I have always been interested in the very biggest of questions. Is there a god? Is there life after death? But ever so slowly I have been coming to the conclusion that the biggest question we face is whether to commit suicide or not, and over the last week I have been trying to get my head around Albert Camus' essay, 'The Myth of Sisyphus' which deals with the very same topic. In fact, on the first page Camus writes:
There is but one truly serious philosophical problem and that is suicide. Judging whether life is or is not worth living amounts to answering the fundamental question.
One must brush everything aside and go straight to the real problem. One kills oneself because life is not worth living, that is certainly a truth - yet an unfruitful one because it is a truism. But does that insult to existence, that flat denial in which it is plunged come from the fact that is has no meaning? Does its absurdity require one to escape it through hope or suicide...Does the absurd dictate death?
Unlike the novels by Camus that I've recently read, 'The Myth of Sisyphus' is much harder going, and required two readings and lots of cogitating to ensure that I got the gist of it.
If I understand Camus correctly, essentially he argues that there is no point to existence, or meaning to life. Life is absurd. Most people ignore those facts and live their lives in delusion and hope (by believing in god, for example). But the absurd man understands his place in the universe and feels anxiety in the face of it. This anxiety is caused by feelings of how he hopes the world should be, and how the world actually is. We want there to be a god, a point, a meaning, a reason, immortality, but we find a hostile, lonely, pointless universe, indifferent to our survival, and this disparity drives the absurd man's angst.
Camus desires a real solution to this fundamental question. He doesn't want to just accept false hope because it is the easiest solution. And what does he conclude?:
There is thus a metaphysical honour in enduring the world's absurdity. Conquest or play-acting, multiple loves, absurd revolt are tributes that man pays to his dignity in a campaign in which he is defeated in advance. It is merely a matter of being faithful to the rule of battle. That thought may suffice to sustain a mind; it has supported and still supports whole civilizations. War cannot be negated. One must live it or die of it. So it is with the absurd: it is a question of breathing with it, of recognizing its lessons and recovering their flesh. In this regard the absurd joy par excellence is creation. 'Art and nothing but art,' said Nietzsche; 'we have art in order not to die of the truth.'
Camus uses the Myth of Sisyphus to illustrate his argument:
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 the 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.
And my opinion is that I am not sold. Camus has failed to convince me that Sisyphus would indeed be happy, faced with unending torture (lest we forget that boredom and solitary confinement are tortures all the same). I don't have to imagine a happy Sisyphus, and in fact thinking about the myth, I can well imagine a bitter and depressed Sisyphus. Having attempted to prevent death, this is his repayment? To be taken away from his life and his family, and commanded by tyrannical gods to do meaningless work. 'Let me out of here! I demand to be freed.' 'Revolt indeed comrades! Wherefore art thou humanity?... ' And as time goes on, loneliness and futility set in. What is one step, up or down, when the journey is an infinite toil? Sisyphus may as well commit suicide now, because he hasn't got anything to look forward to, except maybe kindness from the gods and we can never be so lucky. What Sisyphus has, is the knowledge that his punishment is infinite. It then matters not whether he kills himself now, or in a hundred million steps. The choice will be his to make freely; the only power he has in his domain; to give up, when the pain gets too much (and deprive the gods of their sport).
In reality, no human can despair over an infinite punishment doled out by the gods. We are each given a finite sentence of life, without the certainty that Sisyphus is privilege to. Perhaps Sisyphus cannot commit suicide (and how do you know until you try) but human existence is not so assured. For those who find their existence a torture, suicide appears a legitimate response. Arguing that even in a mad deluded world, you should just fuck or make art (as Camus seems to suggest) is ludicrous. Give the monkey a banana, because I'm not impressed. If an absurd man wishes to make absurd art, then that is all well and good. But an absurd man who rejects false hope and absurd hobbies is left with complete nothingness. The choice then between inane pastimes and suicide is made much harder.
Existence is absurd. Suicide is absurd. None of us choose to be born. If we find the absurdity of existence too much to bear, at least the absurdity of suicide brings with it the end of angst and the end of absurdity. It seems Camus was right that suicide really is the greatest philosophical question. My own feelings on the matter are that either you play along and enjoy absurdity (to some degree) or you spend your life bitter, twisted and bored. Is suicide preferable to either solution, I really do not know?Go Top