I currently have the worst headache that I can remember having. I have loaded up on every pill that could possibly help me, which probably means that I will fall asleep shortly because one of them is an antihistamine that puts me to sleep. But there is nothing like pain to make me think of Schopenhauer. The only point to living is to facilitate further living. It is very much like a hamster running on one of those treadmills. And that’s fine as long as you are enjoying the run. But if you are in pain, what is the point? You keep the process going just so that you can continue to suffer?
If humans were really smart, they would have died out long ago. Unfortunately, our will is much greater than our intelligence. This kind of goes along with what I was talking about in, Why I Am Not a New Atheist. This idea that we are rational is undercut by our continued dedication to life. The will is a supremely irrational thing that keeps us going even under the worst of conditions. (Well, maybe not the “worst” but the general levels of suffering that we humans are used to.)
Right out in front of our house, we have a hummingbird feeder. And I get to watch one particular hummingbird that uses it, whenever I’m in the kitchen. It’s a great example of what I’m talking about, because hummingbirds are so small and use so much energy that they must spend most of their time eating. And so this little guy flies up, feeds, flies away. And he continues it over and over again. To be honest, I’m not sure why he even goes away — he’s there that much. And I’m sure that he mates and sleeps too, but pretty much his life is eating.
And what is the point of that?! I know I can justify my life. It is complex. I do a whole lot of things that have nothing to do with continuing my existence. But ultimately, it does all come down to the hummingbird that doesn’t have any point to existing except for its drive to continue existing. And that is an annoying fact of existence. It bothers me. I wish I had some greater insight into the nature of existence that I could use to counter what seems to be the utter pointlessness of life.
Don’t get the idea that I’m depressed. I’m not. My head is killing me and I don’t like that. But otherwise, I’m kind of bullish on life right now. That doesn’t change the fact that I look at life and see its pointlessness. And I’m well aware that as much as I may feel pretty good (except for the headache), this is only temporary. I will fall into a deep depression when such considerations will not be academic. Of course, I won’t kill myself. Because my will is so much stronger than my rational capacity. I’m just like that hummingbird, feeding today so I can feed tomorrow.
In their criticisms of Shakespeare, Wittgenstein and Tolstoy enact the stance they admire: they struggle against the idolatries of their day, they set up the emotional honesty of their own responses against the cant and convention they hear all around them and in Shakespeare himself. They play the fool, the deflator of common (non)sense. And they have generally been treated as though, by criticizing Shakespeare, they had made fools of themselves. George Orwell explains Tolstoy’s criticisms of King Lear as a function of Tolstoy’s own uncomfortable similarity to Lear; as usual, since the days of Dryden and Rymer, the critique is not rationally answered but taken as proof of personal weakness. Hume and Wittgenstein and Santayana were philosophers; philosophers can’t be trusted. Voltaire and Emerson and Tolstoy and Wittgenstein were foreigners; foreigners can’t be trusted. Hazlitt and Cobbett were radicals; radicals can’t be trusted. Oliver Goldsmith condemned Shakespeare’s “forced humor; far fetched conceit, and unnatural hyperbole”; Samuel Johnson said that “Shakespeare never had six lines together without a fault”; Matthew Arnold complained about Shakespeare’s sloppy “workmanship” and his often “detestable” style; A E Housman confessed that “it gave him no pleasure to read a play of Shakespeare’s from beginning to end, for though some parts were magnificent, there were others so slovenly that the effect of the whole was disagreeable.” But Goldsmith and Johnson and Arnold and Housman — and Jonson and Milton and Dryden and Pope and Wordsworth and Byron and Landor and Whitman and Shaw and Eliot, who all expressed similar reservations — were rival writers; rival writers can’t be trusted. Rymer was a disappointed poet; disappointed poets can’t be trusted… Ezra Pound admitted that “Hunks of Shxpr bore me; I just can’t read ’em”; but Pound was a rival poet, a madman, a foreigner, and a fascist to boot; mad fascist foreign poets can’t be trusted. Or, rather, any of these categories of human being can be trusted when they praise Shakespeare but not when they venture objections.
Dahlia Lithwick wrote a great overview of Wednesday’s King v Burwell hearing,
Glenn Greenwald wrote a really informative article over at The Intercept on Wednesday, The “
So the story, such as it was, allowed the US media to create a false narrative where Snowden had turned against Russia and toward the the 46th best place for press freedom — also called the “land of the free.” (Fun fact: higher on press freedom is Romania.) Of course, this is all ridiculous anyway. As everyone should know, Snowden is only in Russia because the United States has done everything in its power to stop him from leaving. The
Reader Ryan Hall introduced me to the folk/country singer-songwriter Sam Baker. He’s rather like John Prine in his approach to telling a story through music. But he’s less inclined toward traditional melodies with greater care in his lyrics — using a kind of talk-singing that is highly evocative. Apparently, when he was 32, he was badly injured during a terrorist attack while traveling in Peru. Many of those traveling with him died. His left hand was so damaged that he had to relearn the guitar with the other hand. Regardless, he’s just amazing.
Today, the great songwriter