Not so very long ago, seeking to wrench myself out of the
doldrums of the mundane and the desperately ordinary in which I found myself
wallowing, I gathered up a few precious and essential possessions—some
foodstuffs, books, pen and paper, the wife and the dog—and went to live on a
remote isthmus. No roads lead there, unless you count the dirt track just wide
enough for two horses to ride side-by-side. We went by boat, as I had mislaid
the horse, and soon settled into this wilderness that remained yet a stranger
to concrete, electricity, billboards and all the other ostentatious symbols of
progress. The place was a veritable Eden and the wife and I were like Adam and
Eve—the only two members of humankind amidst the teeming multitude. It was not
long, however, before we began to notice something about all this life—it
seemed to be accompanied by an awful lot of death.
Take, for instance, the wild horses. In one week, three
foals were born. One of them we smelled before we found it, high up on a
proverbially lonely and windswept hillside, partly decomposed and partly
dismembered by pigs. The other two were gambolling about, all zesty and
puckish. A few weeks later and another three had been born—of these, two died
and one gambolled. So, in all, three alive, three dead. Is a fifty per cent
strike rate for nature good or bad? I really don’t know. What I do know is that
we were encountering more death in our heavenly paradise than we had ever
encountered in the thoughtfully sanitised civilised world. And all this death
got me to thinking. And then, as if Providence had that moment deigned to
intervene, I happened to come across the wisdom of Silenus. If you haven’t
heard it, I should warn you—it’s the kind of thing that might make you choke on
your tea, perhaps give a little shudder and maybe look elsewhere out of
embarrassment that someone could be so vulgar as to say such a thing.
Anyway, here it is, the wisdom of Silenus: The best thing for a man is not to be born,
and if already born, to die as soon as possible.
Vulgar, indeed, and not, I grant you, the sort of
observation you would expect to hear tossed gaily into the air among polite
society. But then that is why I do my best to avoid polite society—you so
rarely ever hear anything worth hearing. And it seems to me that any
observation that makes you choke and shudder and come over all embarrassed that
someone could be so vulgar as to say such a thing might just be worth
pondering.
Of course, the effect it has on us doesn’t require any great
deliberation—it makes you choke etcetera and so forth because it runs
precisely, completely, utterly and entirely counter to everything we are
taught, feel, believe and have been indoctrinated with, which is to say, that
life is the most precious gift of any we can receive, that we are blessed, each
and every one of us—even if only in a secular fashion—to have our moment in the
sun, and that the second to worst crime you can commit against humanity is to
contemplate self-murder, while the worst is to do it.
Silenus demonstrating his wisdom. |
Now, we might say, here’s Silenus, bald and fat with the
ears, legs and tail of a horse, inebriated to the point where he can’t stand,
mouthing off about what a what a terrible thing life is—why give him the time
of day? The trouble is, for one thing, the fact that he himself may not be
everyone’s idea of pleasant company is neither here nor there when it comes to
his utterances—they live and die on their own merits, to the extent they have
any. And, for another, when you do start to ponder it, you realise that while
Silenus may have put it in a particularly direct and indecently unclothed way,
he’s far from the only person in history to think such a thing.
Take, by way of example, Thomas de Quincey. I am,
incidentally, well aware that I am moving from a hopeless drunkard to a devoted
opium eater, but I will shortly arrive at a more sober instance, so hold your
calumny. De Quincey didn’t put it precisely the way Silenus did, but what he
said amounts to more or less the same thing—knowing what a thing life actually
is, he mused, who would choose to be born, if given the choice. Sacre bleu! Oh the discomfort! Again,
you want to look elsewhere, pretend he didn’t say it, but the trouble is, he
did, and the fact that he was, so to speak, soaring with the angels at the time
doesn’t matter, you’re now left wondering if it’s true. Again, it is so at odds
with our veneration for life and our abhorrence for non-existence. Forsooth,
such a statement couldn’t be more at odds, in fact, with our view of life, this
age we live in that so adores life it’s doing its best to find ways to prolong
it to the point where it never ends.
De Quincey - happily melancholy. |
But then it will be said, sniffily, that De Quincey was just
another tedious Romantic, and nothing made a Romantic happier than melancholy.
Indeed, the best beloved idea of all among the Romantics was that genius and
melancholy traipse unhappily through the world hand in hand. The very soul of
genius is sadness, for genius sees the world as it is, stripped of the
illusions that make it bearable for the rest of us dullards. So they said. And
this meant it was entirely fashionable in de Quincey’s day to affect an air of the
profoundest melancholy, in the hope that this would convey to anyone who cared
that you were, at the same time, a profound genius, and not just very dreary
company.
That might give us some comfort, after all, who’s going to
take seriously the calculated musings of a wasted poser, let alone the ravings
of an inebriated satyr? But that’s a sneak’s way out. For one thing, as I said
before, do what you will with the messenger—shoot him, string him up by his
delicates—the message lives gaily on regardless. For another, one of the
greatest of all literary creations, one of the most pious, venerable, holy and
sober of all men, gave vent to exactly this idea: ‘Wherefore then,’ inquired
Job, ‘hast thou brought me forth out of the womb? Oh that I had given up the
ghost, and no eye had seen me!’ And then, really warming to his theme, he
added, ‘I should have been as though I had not been; I should have been carried
from the womb to the grave’.
So now what do you say? Well?
Probably, you say you still find the idea repugnant, and in
any case, Job only said what he did because he was in especially straitened
circumstances at the time. Once things had picked up again, you wouldn’t hear
him carrying on in that pitiful way. Perhaps, but then Job is supposed to be,
in a certain way, Everyman, faced as he is with no more nor no less than the
usual sufferings this world serves up, only in a more distilled form. Isn’t the
whole point of Job that life is filled, from top to bottom, with suffering?
And yet, and yet, who could live with such a view of life?
It’s the view of the gloomy pessimist who elects to see only what is bad in
this world and who just needs a bit of cheering up. Pessimism is no way to go
about life, we should all be optimists—things are bound to work out in the end,
however hard they might seem for a time. The trouble I have with this view,
tempting as it might be—and it surely does tempt us, like the fruit of that
tree—is that both pessimism and optimism, as philosophies of life, are equally
absurd, equally vacuous, it seems to me. If you are unfortunate enough to be
travelling in an aeroplane when the wings happen to fall off, you wouldn’t
criticise the passenger who suggested things were probably going to come to a
sticky end. On the other hand, you would label an idiot anyone who suggested
there was no need to worry as things were bound to work out for the best. In any
situation, all you can do is size things up as realistically as possible, which
is something neither the pessimists nor the optimists do, with their
predetermined attitude to everything that happens or might happen, regardless
of what is actually happening.
Which brings us back to Silenus and de Quincey and Job. And,
I might add, Pliny the Elder, who observed that, with all the suffering there
is in this world, the best gift God ever gave us was the power to take our own
lives. And Buddha, incidentally, for whom life was, in short, nothing but suffering
and, while I’m about it, world-weary Hamlet, for whom death was ‘a consummation
devoutly to be wished’. And I could, were I so inclined to make the effort,
multiply by the dozens examples of thinkers through the ages who had thought
along these lines—‘The universal wisdom of the world long ago concluded that
life is mainly a curse’ (H.L. Mencken). But then the point isn’t to establish
the truth of this view by appealing to authorities, and lots of them—the point
is to think for yourself and see what conclusion you reach—or are willing to
reach.
But still you resist, still you won’t concede that, all in
all, this world is just a great vale of tears, a vast theatre of suffering, a
devil’s playground in which, if everything were weighed in the balance, we
would see that by far and away the bad leaves the good sniffling in the dirt.
Fair enough, you may think what you want. But no, you cry, it is I who am not
seeing truly, it is I who am now guilty of adopting the blinkered view of the
pessimist. It is true to say that for much of human history pain won over
pleasure, but we are blessed to live in another age altogether. Ours is the
first age in humankind’s lifetime in which we can expect pleasure to
predominate over pain. We have science and medicine and technology and, most of
all, reason all on our side. We are masters of our own destinies, we are no
longer the tragic playthings of fate—just look at how much we’re all enjoying
ourselves!
Well, this is indeed a pleasant view of the world, at least,
for that minuscule proportion of the world’s populace that enjoys in any
meaningful way the benefits of progress of a technological kind. But let us
examine this secular blessing a little more closely. What do our long lives of
rude good health, liberated from want and disease and penury and war, what do
they bestow on us? We spend at least a third of our lives asleep, a good twenty
to thirty years of unconsciousness in an average life (perhaps some would rate
these the best years of their lives). We spend that much, perhaps a little less
if we live long enough, either being schooled or worked. So, at most, we get a
third of our lives to do as we wish. But, of course, that’s not true at all,
most of us have any number of things we have
to do besides sleeping and working. So, perhaps a quarter, a tenth, a twentieth
of the time we spend alive is our own? And how do we respond to the precious
little time we have? Most do their best to fill it up with mind-numbing,
reality-obliterating trivialities, without which they would find their small
share of life intolerably boring—and disturbing.
Goethe - trying to keep busy. |
In other words, it’s just as Pascal said—‘If our condition
were truly happy, we should not have to divert ourselves from thinking about
it’. And it’s also just as Goethe said—‘Most spend the greater part of their
time working in order to live, and what bit of freedom they are left with makes
them so anxious they strive by all available means to be rid of it’. And, for
good measure, it’s just as Mencken said—people ‘work simply in order to escape
the depressing agony of contemplating life . . . their work, like their play,
is a mumbo-jumbo that serves them by permitting them to escape from reality’.
Now, of course, such a view offends our sense of the dignity of humankind, not
to mention life itself, but just because we don’t like the sound of something,
that doesn’t make it an untruth. If we would be so kind as to come down from
our high-horses for a moment to consider this proposition, we might just have
to accept it as an accurate observation of the human condition, a logical
conclusion based on the evidence. But then, I suppose, as Camus observed,
however easy it is to be logical, it is ‘almost impossible to be logical to the
bitter end’.
Look at it however you will, then, life is, at best, no
picnic, say whatever you wish to the contrary. But here’s the thing that
intrigues me (everything above is merely obvious, rather than intriguing)—that in spite of all that life dishes up,
people just keep on living. And not only that, they keep on bringing new life
into the world so it, too, can experience what life dishes up. Now isn’t that
something! That’s what intrigues me, that come what may, despite everything,
however dreadful, dreary, painful, boring, wearying, disquieting, disappointing
and generally unpleasant life might become, we just keep on living. This is the
intriguing truth, this is the astonishing fact, that for the most part people
really are very attached to life! Even when life seems entirely unattached to
them. Who among us, if told we could utter a dark incantation that in an
instant would make us cease to exist, would utter such a thing? Even in the
worst of circumstances, people will insist on going on living. Even in the
darkest depths of the worst misery, people will insist on drawing breath and
their hearts will insist on beating. ‘Despite the sight of all the
wretchednesses which afflict us and hold us by the throat, we have an instinct
which we cannot repress, which lifts us up’ (Pascal). Again, isn’t that something!
In other words, come what may, the so-called wisdom of Silenus will always
offend our sensibilities, it will always make us choke and shudder and come
over all embarrassed to be privy to something so vulgar.
But not, perhaps, for the reasons you think. Not, that is,
because what Silenus says isn’t reasonable or rational. If life truly is mostly
suffering of one kind or another, if the bad invariably outweighs the good,
then the only rational thing to do would be to end it, especially if we’ve given
up all hope of some kind of recompense in the hereafter. No one would think of
keeping a business going that was constantly running at a loss. But, luckily or
unluckily and contrary to what most people seem to think, humankind is not even
vaguely rational. We’ve awarded ourselves a laurel we have no right to—when it
comes to the reasons for the things we do, we’re no more rational than a slug. That
we call them ‘reasons’ is just part of the fantasy we’ve sold ourselves. One
plus one equals two. Quod semper. Quod
ubique. Quod ad omnibus. At all times, at all places, for all people. That
is what it is to be rational. To be rational is to be the same, unvarying, predictable,
consistent. All things humans are not. Reason is nothing more than a convenient
tool inadvertently bestowed on us by nature. Like hammers and screwdrivers, it lets
us do things we might not otherwise be able to do, such as fly to the moon or
wipe out whole cities with a single bang. But reason doesn’t determine what we
want, like, wish for and desire. It has no part to play in making each of us
who we are as individually distinct beings—if it did, we would all be the same.
And—heaven be praised—we’re not.
But not only are we not rational. Worse (or better) than
that, we’re imbued with a singular power—unknowable, undefinable,
irresistible—that cracks its whip and drives us on to live regardless of what
we might think, rationally or
otherwise, of our predicament. The will to live, that indomitable, unflinching
and entirely dumb force that has no regard for our circumstances and whether or
not we’re actually enjoying the fact of our existence. That’s the truth, reader,
that’s the reality of our being—it’s a nice idea, I suppose, that each of us is
driving our own chariot, pulling the reins this way and that according to our
carefully laid designs, but in reality it’s an illusion. We’re not rational and
we can’t help but go on living.
Let me illustrate the point. The lapsed-bourgeois
farmer-writer Moritz Thomsen tells the story of a tribe living on the upper
reaches of the Amazon river near Peru—having seen the writing on the wall, the
inevitable and not especially enticing end towards which their quaint way of
life was headed as civilisation and progress came a-calling, they began to kill
all their children when they were born. A real life (and death) instance of the
wisdom of Silenus! But here’s the thing. I don’t believe it’s true. And you,
reader, I suspect you don’t believe it, either. And not just because it’s too
dreadful to contemplate. There’s a deeper reason, which is this—it just seems
too unhuman. To act with a
rationality so chilling and detached, the rationality of Silenus, surely no one
who still retained a trace of humanity could do that. To act so sanely would surely
drive you insane. Or, to turn it on its head, you’d have to be insane to act that
sanely.
So there you have it, ladies and gentlemen. The wisdom of
Silenus is hardly wisdom at all—it topples over like a drunkard in the face of
the unbending will to life that permeates all of existence and that laughs
uproariously at the absurd notion that humankind is rational. It is, as
Nietzsche said, ‘an eternal phenomenon: the voracious will always finds a way
to keep its creations alive and perpetuate their existence, by casting an
illusion over things’. And that’s its secret, the illusion it casts, the spell
it weaves, the falsehood it plies so persuasively as truth. We are all of us
convinced that, come what may, it is better to live than not live, better to
have been born than never to have existed. Give us hell on earth and we’ll
still insist on having our time there. That’s what it is to be human—gloriously,
stubbornly, irrationally, unwisely, committed to being.