Listening to the myth of Sisyphus, Camus and Hume conclude that the rational man will in all likelihood commit suicide. What kind of existence is it where one will never win, never beat the odds, never achieve?
Their next assumption surprises me more. They say that the strong man will keep rolling that rock up the hill, knowing that the rock will come down again.
Living with bipolar disorder is like rolling that rock up a hill and every time you (I) think (you) I have conquered, the rock comes down and you need to jump to get out of its way.
Living with bipolar is a fight to get to the top. To conquer circumstances and every now and again the disease.
So what should I then take away from this tale?
Maybe that the rock will come down? Maybe that I should start over and try again when that happens? Maybe I should learn from Camus and make peace with this senseless existence where I need to do the same things over and over?
In all of this, I pray that God will be close to you and to me, that He will help us to make sense of this life.
Monday, May 31, 2010
A borrowed tale (Sisyphus / Camus 2/3)
Should we, in possession of a sound mind and with complete freedom of will, kill ourselves? To an inhabitant of Britain in the early 21st century, curled up on a sofa with a glass of wine and the TV remote control within easy reach, the question sounds laughable. To a condemned man facing the gallows or firing squad, the question is perhaps even more ridiculous. However, look more closely and it becomes apparent that the entire history of Western philosophy is contained within this question. As individuals, as members of a society and as a species we seek meaning [1]. From the earliest Socratic dialogues to post-Modernist contextual analyses Western philosophy is driven by a search for meaning within the human experience: in our inner lives, and in our interactions with each other and the world. Enormously powerful religious, political and philosophical structures have been built on the foundations of this search.
For at least four thousand years the idea of a higher level of intelligence - a single benevolent God or a pantheon of deities with different characters and interests – has provided a tremendously powerful source of meaning in the everyday life of the human race. But what would be the consequences for human life if the foundations of this meaning were to crumble? If meaning derives from a particular faith, or inheres in a particular relationship, what happens if this faith is destroyed, or if this relationship is broken? The suicide implied in this question is not a response to mental illness, or to intolerable grief. It is a rational choice, made with the realisation that life has no higher meaning. If life is genuinely meaningless, why should we tolerate the pain, disappointments and sheer hard slog of our day-to-day existence? Is it not better to put a final end to our weltschmerz?
So far, this discussion has been in fairly abstract terms. It is now time to place the question in a historical and subjective context. For a variety of reasons, 19th-century Europe experienced a decline in Christian faith. As the 19th century turned into the 20th century, many Christian observers wrote of their hopes for a revival of faith, and described the new moral order that they believed would bring together all nations. From the perspective of the 21st century it is apparent that these hopes were horribly misplaced. Through mechanised and impersonal wars on a global scale, through economic depression, through brutal totalitarian regimes, the ability of traditional systems of morality and meaning to provide answers was questioned. How could science claim to represent objective progress, if what it gave the world was the machine-gun, Zyklon-B, long-range bombers and the atom bomb? How could a loving God allow the deaths of millions of soldiers in pointless battles over a few hundred yards of mud? If every event was part of some higher scheme, what sort of benevolent deity (no matter how ineffable) could condemn six million human beings to a terrifying and ultimately pointless death? As Primo Levi has pointed out: if God is omnipresent, He was in the gas chambers of Auschwitz.
This dissatisfaction with conventional morality was present on the personal, as well as philosophical, level. In the vast Western industrial and post-industrial societies, the concept of personal freedom and individuality became compromised. In the face of mass conformity – the ‘herd morality’, as Martin Heidegger described it – could each individual assert his or her own unique identity? At the start of the century an increasingly pessimistic Friedrich Nietzsche had prophesied ‘the death of God’, and the events following his prediction had for many destroyed any possibility of faith in a benevolent creator. The question of meaning was once again raised. Where could the human race look for truth, for knowledge, for some comprehension of what had happened? Religious belief provided little more than a dead end. Science and rationality seemed empty after so much incomprehensible suffering. Political and social structures provided no answers; were they not to blame, at least in part, for encouraging hatred and division? This problem – the source of meaning in a Godless universe – was at the core of existentialist theory, and was addressed directly by Albert Camus in The Myth of Sisyphus.
Existentialism is perhaps one of the most misrepresented schools of philosophy. The word alone conjures up images of sour-faced Frenchmen in black polonecks, sitting in boulevard cafes and holding forth on the pointlessness of existence whilst puffing on a Gauloise. On a more serious level, existentialism is often depicted as a bleak and nihilistic world-view, dismissing human life as meaningless and ethics as an illusion. However, even a cursory reading of the key existentialist texts does not support these criticisms. The father of existentialism, Soren Kierkegaard (1813-1855), was a fundamentalist Christian whose stated aim was ‘to go back into the monastery out of which Luther broke’ – in other words, to return to the stark, uncompromising beliefs of pre-Reformation Christianity. Although the movement later became avowedly atheistic in outlook, Kierkegaard’s ideas provided the framework in which later writers such as Camus and Sartre operated. To understand their outlook, it is therefore necessary to take at least a brief look at this structure.
Kierkegaard’s work began as a reaction to the rationalist school of Immanuel Kant and George Hegel. Opposing Kant’s notion of religious faith as an essentially rational concept, Kierkegaard claimed that faith was necessarily irrational. It could not be subject to logical analysis and proof, as this would destroy its meaning. Faith, he asserted, should be a matter of fervent devotion, a ‘leap in the dark’. True existence is not just ‘being there’. Each individual must choose his or her way of life freely, and be passionately committed to it. In asserting the primacy of the individual and their free choice, Kierkegaard also created a notion of ‘subjective truth’ [2]. The ethical choices that confront humans on a day-to-day basis are not accessible to reason and cannot be shown to have ‘true’ or ‘false’ answers. Such choices cannot therefore be made on rational grounds, but rather should be resolutions in the face of the objectively unknown.
Even this very brief description of Kierkegaard’s existentialism demonstrates the great importance he attributed to meaning and morality. Existentialism does not assert that all choices are meaningless: rather, it insists that individuals take complete responsibility for their choices, and do not attempt to disguise their motives with false claims of rationality. Unlike so many western philosophers, Kierkegaard insists on the primacy of feelings, of angst and irrationality, of living life passionately despite the unavoidability of uncertainty. Paradoxically, despite Kierkegaard’s intense Christianity there is nothing within his philosophy that demands religious belief. An existentialist world-view is as capable of accommodating the most ardent believer as it is the most dutiful sceptic.
This theme of existentialism was developed not only in philosophy, but also in some of the most important literature of the period. In The Brothers Karamazov (1880) Fyodor Dostoyevsky explored the tensions between the conservative Russian ruling classes and a younger generation coming to terms with the irrationality of everyday life. Much of Leo Tolstoy’s writings (in particular the monumental War and Peace (1869)) are suffused with a sense of absurdity: he portrays the human race as a mass of isolated individuals cast adrift in a world that neither loves nor hates them, but rather is completely indifferent to their sufferings. In the early decades of the 20th century existentialism as a philosophy developed in this direction. Kierkegaard’s profound belief in the existence of a benevolent creator was differentiated from the ‘leap of faith’ necessary to imbue life with meaning.
Any history of existentialism in the 20th century must have as a central theme the influence of world events on the development of this philosophy. I raised this point at the start of the essay, but it is worth restating it here. Existentialism is frequently described as a philosophy of ‘response’: the response of a species that desires meaning and comprehension to the revelation that the Universe is ultimately devoid of higher meaning and order. However, it must also be seen as a response on a practical, as well as abstract, level to the political and military crises of the time in which it developed. The two most important 20th-century existentialist writers, Jean-Paul Sartre and Albert Camus, lived under Nazi occupation for much of the Second World War (in Paris and Algeria respectively). Rather than dismiss what they saw around them as anomalies in an otherwise rational and ordered universe, they saw the Nazi atrocities as expressions of human choice – the choice to act immorally [3].
It was in the bleakest years of the Second World War – 1942 and 1943 – that the most influential Existentialist texts were published. Sartre’s Being and Time (1943) is a remarkable statement of optimism and human freedom in the midst of meaninglessness and despair. Like Kierkegaard, Sartre emphasized the importance of individual uniqueness rather than mere mediocrity and conformity. An individual, he argued, is always free to choose (the only freedom he lacks is to not choose), and can always ‘negate’ (or reject) his own characteristics and those of the world he lives in. The ‘meaning of life’ is not something bestowed upon the human race by a higher power, but is created in our actions, our choices and, most importantly, in our commitment to the choices we make. However, this freedom is tempered by a great responsibility: the responsibility to stand by the choices we make and to remain ‘authentic’ or true to ourselves. It is in making choices, in asserting our ultimate freedom in the face of an uncaring world, that human life can be lived in its fullest and richest sense.
Sartre also introduced the notion of angst into his philosophy. Critics of existentialism have frequently taken angst to represent the ultimate pointlessness of life, and used it as an example of the pessimistic nature of existentialism. A reading of Being and Time shows the reverse to be true. Angst (or weltschmerz – world pain) is an idea employed by many different philosophies under several guises. In Christianity it represents the vestiges of original sin within the human soul. Life is ‘nasty, brutish and short’ (in the words of Thomas Hobbes) because human nature is essentially sinful, and needs to be saved in order to be happy and enjoy eternal life. Sartre hated the concept of original sin. He argued that angst is the natural response of the individual to the realisation that his search for higher meaning and order in the universe is ultimately pointless. However, this is not a reason to despair. Angst is a symptom of freedom, a powerful demonstration that life is being lived in complete self-awareness, and should be accepted and celebrated.
Camus’ first major work, L’Etranger (1942), proposed a rather more defiant model of existentialism. Whilst adopting Sartre’s essentially optimistic view of existence, Camus went a stage further. He argued that, although human life could be made meaningful in the way that Sartre described, death made all actions ultimately futile. The only response was to accept that we are all ‘condemned to death’. Once this occurred every individual should rebel against this ‘ultimate negation’, throw themselves into life and with every choice affirm their existence in the face of death. Camus described this human battle with ultimate meaninglessness and indifference as the Absurd.
The Myth of Sisyphus, also published in 1942, is perhaps the clearest statement of Camus’ philosophy of the Absurd. In it, Camus directly addressed the question that began this essay: should we commit suicide? His answer to the question is a powerful argument for optimism, and a complex rhetorical and polemical rejection of the need for faith in a higher power. Unlike many works of philosophy, Camus is overwhelmingly concerned with the impact of his ideas on everyday life. His existentialism is essentially a way to live, a mode of thinking for coping with the harsh and confusing realities of everyday life. But it is also an elegant and minimalist piece of theory, rejecting abstruse philosophical concepts in favour of the basic truths of human existence.
Camus begins with the image of Sisyphus. A mythical King of Corinth, Sisyphus scorned the Gods and escaped from the Underworld. He was condemned to spend all of eternity pushing a rock up a mountain, only for it to roll back down to the bottom. There was no end in sight for Sisyphus, no respite and no sense that what he was doing had any meaning. This is the metaphor that Camus chooses for humanity. If we discard the notion of God, Heaven and Hell, we are left with a titanic and lifelong struggle that, ultimately, we are condemned to lose. Death comes not as a release from our struggle, but as a negation of all that we accomplish by our efforts. Against all this, Camus asks, in the face of death and in the full knowledge that we are defeated before we begin, can we be happy?
We can. Life is not absurd; the Absurd is life. This painful and futile struggle that we are all condemned to participate in (for, as Sartre pointed out, the only choice that is denied to us is to opt out) is all that we know. It is the only reality we have; all else is faith. In this world, Camus’ individual is forced to confront the limitations of his knowledge:
I don’t know whether this world has a meaning that transcends it. But I know that I cannot know that meaning and that it is impossible for me just now to know it. What can a meaning outside my condition mean to me? I can understand only in human terms… I do not want to found anything on the incomprehensible. I want to know whether I can live with what I know and with that alone.’ [4]
No invocation of an Absolute Reality; no Categorical Imperatives or Creators. Camus is determined to use only what he can know to answer his question. There can be no appeal to religious faith, based as it is on centuries of tradition and dogma. It is at this point that he finally parts company with the religious existentialism of Kierkegaard. Where Kierkegaard finds comfort in the notion of a benevolent Creator, Camus sees nothing but nostalgia, a fond memory of the illusion of order.
Awareness of the Absurd is a one-way street. There can be no ‘leap of faith’, no return to belief: to do so would be self-delusory. Indeed, Camus describes religious belief in the face of the Absurd as ‘philosophical suicide’. Consistency, authenticity, self-awareness – these form the basis of the Absurd life. Another quote from Primo Levi (himself a lifelong atheist) provides an eloquent example of what Camus is driving at. In October 1944 Levi was arrested and sent to Auschwitz. As the camp doctor examined him, deciding whether he would be gassed or sent to work, Levi found himself tempted to pray for assistance:
A prayer under these conditions would not only have been absurd (what rights could I claim? And from whom?) but blasphemous, obscene, laden with the greatest impiety of which a non-believer is capable. I resisted the temptation: I knew that otherwise were I to survive, I would have to be ashamed of it. [5]
Man is therefore presented with two choices. He can reject life and kill himself; but in doing so he allows both Absurd life and meaningless death to triumph over him. Or he can become a rebel in all senses of the word, constantly rejecting death in the complete knowledge that he will one day die. At this point Camus moves from the metaphorical language of rebellion to a more practical discussion of self-awareness in everyday life. The mechanical, repetitive nature of life in industrial society contains for Camus both tragedy and comedy. Seen from within such an existence is tragic, with no room for individual expression and no higher meaning than day-to-day survival. From the outside - from the perspective of one living the Absurd life - a repetitive existence is comic: a meaaningless mechanical dumb-show. By recognising life as comic, by incorporating it into the Absurd, one can escape the endless tragic repetitiveness.
A few brief paragraphs can give only a flavour of Camus’ arguments in The Myth of Sisyphus. In addition to the tragicomic nature of everyday existence he examines the Absurd elements of various lives: the actor, the conqueror, the writer, the seducer and so on. Creativity is for Camus a very particular and intense form of rebellion; the fruits of the creative life provide the only possibility of even limited immortality. However, he acknowledges that most individuals simply cannot devote their lives to art or literature. To struggle is sufficient. An Absurd hero is not a warrior or a poet, but an ordinary individual who accepts the inevitability of death and yet fights it with all his power:
I leave Sisyphus at the foot of the mountain! One always finds one’s burden again. But Sisyphus teaches the higher fidelity that negates the gods and raises rocks. He, too, concludes that all is well. This universe henceforth without a master seems to him neither sterile nor futile. Each atom of that stone, each mineral flake of that night-filled mountain, in itself forms a world. The struggle towards the heights is enough to fill a man’s heart. One must imagine Sisyphus happy. [6]
What Camus produced in The Myth of Sisyphus was perhaps the most uncompromising and individual atheist polemic of the 20th century. As such, it has found many critics. Some have argued that it proposes little more than an inverted system of faith, riven with contradictions and quasi-religious dogma. Others take exception to Camus’ rejection of rationality as a means of understanding everyday life. Perhaps most significantly, the uncertain and apparently irrational world in which Camus wrote has been replaced by one that is, at least in the short term, more stable. In the affluent and self-satisfied West of the early 21st century it is difficult to conceive of life as a consuming and passionate struggle against a meaningless death.
Despite these criticisms, The Myth of Sisyphus still repays generously the effort involved in reading it. As a historical document it displays the astonishing degree to which philosophy could flourish under a repressive occupation. On a more personal level, it is a fascinating journey into the mind of an articulate young man confronted with the realisation that his knowledge of the world is extremely limited. More than that, it is a powerful assertion of human freedom, and a command to the individual to take responsibility for the course of his life. Perhaps most exceptionally, The Myth of Sisyphus is a piece of literature with its roots in practical experience, rather than a series of abstract, quasi-mathematical syllogisms. The way in which individuals make their lives meaningful is ultimately a personal, subjective choice, and Camus’ work is an elegant and fiercely intelligent contribution to this subject.
For at least four thousand years the idea of a higher level of intelligence - a single benevolent God or a pantheon of deities with different characters and interests – has provided a tremendously powerful source of meaning in the everyday life of the human race. But what would be the consequences for human life if the foundations of this meaning were to crumble? If meaning derives from a particular faith, or inheres in a particular relationship, what happens if this faith is destroyed, or if this relationship is broken? The suicide implied in this question is not a response to mental illness, or to intolerable grief. It is a rational choice, made with the realisation that life has no higher meaning. If life is genuinely meaningless, why should we tolerate the pain, disappointments and sheer hard slog of our day-to-day existence? Is it not better to put a final end to our weltschmerz?
So far, this discussion has been in fairly abstract terms. It is now time to place the question in a historical and subjective context. For a variety of reasons, 19th-century Europe experienced a decline in Christian faith. As the 19th century turned into the 20th century, many Christian observers wrote of their hopes for a revival of faith, and described the new moral order that they believed would bring together all nations. From the perspective of the 21st century it is apparent that these hopes were horribly misplaced. Through mechanised and impersonal wars on a global scale, through economic depression, through brutal totalitarian regimes, the ability of traditional systems of morality and meaning to provide answers was questioned. How could science claim to represent objective progress, if what it gave the world was the machine-gun, Zyklon-B, long-range bombers and the atom bomb? How could a loving God allow the deaths of millions of soldiers in pointless battles over a few hundred yards of mud? If every event was part of some higher scheme, what sort of benevolent deity (no matter how ineffable) could condemn six million human beings to a terrifying and ultimately pointless death? As Primo Levi has pointed out: if God is omnipresent, He was in the gas chambers of Auschwitz.
This dissatisfaction with conventional morality was present on the personal, as well as philosophical, level. In the vast Western industrial and post-industrial societies, the concept of personal freedom and individuality became compromised. In the face of mass conformity – the ‘herd morality’, as Martin Heidegger described it – could each individual assert his or her own unique identity? At the start of the century an increasingly pessimistic Friedrich Nietzsche had prophesied ‘the death of God’, and the events following his prediction had for many destroyed any possibility of faith in a benevolent creator. The question of meaning was once again raised. Where could the human race look for truth, for knowledge, for some comprehension of what had happened? Religious belief provided little more than a dead end. Science and rationality seemed empty after so much incomprehensible suffering. Political and social structures provided no answers; were they not to blame, at least in part, for encouraging hatred and division? This problem – the source of meaning in a Godless universe – was at the core of existentialist theory, and was addressed directly by Albert Camus in The Myth of Sisyphus.
Existentialism is perhaps one of the most misrepresented schools of philosophy. The word alone conjures up images of sour-faced Frenchmen in black polonecks, sitting in boulevard cafes and holding forth on the pointlessness of existence whilst puffing on a Gauloise. On a more serious level, existentialism is often depicted as a bleak and nihilistic world-view, dismissing human life as meaningless and ethics as an illusion. However, even a cursory reading of the key existentialist texts does not support these criticisms. The father of existentialism, Soren Kierkegaard (1813-1855), was a fundamentalist Christian whose stated aim was ‘to go back into the monastery out of which Luther broke’ – in other words, to return to the stark, uncompromising beliefs of pre-Reformation Christianity. Although the movement later became avowedly atheistic in outlook, Kierkegaard’s ideas provided the framework in which later writers such as Camus and Sartre operated. To understand their outlook, it is therefore necessary to take at least a brief look at this structure.
Kierkegaard’s work began as a reaction to the rationalist school of Immanuel Kant and George Hegel. Opposing Kant’s notion of religious faith as an essentially rational concept, Kierkegaard claimed that faith was necessarily irrational. It could not be subject to logical analysis and proof, as this would destroy its meaning. Faith, he asserted, should be a matter of fervent devotion, a ‘leap in the dark’. True existence is not just ‘being there’. Each individual must choose his or her way of life freely, and be passionately committed to it. In asserting the primacy of the individual and their free choice, Kierkegaard also created a notion of ‘subjective truth’ [2]. The ethical choices that confront humans on a day-to-day basis are not accessible to reason and cannot be shown to have ‘true’ or ‘false’ answers. Such choices cannot therefore be made on rational grounds, but rather should be resolutions in the face of the objectively unknown.
Even this very brief description of Kierkegaard’s existentialism demonstrates the great importance he attributed to meaning and morality. Existentialism does not assert that all choices are meaningless: rather, it insists that individuals take complete responsibility for their choices, and do not attempt to disguise their motives with false claims of rationality. Unlike so many western philosophers, Kierkegaard insists on the primacy of feelings, of angst and irrationality, of living life passionately despite the unavoidability of uncertainty. Paradoxically, despite Kierkegaard’s intense Christianity there is nothing within his philosophy that demands religious belief. An existentialist world-view is as capable of accommodating the most ardent believer as it is the most dutiful sceptic.
This theme of existentialism was developed not only in philosophy, but also in some of the most important literature of the period. In The Brothers Karamazov (1880) Fyodor Dostoyevsky explored the tensions between the conservative Russian ruling classes and a younger generation coming to terms with the irrationality of everyday life. Much of Leo Tolstoy’s writings (in particular the monumental War and Peace (1869)) are suffused with a sense of absurdity: he portrays the human race as a mass of isolated individuals cast adrift in a world that neither loves nor hates them, but rather is completely indifferent to their sufferings. In the early decades of the 20th century existentialism as a philosophy developed in this direction. Kierkegaard’s profound belief in the existence of a benevolent creator was differentiated from the ‘leap of faith’ necessary to imbue life with meaning.
Any history of existentialism in the 20th century must have as a central theme the influence of world events on the development of this philosophy. I raised this point at the start of the essay, but it is worth restating it here. Existentialism is frequently described as a philosophy of ‘response’: the response of a species that desires meaning and comprehension to the revelation that the Universe is ultimately devoid of higher meaning and order. However, it must also be seen as a response on a practical, as well as abstract, level to the political and military crises of the time in which it developed. The two most important 20th-century existentialist writers, Jean-Paul Sartre and Albert Camus, lived under Nazi occupation for much of the Second World War (in Paris and Algeria respectively). Rather than dismiss what they saw around them as anomalies in an otherwise rational and ordered universe, they saw the Nazi atrocities as expressions of human choice – the choice to act immorally [3].
It was in the bleakest years of the Second World War – 1942 and 1943 – that the most influential Existentialist texts were published. Sartre’s Being and Time (1943) is a remarkable statement of optimism and human freedom in the midst of meaninglessness and despair. Like Kierkegaard, Sartre emphasized the importance of individual uniqueness rather than mere mediocrity and conformity. An individual, he argued, is always free to choose (the only freedom he lacks is to not choose), and can always ‘negate’ (or reject) his own characteristics and those of the world he lives in. The ‘meaning of life’ is not something bestowed upon the human race by a higher power, but is created in our actions, our choices and, most importantly, in our commitment to the choices we make. However, this freedom is tempered by a great responsibility: the responsibility to stand by the choices we make and to remain ‘authentic’ or true to ourselves. It is in making choices, in asserting our ultimate freedom in the face of an uncaring world, that human life can be lived in its fullest and richest sense.
Sartre also introduced the notion of angst into his philosophy. Critics of existentialism have frequently taken angst to represent the ultimate pointlessness of life, and used it as an example of the pessimistic nature of existentialism. A reading of Being and Time shows the reverse to be true. Angst (or weltschmerz – world pain) is an idea employed by many different philosophies under several guises. In Christianity it represents the vestiges of original sin within the human soul. Life is ‘nasty, brutish and short’ (in the words of Thomas Hobbes) because human nature is essentially sinful, and needs to be saved in order to be happy and enjoy eternal life. Sartre hated the concept of original sin. He argued that angst is the natural response of the individual to the realisation that his search for higher meaning and order in the universe is ultimately pointless. However, this is not a reason to despair. Angst is a symptom of freedom, a powerful demonstration that life is being lived in complete self-awareness, and should be accepted and celebrated.
Camus’ first major work, L’Etranger (1942), proposed a rather more defiant model of existentialism. Whilst adopting Sartre’s essentially optimistic view of existence, Camus went a stage further. He argued that, although human life could be made meaningful in the way that Sartre described, death made all actions ultimately futile. The only response was to accept that we are all ‘condemned to death’. Once this occurred every individual should rebel against this ‘ultimate negation’, throw themselves into life and with every choice affirm their existence in the face of death. Camus described this human battle with ultimate meaninglessness and indifference as the Absurd.
The Myth of Sisyphus, also published in 1942, is perhaps the clearest statement of Camus’ philosophy of the Absurd. In it, Camus directly addressed the question that began this essay: should we commit suicide? His answer to the question is a powerful argument for optimism, and a complex rhetorical and polemical rejection of the need for faith in a higher power. Unlike many works of philosophy, Camus is overwhelmingly concerned with the impact of his ideas on everyday life. His existentialism is essentially a way to live, a mode of thinking for coping with the harsh and confusing realities of everyday life. But it is also an elegant and minimalist piece of theory, rejecting abstruse philosophical concepts in favour of the basic truths of human existence.
Camus begins with the image of Sisyphus. A mythical King of Corinth, Sisyphus scorned the Gods and escaped from the Underworld. He was condemned to spend all of eternity pushing a rock up a mountain, only for it to roll back down to the bottom. There was no end in sight for Sisyphus, no respite and no sense that what he was doing had any meaning. This is the metaphor that Camus chooses for humanity. If we discard the notion of God, Heaven and Hell, we are left with a titanic and lifelong struggle that, ultimately, we are condemned to lose. Death comes not as a release from our struggle, but as a negation of all that we accomplish by our efforts. Against all this, Camus asks, in the face of death and in the full knowledge that we are defeated before we begin, can we be happy?
We can. Life is not absurd; the Absurd is life. This painful and futile struggle that we are all condemned to participate in (for, as Sartre pointed out, the only choice that is denied to us is to opt out) is all that we know. It is the only reality we have; all else is faith. In this world, Camus’ individual is forced to confront the limitations of his knowledge:
I don’t know whether this world has a meaning that transcends it. But I know that I cannot know that meaning and that it is impossible for me just now to know it. What can a meaning outside my condition mean to me? I can understand only in human terms… I do not want to found anything on the incomprehensible. I want to know whether I can live with what I know and with that alone.’ [4]
No invocation of an Absolute Reality; no Categorical Imperatives or Creators. Camus is determined to use only what he can know to answer his question. There can be no appeal to religious faith, based as it is on centuries of tradition and dogma. It is at this point that he finally parts company with the religious existentialism of Kierkegaard. Where Kierkegaard finds comfort in the notion of a benevolent Creator, Camus sees nothing but nostalgia, a fond memory of the illusion of order.
Awareness of the Absurd is a one-way street. There can be no ‘leap of faith’, no return to belief: to do so would be self-delusory. Indeed, Camus describes religious belief in the face of the Absurd as ‘philosophical suicide’. Consistency, authenticity, self-awareness – these form the basis of the Absurd life. Another quote from Primo Levi (himself a lifelong atheist) provides an eloquent example of what Camus is driving at. In October 1944 Levi was arrested and sent to Auschwitz. As the camp doctor examined him, deciding whether he would be gassed or sent to work, Levi found himself tempted to pray for assistance:
A prayer under these conditions would not only have been absurd (what rights could I claim? And from whom?) but blasphemous, obscene, laden with the greatest impiety of which a non-believer is capable. I resisted the temptation: I knew that otherwise were I to survive, I would have to be ashamed of it. [5]
Man is therefore presented with two choices. He can reject life and kill himself; but in doing so he allows both Absurd life and meaningless death to triumph over him. Or he can become a rebel in all senses of the word, constantly rejecting death in the complete knowledge that he will one day die. At this point Camus moves from the metaphorical language of rebellion to a more practical discussion of self-awareness in everyday life. The mechanical, repetitive nature of life in industrial society contains for Camus both tragedy and comedy. Seen from within such an existence is tragic, with no room for individual expression and no higher meaning than day-to-day survival. From the outside - from the perspective of one living the Absurd life - a repetitive existence is comic: a meaaningless mechanical dumb-show. By recognising life as comic, by incorporating it into the Absurd, one can escape the endless tragic repetitiveness.
A few brief paragraphs can give only a flavour of Camus’ arguments in The Myth of Sisyphus. In addition to the tragicomic nature of everyday existence he examines the Absurd elements of various lives: the actor, the conqueror, the writer, the seducer and so on. Creativity is for Camus a very particular and intense form of rebellion; the fruits of the creative life provide the only possibility of even limited immortality. However, he acknowledges that most individuals simply cannot devote their lives to art or literature. To struggle is sufficient. An Absurd hero is not a warrior or a poet, but an ordinary individual who accepts the inevitability of death and yet fights it with all his power:
I leave Sisyphus at the foot of the mountain! One always finds one’s burden again. But Sisyphus teaches the higher fidelity that negates the gods and raises rocks. He, too, concludes that all is well. This universe henceforth without a master seems to him neither sterile nor futile. Each atom of that stone, each mineral flake of that night-filled mountain, in itself forms a world. The struggle towards the heights is enough to fill a man’s heart. One must imagine Sisyphus happy. [6]
What Camus produced in The Myth of Sisyphus was perhaps the most uncompromising and individual atheist polemic of the 20th century. As such, it has found many critics. Some have argued that it proposes little more than an inverted system of faith, riven with contradictions and quasi-religious dogma. Others take exception to Camus’ rejection of rationality as a means of understanding everyday life. Perhaps most significantly, the uncertain and apparently irrational world in which Camus wrote has been replaced by one that is, at least in the short term, more stable. In the affluent and self-satisfied West of the early 21st century it is difficult to conceive of life as a consuming and passionate struggle against a meaningless death.
Despite these criticisms, The Myth of Sisyphus still repays generously the effort involved in reading it. As a historical document it displays the astonishing degree to which philosophy could flourish under a repressive occupation. On a more personal level, it is a fascinating journey into the mind of an articulate young man confronted with the realisation that his knowledge of the world is extremely limited. More than that, it is a powerful assertion of human freedom, and a command to the individual to take responsibility for the course of his life. Perhaps most exceptionally, The Myth of Sisyphus is a piece of literature with its roots in practical experience, rather than a series of abstract, quasi-mathematical syllogisms. The way in which individuals make their lives meaningful is ultimately a personal, subjective choice, and Camus’ work is an elegant and fiercely intelligent contribution to this subject.
A borrowed tale (Sisyphus / Camus 1/3)
The gods had condemned Sisyphus to ceaselessly rolling a rock to the top of a mountain, whence the stone would fall back of its own weight. They had thought with some reason that there is no more dreadful punishment than futile and hopeless labor.
If one believes Homer, Sisyphus was the wisest and most prudent of mortals. According to another tradition, however, he was disposed to practice the profession of highwayman. I see no contradiction in this. Opinions differ as to the reasons why he became the futile laborer of the underworld. To begin with, he is accused of a certain levity in regard to the gods. He stole their secrets. Egina, the daughter of Esopus, was carried off by Jupiter. The father was shocked by that disappearance and complained to Sisyphus. He, who knew of the abduction, offered to tell about it on condition that Esopus would give water to the citadel of Corinth. To the celestial thunderbolts he preferred the benediction of water. He was punished for this in the underworld. Homer tells us also that Sisyphus had put Death in chains. Pluto could not endure the sight of his deserted, silent empire. He dispatched the god of war, who liberated Death from the hands of her conqueror.
It is said that Sisyphus, being near to death, rashly wanted to test his wife's love. He ordered her to cast his unburied body into the middle of the public square. Sisyphus woke up in the underworld. And there, annoyed by an obedience so contrary to human love, he obtained from Pluto permission to return to earth in order to chastise his wife. But when he had seen again the face of this world, enjoyed water and sun, warm stones and the sea, he no longer wanted to go back to the infernal darkness. Recalls, signs of anger, warnings were of no avail. Many years more he lived facing the curve of the gulf, the sparkling sea, and the smiles of earth. A decree of the gods was necessary. Mercury came and seized the impudent man by the collar and, snatching him from his joys, lead him forcibly back to the underworld, where his rock was ready for him.
You have already grasped that Sisyphus is the absurd hero. He is, as much through his passions as through his torture. His scorn of the gods, his hatred of death, and his passion for life won him that unspeakable penalty in which the whole being is exerted toward accomplishing nothing. This is the price that must be paid for the passions of this earth. Nothing is told us about Sisyphus in the underworld. Myths are made for the imagination to breathe life into them. As for this myth, one sees merely the whole effort of a body straining to raise the huge stone, to roll it, and push it up a slope a hundred times over; one sees the face screwed up, the cheek tight against the stone, the shoulder bracing the clay-covered mass, the foot wedging it, the fresh start with arms outstretched, the wholly human security of two earth-clotted hands. At the very end of his long effort measured by skyless space and time without depth, the purpose is achieved. Then Sisyphus watches the stone rush down in a few moments toward that lower world whence he will have to push it up again toward the summit. He goes back down to the plain.
It is during that return, that pause, that Sisyphus interests me. A face that toils so close to stones is already stone itself! I see that man going back down with a heavy yet measured step toward the torment of which he will never know the end. That hour like a breathing-space which returns as surely as his suffering, that is the hour of consciousness. At each of those moments when he leaves the heights and gradually sinks toward the lairs of the gods, he is superior to his fate. He is stronger than his rock.
If this myth is tragic, that is because its hero is conscious. Where would his torture be, indeed, if at every step the hope of succeeding upheld him? The workman of today works everyday in his life at the same tasks, and his fate is no less absurd. But it is tragic only at the rare moments when it becomes conscious. Sisyphus, proletarian of the gods, powerless and rebellious, knows the whole extent of his wretched condition: it is what he thinks of during his descent. The lucidity that was to constitute his torture at the same time crowns his victory. There is no fate that can not be surmounted by scorn.
If the descent is thus sometimes performed in sorrow, it can also take place in joy. This word is not too much. Again I fancy Sisyphus returning toward his rock, and the sorrow was in the beginning. When the images of earth cling too tightly to memory, when the call of happiness becomes too insistent, it happens that melancholy arises in man's heart: this is the rock's victory, this is the rock itself. The boundless grief is too heavy to bear. These are our nights of Gethsemane. But crushing truths perish from being acknowledged. Thus, Edipus at the outset obeys fate without knowing it. But from the moment he knows, his tragedy begins. Yet at the same moment, blind and desperate, he realizes that the only bond linking him to the world is the cool hand of a girl. Then a tremendous remark rings out: "Despite so many ordeals, my advanced age and the nobility of my soul make me conclude that all is well." Sophocles' Edipus, like Dostoevsky's Kirilov, thus gives the recipe for the absurd victory. Ancient wisdom confirms modern heroism.
One does not discover the absurd without being tempted to write a manual of happiness. "What!---by such narrow ways--?" There is but one world, however. Happiness and the absurd are two sons of the same earth. They are inseparable. It would be a mistake to say that happiness necessarily springs from the absurd. discovery. It happens as well that the felling of the absurd springs from happiness. "I conclude that all is well," says Edipus, and that remark is sacred. It echoes in the wild and limited universe of man. It teaches that all is not, has not been, exhausted. It drives out of this world a god who had come into it with dissatisfaction and a preference for futile suffering. It makes of fate a human matter, which must be settled among men.
All Sisyphus' silent joy is contained therein. His fate belongs to him. His rock is a thing Likewise, the absurd man, when he contemplates his torment, silences all the idols. In the universe suddenly restored to its silence, the myriad wondering little voices of the earth rise up. Unconscious, secret calls, invitations from all the faces, they are the necessary reverse and price of victory. There is no sun without shadow, and it is essential to know the night. The absurd man says yes and his efforts will henceforth be unceasing. If there is a personal fate, there is no higher destiny, or at least there is, but one which he concludes is inevitable and despicable. For the rest, he knows himself to be the master of his days. At that subtle moment when man glances backward over his life, Sisyphus returning toward his rock, in that slight pivoting he contemplates that series of unrelated actions which become his fate, created by him, combined under his memory's eye and soon sealed by his death. Thus, convinced of the wholly human origin of all that is human, a blind man eager to see who knows that the night has no end, he is still on the go. The rock is still rolling.
I leave Sisyphus at the foot of the mountain! One always finds one's burden again. But Sisyphus teaches the higher fidelity that negates the gods and raises rocks. He too concludes that all is well. This universe henceforth without a master seems to him neither sterile nor futile. Each atom of that stone, each mineral flake of that night filled mountain, in itself forms a world. The struggle itself toward the heights is enough to fill a man's heart. One must imagine Sisyphus happy.
---Albert Camus
The central concern of The Myth of Sisyphus is what Camus calls "the absurd." Camus claims that there is a fundamental conflict between what we want from the universe (whether it be meaning, order, or reasons) and what we find in the universe (formless chaos). We will never find in life itself the meaning that we want to find. Either we will discover that meaning through a leap of faith, by placing our hopes in a God beyond this world, or we will conclude that life is meaningless. Camus opens the essay by asking if this latter conclusion that life is meaningless necessarily leads one to commit suicide. If life has no meaning, does that mean life is not worth living? If that were the case, we would have no option but to make a leap of faith or to commit suicide, says Camus. Camus is interested in pursuing a third possibility: that we can accept and live in a world devoid of meaning or purpose.
The absurd is a contradiction that cannot be reconciled, and any attempt to reconcile this contradiction is simply an attempt to escape from it: facing the absurd is struggling against it. Camus claims that existentialist philosophers such as Kierkegaard, Chestov, and Jaspers, and phenomenologists such as Husserl, all confront the contradiction of the absurd but then try to escape from it. Existentialists find no meaning or order in existence and then attempt to find some sort of transcendence or meaning in this very meaninglessness.
Living with the absurd, Camus suggests, is a matter of facing this fundamental contradiction and maintaining constant awareness of it. Facing the absurd does not entail suicide, but, on the contrary, allows us to live life to its fullest.
Camus identifies three characteristics of the absurd life: revolt (we must not accept any answer or reconciliation in our struggle), freedom (we are absolutely free to think and behave as we choose), and passion (we must pursue a life of rich and diverse experiences).
Camus gives four examples of the absurd life: the seducer, who pursues the passions of the moment; the actor, who compresses the passions of hundreds of lives into a stage career; the conqueror, or rebel, whose political struggle focuses his energies; and the artist, who creates entire worlds. Absurd art does not try to explain experience, but simply describes it. It presents a certain worldview that deals with particular matters rather than aiming for universal themes.
The book ends with a discussion of the myth of Sisyphus, who, according to the Greek myth, was punished for all eternity to roll a rock up a mountain only to have it roll back down to the bottom when he reaches the top. Camus claims that Sisyphus is the ideal absurd hero and that his punishment is representative of the human condition: Sisyphus must struggle perpetually and without hope of success. So long as he accepts that there is nothing more to life than this absurd struggle, then he can find happiness in it, says Camus.
Camus appends his essay with a discussion of the works of Franz Kafka. He ultimately concludes that Kafka is an existentialist, who, like Kierkegaard, chooses to make a leap of faith rather than accept his absurd condition. However, Camus admires Kafka for expressing humanity's absurd predicament so perfectly.
If one believes Homer, Sisyphus was the wisest and most prudent of mortals. According to another tradition, however, he was disposed to practice the profession of highwayman. I see no contradiction in this. Opinions differ as to the reasons why he became the futile laborer of the underworld. To begin with, he is accused of a certain levity in regard to the gods. He stole their secrets. Egina, the daughter of Esopus, was carried off by Jupiter. The father was shocked by that disappearance and complained to Sisyphus. He, who knew of the abduction, offered to tell about it on condition that Esopus would give water to the citadel of Corinth. To the celestial thunderbolts he preferred the benediction of water. He was punished for this in the underworld. Homer tells us also that Sisyphus had put Death in chains. Pluto could not endure the sight of his deserted, silent empire. He dispatched the god of war, who liberated Death from the hands of her conqueror.
It is said that Sisyphus, being near to death, rashly wanted to test his wife's love. He ordered her to cast his unburied body into the middle of the public square. Sisyphus woke up in the underworld. And there, annoyed by an obedience so contrary to human love, he obtained from Pluto permission to return to earth in order to chastise his wife. But when he had seen again the face of this world, enjoyed water and sun, warm stones and the sea, he no longer wanted to go back to the infernal darkness. Recalls, signs of anger, warnings were of no avail. Many years more he lived facing the curve of the gulf, the sparkling sea, and the smiles of earth. A decree of the gods was necessary. Mercury came and seized the impudent man by the collar and, snatching him from his joys, lead him forcibly back to the underworld, where his rock was ready for him.
You have already grasped that Sisyphus is the absurd hero. He is, as much through his passions as through his torture. His scorn of the gods, his hatred of death, and his passion for life won him that unspeakable penalty in which the whole being is exerted toward accomplishing nothing. This is the price that must be paid for the passions of this earth. Nothing is told us about Sisyphus in the underworld. Myths are made for the imagination to breathe life into them. As for this myth, one sees merely the whole effort of a body straining to raise the huge stone, to roll it, and push it up a slope a hundred times over; one sees the face screwed up, the cheek tight against the stone, the shoulder bracing the clay-covered mass, the foot wedging it, the fresh start with arms outstretched, the wholly human security of two earth-clotted hands. At the very end of his long effort measured by skyless space and time without depth, the purpose is achieved. Then Sisyphus watches the stone rush down in a few moments toward that lower world whence he will have to push it up again toward the summit. He goes back down to the plain.
It is during that return, that pause, that Sisyphus interests me. A face that toils so close to stones is already stone itself! I see that man going back down with a heavy yet measured step toward the torment of which he will never know the end. That hour like a breathing-space which returns as surely as his suffering, that is the hour of consciousness. At each of those moments when he leaves the heights and gradually sinks toward the lairs of the gods, he is superior to his fate. He is stronger than his rock.
If this myth is tragic, that is because its hero is conscious. Where would his torture be, indeed, if at every step the hope of succeeding upheld him? The workman of today works everyday in his life at the same tasks, and his fate is no less absurd. But it is tragic only at the rare moments when it becomes conscious. Sisyphus, proletarian of the gods, powerless and rebellious, knows the whole extent of his wretched condition: it is what he thinks of during his descent. The lucidity that was to constitute his torture at the same time crowns his victory. There is no fate that can not be surmounted by scorn.
If the descent is thus sometimes performed in sorrow, it can also take place in joy. This word is not too much. Again I fancy Sisyphus returning toward his rock, and the sorrow was in the beginning. When the images of earth cling too tightly to memory, when the call of happiness becomes too insistent, it happens that melancholy arises in man's heart: this is the rock's victory, this is the rock itself. The boundless grief is too heavy to bear. These are our nights of Gethsemane. But crushing truths perish from being acknowledged. Thus, Edipus at the outset obeys fate without knowing it. But from the moment he knows, his tragedy begins. Yet at the same moment, blind and desperate, he realizes that the only bond linking him to the world is the cool hand of a girl. Then a tremendous remark rings out: "Despite so many ordeals, my advanced age and the nobility of my soul make me conclude that all is well." Sophocles' Edipus, like Dostoevsky's Kirilov, thus gives the recipe for the absurd victory. Ancient wisdom confirms modern heroism.
One does not discover the absurd without being tempted to write a manual of happiness. "What!---by such narrow ways--?" There is but one world, however. Happiness and the absurd are two sons of the same earth. They are inseparable. It would be a mistake to say that happiness necessarily springs from the absurd. discovery. It happens as well that the felling of the absurd springs from happiness. "I conclude that all is well," says Edipus, and that remark is sacred. It echoes in the wild and limited universe of man. It teaches that all is not, has not been, exhausted. It drives out of this world a god who had come into it with dissatisfaction and a preference for futile suffering. It makes of fate a human matter, which must be settled among men.
All Sisyphus' silent joy is contained therein. His fate belongs to him. His rock is a thing Likewise, the absurd man, when he contemplates his torment, silences all the idols. In the universe suddenly restored to its silence, the myriad wondering little voices of the earth rise up. Unconscious, secret calls, invitations from all the faces, they are the necessary reverse and price of victory. There is no sun without shadow, and it is essential to know the night. The absurd man says yes and his efforts will henceforth be unceasing. If there is a personal fate, there is no higher destiny, or at least there is, but one which he concludes is inevitable and despicable. For the rest, he knows himself to be the master of his days. At that subtle moment when man glances backward over his life, Sisyphus returning toward his rock, in that slight pivoting he contemplates that series of unrelated actions which become his fate, created by him, combined under his memory's eye and soon sealed by his death. Thus, convinced of the wholly human origin of all that is human, a blind man eager to see who knows that the night has no end, he is still on the go. The rock is still rolling.
I leave Sisyphus at the foot of the mountain! One always finds one's burden again. But Sisyphus teaches the higher fidelity that negates the gods and raises rocks. He too concludes that all is well. This universe henceforth without a master seems to him neither sterile nor futile. Each atom of that stone, each mineral flake of that night filled mountain, in itself forms a world. The struggle itself toward the heights is enough to fill a man's heart. One must imagine Sisyphus happy.
---Albert Camus
The central concern of The Myth of Sisyphus is what Camus calls "the absurd." Camus claims that there is a fundamental conflict between what we want from the universe (whether it be meaning, order, or reasons) and what we find in the universe (formless chaos). We will never find in life itself the meaning that we want to find. Either we will discover that meaning through a leap of faith, by placing our hopes in a God beyond this world, or we will conclude that life is meaningless. Camus opens the essay by asking if this latter conclusion that life is meaningless necessarily leads one to commit suicide. If life has no meaning, does that mean life is not worth living? If that were the case, we would have no option but to make a leap of faith or to commit suicide, says Camus. Camus is interested in pursuing a third possibility: that we can accept and live in a world devoid of meaning or purpose.
The absurd is a contradiction that cannot be reconciled, and any attempt to reconcile this contradiction is simply an attempt to escape from it: facing the absurd is struggling against it. Camus claims that existentialist philosophers such as Kierkegaard, Chestov, and Jaspers, and phenomenologists such as Husserl, all confront the contradiction of the absurd but then try to escape from it. Existentialists find no meaning or order in existence and then attempt to find some sort of transcendence or meaning in this very meaninglessness.
Living with the absurd, Camus suggests, is a matter of facing this fundamental contradiction and maintaining constant awareness of it. Facing the absurd does not entail suicide, but, on the contrary, allows us to live life to its fullest.
Camus identifies three characteristics of the absurd life: revolt (we must not accept any answer or reconciliation in our struggle), freedom (we are absolutely free to think and behave as we choose), and passion (we must pursue a life of rich and diverse experiences).
Camus gives four examples of the absurd life: the seducer, who pursues the passions of the moment; the actor, who compresses the passions of hundreds of lives into a stage career; the conqueror, or rebel, whose political struggle focuses his energies; and the artist, who creates entire worlds. Absurd art does not try to explain experience, but simply describes it. It presents a certain worldview that deals with particular matters rather than aiming for universal themes.
The book ends with a discussion of the myth of Sisyphus, who, according to the Greek myth, was punished for all eternity to roll a rock up a mountain only to have it roll back down to the bottom when he reaches the top. Camus claims that Sisyphus is the ideal absurd hero and that his punishment is representative of the human condition: Sisyphus must struggle perpetually and without hope of success. So long as he accepts that there is nothing more to life than this absurd struggle, then he can find happiness in it, says Camus.
Camus appends his essay with a discussion of the works of Franz Kafka. He ultimately concludes that Kafka is an existentialist, who, like Kierkegaard, chooses to make a leap of faith rather than accept his absurd condition. However, Camus admires Kafka for expressing humanity's absurd predicament so perfectly.
Monday, May 24, 2010
Saturday, May 22, 2010
MDP study block 2
I have spent the past 6 days on MDP Study block 2. We literally worked from 7:30 - 20:00 every day, only breaking for meals.
This time there was no CSI game with the 'bipolar looney' as (innocent) transgressor, but unfortunately bipolar jokes became a trend.
I am probably hyper-sensitive about the issue, but I honestly do not find those jokes funny. Bipolar disorder turned my life around - it determines when and how much I sleep, when and what I eat how often I exercise, the chemicals I swallow every day... in essence every moment I am awake.
One of the lecturers on softer issues started his presentation by saying we should pray we never have bipolar bosses and bipolar people should not be promoted. It hurt. I have been in management for the past 10 years and honestly try to be fair in my decisions. I would love to believe that something of Jesus comes through in the way I do my job. I would like to believe that I am more than a disease.
I would've liked to tell you the week was insightful and I learned a lot (which is true), but what stood out was my hurt about bipolar disorder.
There is a part of me who would like to speak up and tell them it is not funny. However, I do not want to draw attention to myself on this topic.
Sometimes, I wonder if this kind of life is worth living. It is so hard to bounce back. Even when I do everything I am supposed to, I am unreliable and moody and not fun to be with. I do not like the person I became.
I wonder what God's role in this madness is? Did He give me bipolar disorder? How does He decide who should have it? If it wasn't Him, why did He allow it?
I know I have asked these questions before, but I have still not found any of the answers.
This time there was no CSI game with the 'bipolar looney' as (innocent) transgressor, but unfortunately bipolar jokes became a trend.
I am probably hyper-sensitive about the issue, but I honestly do not find those jokes funny. Bipolar disorder turned my life around - it determines when and how much I sleep, when and what I eat how often I exercise, the chemicals I swallow every day... in essence every moment I am awake.
One of the lecturers on softer issues started his presentation by saying we should pray we never have bipolar bosses and bipolar people should not be promoted. It hurt. I have been in management for the past 10 years and honestly try to be fair in my decisions. I would love to believe that something of Jesus comes through in the way I do my job. I would like to believe that I am more than a disease.
I would've liked to tell you the week was insightful and I learned a lot (which is true), but what stood out was my hurt about bipolar disorder.
There is a part of me who would like to speak up and tell them it is not funny. However, I do not want to draw attention to myself on this topic.
Sometimes, I wonder if this kind of life is worth living. It is so hard to bounce back. Even when I do everything I am supposed to, I am unreliable and moody and not fun to be with. I do not like the person I became.
I wonder what God's role in this madness is? Did He give me bipolar disorder? How does He decide who should have it? If it wasn't Him, why did He allow it?
I know I have asked these questions before, but I have still not found any of the answers.
Friday, May 21, 2010
21 May 2010
Lord,
I miss you like the winterveld misses rain,
I long for you and your loving nourishment,
Amen
I miss you like the winterveld misses rain,
I long for you and your loving nourishment,
Amen
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
19 May 2010
Lord
Tonight I feel alone and abandoned by You.
My thoughts are probably irrational or even stupid,
but I don't know where you are.
I cannot imagine You,
I do not feel You,
I might be really ungrateful, but I do not see your care tonight.
I am in a cold, dark place.
Death looks like an easy way out of this mess.
I do not understand why I need to live with this curse and
I understand even less why You won't take it away...
Lord, have mercy on me?
Let me see your loving kindness?
Let me experience your provision?
Let me taste and see that You are good?
I know I probably sound confused and maybe neurotic... please have mercy on me?
Amen
Tonight I feel alone and abandoned by You.
My thoughts are probably irrational or even stupid,
but I don't know where you are.
I cannot imagine You,
I do not feel You,
I might be really ungrateful, but I do not see your care tonight.
I am in a cold, dark place.
Death looks like an easy way out of this mess.
I do not understand why I need to live with this curse and
I understand even less why You won't take it away...
Lord, have mercy on me?
Let me see your loving kindness?
Let me experience your provision?
Let me taste and see that You are good?
I know I probably sound confused and maybe neurotic... please have mercy on me?
Amen
Sunday, May 09, 2010
Ordinary TIme
Despite the fact that it is Easter on the Church calendar (with Ascension Day on Thursday, 13 May 2010), it is "Ordinary Time" in my life and I am grateful.
I am almost too scared to put it in writing, just incase I jinx it, but my micro-management of my life is paying off now. My mood is neither too high, nor too low. My lithium levels are constant. I am able to sleep and to work. I am able to think and even study. I am at peace with myself and the world. This is what I think every bipolar patient dreams of. Just to be. Just to be normal. Just to be able to connect with God. Just to be able to connect with His people. Just to be able to do a day's work. Just to be able to understand jokes and the occasional pun and symbolism... Just to be.
I do know that all of it can change in the blink of an eye, but for now, I am grateful and content.
I am almost too scared to put it in writing, just incase I jinx it, but my micro-management of my life is paying off now. My mood is neither too high, nor too low. My lithium levels are constant. I am able to sleep and to work. I am able to think and even study. I am at peace with myself and the world. This is what I think every bipolar patient dreams of. Just to be. Just to be normal. Just to be able to connect with God. Just to be able to connect with His people. Just to be able to do a day's work. Just to be able to understand jokes and the occasional pun and symbolism... Just to be.
I do know that all of it can change in the blink of an eye, but for now, I am grateful and content.
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