what-and-how-todo-writing

[what-and-how-todo-writing]

The Myth of Sisyphus

This is going to be a longer post, just letting you all know. Albert Camus is one of my favorite authors, and The Myth of Sisyphus is one of my favorite essays to ever have been written, and I wanted to share it with all of you.

If you have any questions; please let me know. I'm always opened for answering those. Below the line is my ramble, but for those of you who do not know what it's about; it's basically the realization of the 'absurd' does not justify suicide, and instead requires "revolt." He then outlines several approaches to the absurd life in the book.

Brief Biography of Albert Camus

Albert Camus was born in Algeria when it was still a French colony. His father, Lucien, died in World War I when Camus was still a baby. Camus’ mother, an illiterate house cleaner, brought him up thereafter. Showing aptitude for his schooling, Camus was accepted to the University of Algiers. Here he developed his sense of political engagement, joining first the Communist Party and later the Algerian People’s Party. In 1930 he contracted tuberculosis, causing him to give up playing soccer (he was a skillful goalkeeper) and meaning he had to study part-time. He graduated in 1936. Camus joined the French Resistance at the beginning of World War II, and worked for an underground resistance newspaper, eventually becoming its editor in 1943. It was during his military service, too, that he met Jean-Paul Sartre, the existential philosopher. In 1942, Camus published The Myth of Sisyphus, the first of a number of works that strove to look at the meaning of life and elucidate Camus’ theory of absurdism. Also that year, he published his first novel The Outsider (also translated as The Stranger). The Plague followed in 1947, and The Fall in 1952. In 1957, Camus was awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature (becoming the second youngest recipient after Rudyard Kipling). He died in 1960 as the result of a car accident. Camus was married twice, but had strong criticisms of the institution.

Historical Context of The Myth of Sisyphus

Albert Camus began writing at a turbulent time in the history of mankind. His father was a casualty of World War I, and not long after Camus found himself part of the French Resistance during World War II. The Vichy government had capitulated to the Nazis, surrendering Paris and much of the rest of France too. Perhaps this historical moment can be detected in The Myth of Sisyphus, which represents nothing less than an inquiry into the apparent meaninglessness of life. Furthermore, Camus’ military service kept him away from his native Algeria, perhaps evidenced by the book’s recurrent mention of man’s exile from the world (or from understanding the world). In employing the Greek myth of Sisyphus, though, Camus is keen to stress the ahistorical nature of what he is discussing. That is, though the warring of the twentieth century might have heightened the futility of life—made it more prominently visible—Camus sees the problem of absurdity as one simply fundamental to the human condition. For Camus, mankind’s longing for meaning in a meaningless world was a fact of existence in the past and will remain so in the future. 

The feeling that life is meaningless is a consequence of certain unavoidable experiences in life.

If you were to ask someone, “Why do you choose to stay alive?” you might get a host of different answers. Some feel an obligation to family. Others might be driven by a curiosity about what life has in store for them. And some may have never considered the question at all and would reply with an exasperated eye roll.

Camus argues that the most common reason people choose to go on living is a general sense that our activities in life are worth doing.

This is especially true when we’re young, and life seems full of hope and promise. We’re driven by ambitions. We think of ourselves as progressing. And we feel that our actions have good reasons behind them.

But there comes a time in a person’s life when nagging doubts begin to nibble at this optimism. There are two experiences, in particular, that are prone to challenge life’s sense of purposefulness: the repetitive nature of our days and an increasing consciousness of our impending death.

In the grind of the nine-to-five work cycle, where eat, sleep, work, repeat is the mantra of our lives, the repetitive quality of our actions makes itself known. We begin to feel more like machines than people. And constant repetition is enough to drive out any passion we once found in our work. In the exhaustion that we feel at the end of a workday, it’s not uncommon for us to wonder what all this is really for.

To make matters worse, the inevitability of the final destination – death – only looms more and more prominently over our lives as we grow older. It serves as an ever-present reminder that nothing we do in life is of any lasting consequence.

In light of these two unpleasant experiences, it’s not uncommon for an individual to feel that her struggles and suffering in life are pointless.

This feeling that life has no ultimate value or meaning is what Camus calls the absurd.

The reason the absurd is so critical to the present discussion is that it’s directly related to the question of suicide.

It’s often assumed that if life has no meaning, then it isn’t worth living.

If this is true, then it presents a very real, very urgent, dilemma for anyone who feels this way about their life. Do they go on living in denial of the uncomfortable truth that colors their whole perspective, or do they end their life?

The overarching problem in these blinks is to examine whether meaninglessness does imply worthlessness or if it’s possible to live a good life in a meaningless world after all.

The absurd emerges in the confrontation between a person who craves understanding and a world that resists it.

So far, we’ve considered the absurd experience from the point of view of a sense of value. In the tedious toil of our work and in the uncomfortable awareness of our impending deaths, we witness the value of our activities evaporate before our eyes.

But there’s another type of absurd experience that has less to do with value and more with the impossibility of ever arriving at permanent knowledge or understanding of the world. 

These intellectual types of absurd experiences tend to be momentary and surreal. For example, we have an absurd experience when we momentarily fail to recognize ourselves in the mirror. Or, another example is when, for a split second, an intimate loved one appears like a total stranger.

What’s common to these experiences is that objects are momentarily divested of the meaning we normally attribute to them. Instead, we see them in their naked materiality as pure things.

Such experiences confirm that the material universe is in itself devoid of meaning. Instead, it’s human minds that are responsible for imposing meaning and order on the world so that we can make sense of it. For example, we label this person a “friend,” that person a “lover,” and those things “shoes.” This works pretty well when it comes to navigating the world on a day-to-day basis.

The problem is that the world is infinitely more diverse and more complex than our limited ability to understand it allows. Objects are constantly overflowing the narrow labels that we place on them, forcing us to re-evaluate those labels. Things don’t remain “friends” or “lovers” or “shoes” forever.

And when it comes to the really big questions, such as understanding why the universe exists, our attempts at understanding are hopelessly futile. Camus compares the person who tries to understand the world to a sword fighter who attempts to take on a platoon of gunmen. Both figures are absurd insofar as they are so hopelessly ill-equipped for the task that faces them.

Thus, Camus defines absurdity as the confrontation between a person who craves meaning and understanding on the one hand and a world that constantly resists understanding on the other.

So, the person who feels the world to be absurd in this intellectual sense feels that any theory that claims to be a final explanation of the world is disingenuous. In all likelihood, we will never come to a satisfactory answer to the meaning of existence. So what then? 

The flight into faith is an inauthentic evasion of our absurd situation.

The absurd experience is fundamentally uncomfortable. It implies that our burning desire for purpose and understanding in life will never be completely met.

For some people, this awareness is simply too intolerable to bear. Thus, they seek an escape from the impasse. The typical mode of escape is to turn back to the doctrines of religion and philosophy through faith.

In a sense, faith in a doctrine solves the problem of the absurd by offering people answers to the meaning of life as well as providing a pre-packaged blueprint for living. The problem Camus has with this “solution” to meaninglessness is that it’s born more out of terror than of reason.

Camus is not in the business of arguing that religions or philosophies are false. Rather, he merely points out that both religious and philosophical systems always end up depending upon assumptions that no one can possibly know for certain since they transcend lived human experience.

The only thing we can be sure of is our immediate sensory experience and the things contained within it. Any attempt to make claims beyond our experience is, therefore, an illegitimate move.

Of course, we might question the value of such an extreme adherence to certainty. If one has a more comfortable and enjoyable life with religious faith, isn’t that justification enough?

Well, the problem for Camus is not that blind faith is a betrayal of the truth. The truth is always uncertain, anyway. The problem is that turning to faith is a betrayal of oneself.

When people flee from the absurd into faith, they’re being deeply inauthentic. They are, in a sense, lying to themselves. They’re not living according to what they really believe in their hearts.

For Camus, one doesn’t solve the meaninglessness of life by pretending that it has meaning after all. The only authentic response is to accept and embrace meaninglessness for what it is.

In practice, this means three things: a total absence of hope for a better future, a continual rejection of any doctrine that claims to be an absolute answer to the meaning of life, and a conscious dissatisfaction that never goes away.

While this may seem like a recipe for a rather dreary existence, meaninglessness by no means prevents one from living a rich and fulfilled life. According to Camus, we must revolt against the absurd, not by denying it, but by living life to the fullest in spite of it.

The absurd is the condition for profound freedom.

In the previous blink, we heard the case for why taking refuge in religious faith is an inauthentic response to the absurd.

But, again, one might question the value of authenticity. If one lives a happier life with faith in God and an afterlife, then who cares if they’re being inauthentic?

Well, practically speaking, there are benefits to living authentically with the absurd. Over the next two blinks, we’ll discuss the two principal virtues of authentic living: freedom and passion. 

While religious doctrines might placate the discomfort of the absurd by giving meaning to our lives, they also limit us to their interpretation of the world. By offering us a pre-packaged story of what we are and how we ought to live our lives, they confine a person to a monotonous and habitual mode of living.

When we, instead, abandon all attempts to impose meaning and order on our lives, we also abandon the obligation to live in a particular way. When we deny a higher power the right to dictate our lives for us, be it God or Fate or Morality, then how we live is something we must decide for ourselves.

Camus turns to fiction to find an example of someone who takes this logic to its fatal conclusion. Kirilov, a character in Dostoyevsky’s novel The Possessed, ends up getting killed by his own reasoning.

Kirilov argues that for life to have meaning, there must be a God. But since he doesn’t believe there is a God, he can’t believe that life has meaning. He concludes from this that he must kill himself – which he does. He also argues, somewhat absurdly, that through his suicide, he will become a God since the act will prove his absolute freedom and mastery over his own life.

While Camus agrees with Kirilov’s logic, he points out that actually going through with the act of suicide is not necessary to be free. All that is necessary is an awareness of the absurd.

Thus, we have an answer to the question of suicide. For Camus, suicide is not a legitimate response to the meaninglessness of life because it entails renouncing the freedom that this meaninglessness offers us. In this sense, hopeless suicide is just as inauthentic as hopeful faith. While they might seem like opposites, they are equivalent insofar as they both renounce the freedom entailed by absurdity.

The lack of hope in an afterlife leads to greater passion in this life.

Just as freedom is a logical consequence of the absurd life, so too is passion.

What’s meant by passion here is the sense of being present in the moment and having a direct relationship with the world in front of us.

The absurd stance leads to a greater appreciation of the present moment by liberating us from illusory visions of a better future in the next life.

The idea of an afterlife that is infinitely longer and more pleasurable than the one we’re currently living is inevitably going to devalue this life by comparison. These mirages prevent us from fully appreciating and taking advantage of the life we actually have.

By contrast, when we give up hope in an afterlife, all that’s left is this finite life here on Earth – so we better make the most of it.

While the knowledge that our lives are finite certainly causes discomfort, it also instills in us a sense of urgency to enjoy this life as best we can before we die.

This ethic of enjoyment is amplified by what Camus calls the overturning of quality in favor of quantity.

One of the logical outcomes of the absurd is that no experience is inherently more valuable than any other. If it's not possible to know whether there are any objective values, then there can’t be any way of conclusively affirming that one experience is better than another. The absurd leads to radical equality between all experiences.

This leads to a strange kind of ethic. Since it’s not possible to know what the best way of living is, you’re better off just trying to have as many experiences as possible before you die.

An example of someone who lived according to the ethic of quantity over quality is the notorious fictional seducer, Don Juan. This is a character who never shows any interest in achieving some perfect – and impossible – ideal of love. Rather, he merely aims to have as many short-lived, passionate affairs as possible before he dies. He dedicates his life to the pursuit of sensual pleasure, and he lives for the moment.

It’s important to note that Camus does not propose Don Juan as a model to be emulated, but merely an example of someone who pursued earthly pleasures with a passion. Ultimately, the kinds of experiences that you pursue in life are up to you.

Sisyphus’ punishment is emblematic of the human condition.

In Greek mythology, Sisyphus was a renowned king of the City of Corinth whose intelligence and craftiness in life earned him the ire of the gods. 

There are differing accounts as to how he managed to earn the gods’ displeasure. In one story, it’s said he put Death in chains, thereby temporarily ending death on Earth and forcing the gods to intervene.

Sisyphus is, however, more famous for the punishment he received for his misdeeds in the underworld. He was eternally condemned to push a rock to the top of a mountain, only to see it roll back down to the bottom. Each time, he would have to walk back and repeat the process over again.

The gods had good reason to believe that they could have found no worse punishment for Sisyphus. What makes the punishment so tortuous is not the labor itself but Sisyphus’ awareness that his labor is pointless and futile. 

It’s precisely this awareness that makes Sisyphus a hero of the absurd, for he is completely aware of his hopeless fate, and yet he continues to live it anyway.

Of course, in Sisyphus’ punishment, Camus sees the fate of all mankind. Whether we work nine to five or not, all of us engage in repetitive daily tasks and struggles that are, in the grand scheme of things, just as absurd and futile as pushing a rock up a mountain.

That sounds pretty bleak. But, still, that doesn’t mean we should despair. For even Sisyphus’ eternal labor isn’t entirely tragic.

In a remarkable twist of fate, says Camus, rather than being crushed by the awareness of the hopelessness of his situation, Sisyphus is liberated by it. That’s because a fate only seems intolerable when placed in contrast with the illusion of a better life. But, Sisyphus is free of the illusion that he will ever have anything more than what he already has. Thus, he does not compare his fate to something better. He merely acknowledges his condition and accepts it for what it is.

Camus imagines that in that period of respite when Sisyphus is walking down the mountain to retrieve his rock, that he feels a strange sort of satisfaction. Despite everything, he has become attached to his rock. If Sisyphus sometimes feels sorrow at his condition, we shouldn’t be surprised if he sometimes feels joy as well.

Like Sisyphus, we, too, can find joy and satisfaction in the struggle.

Final summary

For Camus, the complexity of the world will always exceed our ability to comprehend it. What’s more, we will never discover an ultimate meaning to our lives simply by examining the world around us. That means we have three choices: we could turn to faith in unprovable doctrines to give meaning to our lives; we could die by suicide; or we can be brave and accept the meaninglessness of existence for what it is. Camus believes the third option is the most authentic. But this doesn’t mean we must live a difficult and unhappy life. While the absurd experience is certainly the source of confusion and suffering at times, it’s also the condition for a freer and more passionate existence here on Earth.

Other Books Related to The Myth of Sisyphus

Camus studied philosophy at university, and an inquiry into the meaning of life—or lack of—forms the basis of much of his work. In The Myth of Sisyphus, Camus defines his philosophy of absurdism—which, in brief, is the confrontation between man’s longing for meaning and the world’s refusal to provide it—through discussion of other philosophers.

 In fact, Camus explicitly claims not to be a philosopher, such is the distinction he draws between himself and these other writers. Accordingly, Soren Kierkegaard, Karl Jaspers, Edmund Husserl and Friedrich Nietzsche all crop up intermittently throughout the work. Camus feels all of them have one fatal flaw (aside, perhaps, from Nietzsche): that they try to resolve the absurd, rather than finding a way to live with it in full view. 

Later in the book, Camus turns to literature in an effort to see if absurd art is possible. He praises the Russian novelist, Fyodor Dostoevsky (author of Crime and Punishment and Notes from Underground), for his ability to show the absurd as it functions in daily life, but criticizes Dostoevsky, the man, for turning back to God in order to resolve life’s meaninglessness. 

In the book, Camus also cites Franz Kafka, Honoré de Balzac, Marcel Proust and others as writers whom he feels expose the absurdity of life in their work. Camus’ own novels, such as The Plague, where to exert a great influence on the twentieth century and beyond.

#essayist #philosophy #absurdism #albert camus #writeblr #writing #book summary #fyodor dostoyevsky #franz kafka #honore de balzac #marcel proust #female writers #queer writers #my writing #original content #original writing #lgbtq writers

[what-and-how-todo-writing]

Introduction to Writeblr: An Essay of Sorts.

My name is not something I choose to give out freely on the internet, especially when I don’t know who is going to see it. I go by a variety of nicknames, and I’m not sure why; I guess other people just can’t figure out what could “stick” for/on me. I don’t mind that though, I’m not a fan of things sticking to me. But since I am no longer a minor, technically; I feel it to be appropriate to give my age just so we’re all on the same page with that: I am nineteen. 

I don’t mind having people younger than me following/interacting with me or my posts, and I’m more than happy to receive and answer questions that anyone may have; I’ll do my best to answer them as promptly as possible. I dislike leaving questions unanswered, that just doesn’t sit right with me. 

A little about my education history, I was in the American public school system for my entire life, and in this wretched country’s school/prison system, I was placed in honors/Advanced Placement English Language Arts simply because I did what I thought to be the bare minimum. I didn’t understand when I was eight, or so, why my English class was me and one other person. I didn’t really like it too much, if I’m being honest. But I can’t really do much to change it now. I’d need a time machine for that. 

Speaking further on my English Language Arts classes throughout the years; I found that I enjoyed critiquing and reading classics much more than I enjoyed reading and critiquing my peers’ works. When I was 11 or 12, I was reading authors like Mark Twain, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Edgar Allan Poe, Emily Dickinson, and so on and so forth. And I absolutely loved—no, adored them. But of course, they too, had flaws in their writings… and me being myself, would write all of my questions, comments, and even suggestions (like they were still alive), down in notebooks and after school I’d present them to my English teachers. 

Looking back on those interactions (I remember them vividly because I didn’t really interact with others that much), I’m thoroughly impressed with myself. I stumped them, the teachers; the ones who I thought should at least have some form of an answer. They did not, and although at the time it was extremely frustrating; I see now potentially why they didn’t have the answer(s) to my questions. They weren’t taught to think the way I thought. 

And for me, that’s pretty impressive. So, I’m here in short to share some ideas; receive critique and/or criticism, and maybe help others think a little differently.

That’s all I have to say at the moment; I hope you all have a wonderful day, and please feel free to send me a message if you’d like.

#female writers #writeblr #queer writers #introduction #pinned intro #writeblr intro