Pessimism

Every evening we are poorer by a day.

--Schopenhauer, On the Vanity of Existence

My god, how that man can cut right through your heart. I suppose there is an optimistic, or probably simply a more "rational," way to approach the situation he describes. Surely, one might say, we are a day richer in experience? (Maybe then we should tally up the bad and good days every evening, and keep a running score. Who would ever come out even, let alone on top?) How absurd.

No, the best response would be to say the premise is flawed, that to approach life from this sort of timeline perspective (Which, in fact, Schopenhauer does not do, preferring instead to approach it from the continual agony of an unending present moment. Not even death is an escape properly speaking. But let's stick with this quote for now) is ridiculous. But even were one to feel that a life lived in the present (another impossibility I think; we are always oriented toward the future with regard to our own possibilities of Being, we are bound to the timeline like a wheel of fire, with rare exceptions such as my inscrutable and never-to-be-explained philosophy of witnessing) is somehow worthwhile the response of Pessimism would be to think of that belief as a delusion bordering on insanity.

Where I come up short is whether it is really possible to judge this type of response as "valid" or whatever. I find most critical tools come up short in response to Pessimism, simply because it is irrational, or simply because it is dogmatic, I don't know. Bertrand Russell gets it right in simply stating that there is no more basis for a pessimistic philosophy than there is for an optimistic philosophy, since either presupposes erroneously that the universe is built to some purpose.

The Pessimist must, therefore, affirm just this irrational belief in a purpose. I think, contra Russell, that the idea that the universe is built to a purpose is not really irrational. In the sense that it exists for its own sake, it is to that purpose directed, and to that purpose we are chained: existence, our "mortal coil" is a prison from which there is no escape.

Consider the great Utopias written throughout history. It doesn't take much reflection to discover that each and every one of them is unbearable. Narratives of emancipation, in whatever form that emancipation takes, are in truth narratives of the emancipation from existence. Our happy endings are precisely that, endings. Unhappy endings imply precisely the continued prison of existence. (Tragedy occupies a third zone maybe).

There is one Utopian novel that proposes a viable solution. In fact, it is a dystopia, Brave New World. Let us numb ourselves with drugs and any and all distractions. Who's to judge? The fact is that the world Huxley presents is more appealing than all the real utopias could ever hope to be. Thus would life be bearable, but not for us, just our shadows.

Science can provide the solution. It really can, and we are on our way. Well, not precisely "we" since whatever beings will inhabit this planet after our unhappy sojourn here is over will not be "us" in any meaningful sense. The utopian world is not, and by definition cannot ever be, our own world.

I think, ultimately, the question of Pessimism rests on a pretty difficult question: What is the content of existence? Maybe it is contentless, as I suspect many modern philosophers would argue. Any inclination to assign an "essence" to existence would be seen as foolish at best, and reactionary at worst. If, for instance, one were to argue that life is simply suffering, this would betray a foundationalist bent that is unsupportable.

And so we are left in the rather curious position of being unable to say anything definitive about existence as such. In certain contingent circumstances, it is to be imagined that existence could even be a quite wonderful thing.

Something, I feel, is missing in this account, but I am not sure what yet. Perhaps it is the non-contingency of two factors: my simple existence (the foundation for contingencies) and my death. Are these, in fact, non-contingent? I don’t know. And I don’t think the matter is simple. The idea of an essentially contentless existence (thus an existence that derives its meaning from difference) seems to overlook the fact that existence almost continually strives for non-existence, in the many forms this would take. I can philosophize about my existence all I want, but I can’t make this headache go away. I feel stuck.

And so another day closes...