, some of that was actually fun”?
Little brings out the individual’s essence more than isolation. Questions surface about what to do next. Thoughts stream and then, like water in a fountain, run again through the pump and pipes of the mind. Isolation turns one inward, and once focused inward, turns one into a self-examiner. And in isolation, those inclined to pessimistic perspectives suffer Angst, Weltschmerz, and ennui.
Existential philosophies have adherents, but by adhering, by following, adherents give up the freedom existentialists claim as a basis for their thinking. Any negativity, like Angst, born of their philosophies or suffered by adherents, is just one path of understanding. Competing philosophies exist as all philosophies beget sub-philosophies, those refinements of which I wrote above. Even for those who think their philosophy will remain viable throughout life onto their deathbeds, there’s always the chance that another thought might supplant, might replace what seemed at one time a sure bet as the ultimate explanation of life.
There’s always that challenge of deciding between two well-known graffiti that appear on posters and T-shirts: “To be is to do” and “To do is to be,” both thoughts attributed to various philosophers, including Plato and Socrates. In isolation like that imposed by a pandemic, pessimists define their existence by the latter; optimists, by the former. True, everyone probably bounces between the two positions, but a dominance of one over the other means the difference between relegating oneself to a life of Angst, Weltschmerz, and ennui and a life that finds joy in its essence. Whereas the ancient Greeks spoke of an innate or inherent, or even an a priori essence, Sartre and kindred philosophers argued that existence precedes essence, that in existing, we define our essence. Joy, in such thinking, has to be made, not found, just as meaning has to be made, not found.
Where do you stand? Joy from the outside? Joy from the inside? Made joy? Discovered joy? Do you say like Bolaño’s narrator, “I am responsible in every way”?
In Roberto Bolaño’s By Night in Chile, a stream of consciousness novella, the narrator says on his deathbed, “One has a moral obligation to take responsibility for one’s actions, and that includes one’s words and silences...I am responsible in every way.” Existential stuff, that.
But not a sign of the times, that is, these times when people look to blame, times when people look for scapegoats, times when victimhood has been raised to the level of an art. Pervasive irresponsibility, or lack of responsibility. By far, these are the least existential times. In victimhood, freedom dies, and personal freedom is the heart of existentialism. Joy, in times of blame, scapegoating, and victimhood, comes from the outside.
Yet, maybe even those who spent decades blaming others for this, that, and even for their own lives and who now face the threat death by a virus—yes, those who lie on their potential deathbeds—might, like Bolaño’s narrator, admit they had a personal responsibility. Some probably regret both words and silences, and maybe, too, for actions inimical to others’ wellbeing, words and actions that changed little if anything but that aimed to harm and in doing so, simply raised the mean spirit of elitism, condescension, and hate. And some might regret they did not live a life of joy, consistent joy, if not constant joy; and, maybe shared joy.
Remember reading about those existentialist philosophers who proclaimed that humans are free, but who said freedom elicits negative feelings or thoughts about life? One of those thoughts is that life can be dreadful. That it can be boring, also. Angst, Weltschmerz, ennui: All three seem to be the downside of living with personal responsibility during a finite life that is under constant threat. One can run and hide from threats, but then hiding imposes other negative thoughts that arise when contact with others is interrupted. What’s a modern existentialist to do? Certainly, the temporary distractions of modern life don’t erase an underlying ennui because it returns when the distractions are over. And certainly, the sense of confidence that defies anxiety never lasts through a dark and stormy night as winds threaten to destroy even the biggest and strongest of luxury homes. And certainly, the daily grind grinds on until it ends in some form of retirement and seeming irrelevance. All joy seems for the existentialist to be little more than a temporary distraction from life in an indifferent world. Angst, Weltschmerz, and ennui rise to the foreground of thought and feeling during those moments when people are most isolated, as in the dark of night, and, in the midst of a pandemic, in the isolation from social circles and the general public. Miss crowds nowadays? Miss hustle and bustle? Miss the rat race? Asking, “What’s next?”
I get the feeling that Sartre, Kierkegaard, and others within and on the periphery of the existentialism movement were not happy campers. Did these guys ever smile? Would they have laughed at the most existential of cartoonists, guys like Gary Larson? Really, had I known Kierkegaard, I might have said. “Soren, lighten up. You can’t wallow. Remember what you said about 1838, that in May that year you found ‘indescribable joy’? And then what, was life an uphill struggle before and after that month? Yes, I know you wrote parody, but wasn’t its purpose the denigration of those with whom you disagreed? Surely, that doesn’t equate to joy.”
Surely, even for the most brooding among us, joy can persist over days, months, and even years.
You can frame existentialists in another picture. No matter how much thinking one does, he or she can never reach an ultimate explanation of the process of living. Over millennia, thinkers haven’t produced an ultimate philosophy or psychology. I suppose Sartre acknowledged the inadequacy of others’ thinking. Philosophies always undergo some change, if not in contradiction or abandonment, then in subtle refinements that reiterate the thinking du jour in neologisms. And those who refine others’ thinking find themselves eventually questioning or redefining the “meaning of life” spiraling ever smaller into an infinity of mystery. No one seems to have the ultimate answer, not for others, and not ultimately for himself or herself. Of course, on can self-dupe, and possibly all dupe themselves. No one can ever know the final thought of the dying representative of a particular philosophy. Does, one might ask, the atheist really go into nonexistence thinking, “I’m going into nonexistence”? Does the believer die in total belief? Does the bored person die realizing, “Hey, some of that was actually fun”?
Little brings out the individual’s essence more than isolation. Questions surface about what to do next. Thoughts stream and then, like water in a fountain, run again through the pump and pipes of the mind. Isolation turns one inward, and once focused inward, turns one into a self-examiner. And in isolation, those inclined to pessimistic perspectives suffer Angst, Weltschmerz, and ennui.
Existential philosophies have adherents, but by adhering, by following, adherents give up the freedom existentialists claim as a basis for their thinking. Any negativity, like Angst, born of their philosophies or suffered by adherents, is just one path of understanding. Competing philosophies exist as all philosophies beget sub-philosophies, those refinements of which I wrote above. Even for those who think their philosophy will remain viable throughout life onto their deathbeds, there’s always the chance that another thought might supplant, might replace what seemed at one time a sure bet as the ultimate explanation of life.
There’s always that challenge of deciding between two well-known graffiti that appear on posters and T-shirts: “To be is to do” and “To do is to be,” both thoughts attributed to various philosophers, including Plato and Socrates. In isolation like that imposed by a pandemic, pessimists define their existence by the latter; optimists, by the former. True, everyone probably bounces between the two positions, but a dominance of one over the other means the difference between relegating oneself to a life of Angst, Weltschmerz, and ennui and a life that finds joy in its essence. Whereas the ancient Greeks spoke of an innate or inherent, or even an a priori essence, Sartre and kindred philosophers argued that existence precedes essence, that in existing, we define our essence. Joy, in such thinking, has to be made, not found, just as meaning has to be made, not found.
Where do you stand? Joy from the outside? Joy from the inside? Made joy? Discovered joy? Do you say like Bolaño’s narrator, “I am responsible in every way”?
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