THINK
Sartre was a great novelist but I found his attempt at phenomenology too dry for comfort.
Camus on the other hand, is equally comfortable in both domains. Camus began his thesis by proclaiming that there is one question in life, and that is whether to commit suicide. If life has no meaning, then what is the point of living?
His title is apt. Sisyphus is that tragic figure in Greek mythology who was condemned to eternal toil in Hell.
He was tasked with pushing a huge rock up the slope, and as he reached the peak, the rock would roll down back to its position. Then the same toil repeats itself, for eternity. If you think about it, Sisyphus fate is a little like our daily life.
We were born, protesting and crying, without the right to be consulted. Then we will all die, crying again at leaving our loved ones. In between, there is just a huge blank for us to fill in.
Everyday, we go though the motion of living a life, a routine of going to work, eat, sleep...
We are bound by layers and layers of social norms and obligations that thwart our puny will to be ourselves.
We mortgage our freedom to our business, our family, our nation, and our tribe. We live through an entire life, without knowing who we are as individuals.
You know how modernity is.
It celebrates life, hope for tomorrow, and the greatness of the human spirit, those elements that make Hollywood movies so popular. Rambo and Rocky immediately come to mind. Nobody wants to talk about death and dying.
Yet, death is the only ultimate certainty in life. You can never get out of this life alive. The more you celebrate the human spirit, the joy of life, and the hope for tomorrow, the greater disappointment it will be when you face certain death.
This is the ultimate absurdity of human existence. This is the most fundamental alienation of our being!
The sick feeling in the realisation of this contraction has been variously described as angst or ennui, festering beneath the surface of every person’s facade of a normal life, coming back in the dark depth of night, when he is confronted with himself alone, or when he has just suffered a personal catastrophe.
Sartre used to say that we are all amateurs in this business of feeling lonely, and every man lives in quiet desperation.
For Camus, he provides the answer to his question of suicide in his book The Rebel. Life may or may not have meaning, but it is up to us to create our own meaning.
That is how existentialism got its slogan: existence before essence. For him, the act of rebellion against the absurdity of existence itself, especially through art, is the path for the absurd man to live.
“Every act of rebellion expresses a nostalgia for innocence and an appeal to the essence of being,” he wrote.
I just wonder: how many people today are closet existentialists, especially among the younger generations. People do not like to discuss such deeply sensitive subjects as the meaning of life with our friends. We do not want to be seen like freaks.
Camus’ question does not bother me any more. Do not ask me my formula, because I have lived a relatively long life to find my own answer, and my answer may not be suitable for you. You have to find your own answer.
So, what is the meaning of your life? Or is it not a relevant question for you?
Sartre was a great novelist but I found his attempt at phenomenology too dry for comfort.
Camus on the other hand, is equally comfortable in both domains. Camus began his thesis by proclaiming that there is one question in life, and that is whether to commit suicide. If life has no meaning, then what is the point of living?
His title is apt. Sisyphus is that tragic figure in Greek mythology who was condemned to eternal toil in Hell.
He was tasked with pushing a huge rock up the slope, and as he reached the peak, the rock would roll down back to its position. Then the same toil repeats itself, for eternity. If you think about it, Sisyphus fate is a little like our daily life.
We were born, protesting and crying, without the right to be consulted. Then we will all die, crying again at leaving our loved ones. In between, there is just a huge blank for us to fill in.
Everyday, we go though the motion of living a life, a routine of going to work, eat, sleep...
We are bound by layers and layers of social norms and obligations that thwart our puny will to be ourselves.
We mortgage our freedom to our business, our family, our nation, and our tribe. We live through an entire life, without knowing who we are as individuals.
You know how modernity is.
It celebrates life, hope for tomorrow, and the greatness of the human spirit, those elements that make Hollywood movies so popular. Rambo and Rocky immediately come to mind. Nobody wants to talk about death and dying.
Yet, death is the only ultimate certainty in life. You can never get out of this life alive. The more you celebrate the human spirit, the joy of life, and the hope for tomorrow, the greater disappointment it will be when you face certain death.
This is the ultimate absurdity of human existence. This is the most fundamental alienation of our being!
The sick feeling in the realisation of this contraction has been variously described as angst or ennui, festering beneath the surface of every person’s facade of a normal life, coming back in the dark depth of night, when he is confronted with himself alone, or when he has just suffered a personal catastrophe.
Sartre used to say that we are all amateurs in this business of feeling lonely, and every man lives in quiet desperation.
For Camus, he provides the answer to his question of suicide in his book The Rebel. Life may or may not have meaning, but it is up to us to create our own meaning.
That is how existentialism got its slogan: existence before essence. For him, the act of rebellion against the absurdity of existence itself, especially through art, is the path for the absurd man to live.
“Every act of rebellion expresses a nostalgia for innocence and an appeal to the essence of being,” he wrote.
I just wonder: how many people today are closet existentialists, especially among the younger generations. People do not like to discuss such deeply sensitive subjects as the meaning of life with our friends. We do not want to be seen like freaks.
Camus’ question does not bother me any more. Do not ask me my formula, because I have lived a relatively long life to find my own answer, and my answer may not be suitable for you. You have to find your own answer.
So, what is the meaning of your life? Or is it not a relevant question for you?
