Why I Repeat Myself
3rd installment to my philosophical system
If it isn’t already obvious, I am a thoroughly redundant man. I love absurd things. I love things that the average man passes over nonchalantly or scoffs at—“It’s all nonsense,” they say with zest. I love things that most people either care little for, or are so myopic and specific—so bereft of any practical application to the real world—that anyone who doesn’t have a mind for those sorts of things would call me insane. And yet, what are my passions? Art, philosophy, film, history, mathematics, physics, literature, anime, video games, languages—in short, culture at large! These are the things I look at with a sort of reverence unheard of in the world. Everything I feel I feel passionately; every love of mine is a complete and total love; it is a kind of love that borders on the absurd—and yet, how I love to be absurd. How I love to be redundant. How I love to shock people by telling them I’m into things that will bear no fruit in the future. In short… how I love to be myself in a world that continuously tells me what I should be rather than what I myself am. What I am is a man of habit, a creature of suspicion, a hermit within society, a mere actor upon the stage of the world; I play my part very well, though it be a very insignificant role in the grand scheme of things.
And how absurd is it that the life of every man begins, plays out, and ends the same—with a mother in agony, followed by the stumblings and fumblings of existence, ending in a darkness of pure benignness. One must stand in awe, then, at Shakespeare’s The Seven Ages of Man, for who else has put the whole of life on stage for all to see in such an elegant way. So much do I concern myself with the existence of man, in fact, that I often wonder whether any great man that has ever lived actually recognized their own greatness. Was Shakespeare aware of his own genius? What about Homer or Vergil? What about those men who conquered entire continents—Alexander, Caesar, Genghis Khan, Napoleon; were they aware of themselves? What about the polymaths of humanity? Surely Da Vinci knew his worth—he had to have, for a man that great must also be aware that he is great, no? Michelangelo, his only rival, was called Il Divino (“the divine one”) in his own lifetime!—surely this man knew himself to be great, right?
Well, I’ve found that the constitution of man is such that he feels himself only as he is in the present, rather than what he will be in the eyes of the future. It is posterity that makes a man great, not his present accomplishments, for so long as man breathes in his age, he is always in competition with another equally competent individual, who is just as great. For man, the spirit of life is the zeitgeist of his present. What he sees and feels around him become the material for the canvas upon which he paints his soul. Man breathes a sigh of relief only when he breathes his last, for the moment he loses the ghost—the animating spirit of life—he becomes free from the chains of this wretched world, and is looked upon as eternal in the eyes of his contemporaries. What once there was is no more, but shall be again, for man lives on so long as he is remembered.
It is a fact of nature that existence is absurd, for who can fathom the totality of his being? Who has truly found the core of his life, the essence of his soul, the primum mobile (first mover) of his spirit? I return again to myself for such a question, for I can only answer it after the manner of my own being. I am redundant! My life is redundant! Reality is redundant! And all those shining stars, those glistening galaxies, those superb nebulae and distant planets… are nothing. Nothing is what all revolves around ultimately, for what is life but an epic poem written in despair? It is only in The Heights of Despair that one can truly feel the presence of God; when one can grope about in the empty void and actually touch something! What is this something? This something is spirit; it is life, or life’s essence rather. It is the infinite aspect of being which is tangible only in action, but evades conceptual capture when we put words to it. Words fail spectacularly, and like Kafka rightly said, “All language is but a poor translation.” Language has only ever been a tool for translating the heart, and as a result, none have ever been sufficient to give its speakers satisfaction or relief regarding themselves; for again, words are but sounds… it is their content, their meaning and spirit—which find themselves in the heart of another—that give them power; power which is then used by the masters of speech—the poets, artists, orators, and actors—to uplift and embolden the rest of the masses; embolden them to live, to be, to feel, to see—all such things which are poor translations but remain strong enough to affect the spirits so as to bring about action.
You see, words are the drivers of action; they embody a kind of art in themselves: an art of action. Words, I say, are the truest expression of action, for in order to utter one, the whole organism is simultaneously involved: for the heart must form the sentiment, the brain must form the idea, the lungs must hold the air, the throat must carry the air, the voice box must shape the air, the tongue must tickle the air, the teeth must obstruct the air (for pronunciation), and the person must strongly pronounce the air. Speaking, in that sense then, is a kind of Gesamtkunstwerk—a total work of art, which we engage in every day but which we do not see the inner significance of. How can one know their heart? How can one know their love? How can one know pain? How can one know any of these things in regard to themselves, let alone know and understand the joys and sorrows of another being of supreme infiniteness? This is where the act of speaking seemingly transcends the words spoken; for ideas may exist in our head, but they have no effect upon the world until they are put in action, are moved forward, and encourage the spirit within. The spirit is like a perfect concave mirror that reflects all incoming light onto a single focal point; this focal point being the essence of the individual, their passions and ideas. The spirit represents a movement in the individual that is supposed to embody everything they feel in that exact moment; this movement is the process by which we are made tangible to ourselves, when we hear ourselves, and when the infinite—the ideas and passions within—becomes finite, and is embodied in the world as actions which convey concepts. In that sense, the process of the infinite to the finite may be described as simply speaking out into the world; but how could one not see the deeper essence behind that?
Does one not feel like God at the start of Genesis, speaking into existence the heavens and the Earth? When one speaks, they are really involved in a great act of creation! The common man does not see this grandeur, however, and therefore resorts to mere grunts and hackneyed phrases—sterile, worn out, and old—that relate only to his will, his immediate want and need, completely ignoring the incomparable fact that he was able to conceive of that idea in the first place. The artistic or dramatic man, the melancholic or melodic (joyous) man, the ridiculous or absurd man—in short, all those sentimental men, with deep hearts and large intelligences, whose minds are on the world, privy to every misery and despair, as well as every joy and pleasant moment: these are the men who feel the spirit within, who see beyond mere nature, and rather encompass the whole of reality in that single sensation, an experience of infinite revelation—these are the ones who can appreciate creation, the only ones, in fact, who can move beyond mere matter, mere man, good and evil (dichotomies as such), and express themselves with the truest apperception (self-consciousness) of their own supreme intelligence and significance. The man who sees an ocean in a waterdrop knows exactly what I mean. Meister Eckhart knew this all too well, for he once said, “Love has no why.” The infinite within love is not subject to our self-justifications for it, that is, free from our needing to know the for and the why of our love. Love just is, and is because it is, and will be as it is because that simply is what it is. This is the resignation of the finite into the infinite. The concept is so ungraspable, and yet embodied in the world through speech and action—thus giving it the appearance of graspability—that most consign the infinite aspect to a wretched finite existence in mere concept, as if concept were enough to represent, and rightly reflect, the immensity of the word, of love itself—the action of supreme benignity.
What I want to do is awaken you to this supremeness, this greatness, this grandeur that encircles you every second of every day. That is why I find speaking almost a divine act: for in its embodiment, the infinite aspect of it becomes embodied in the movement of the spirit (the spirit being the process of our action in the moment) and is thus reflected out into the world as something we say or do. I say again—words fail; language is a poor translation—but it is enough… it is enough. It is enough for us to recognize that supreme love, that omnipotent greatness, that indescribable animation of the spirit which compels us to move forward with a certain self-aware impetus only capable within man. Indeed, implicit within our very being is that vivacity of spirit, that creating spirit, that freely wandering spirit, which we all intuitively feel but rarely cherish while we live. That is, in short, the immensity of language, which puts into a single, coherent expression the totality of our being; for our very essence is tied to action—is, in fact, ultimately one with action—and brings the infinite aspect down to the finite and makes comprehensible that which, conceptually, seems vague, obscure, cloudy, undefinable, and unactable. It is the best we can do, being the kind of creatures that we are: brash, brazen, boisterous, strident, strong-willed, assertive, aggressive, arrogant, conceited, controlling, disruptive, dominating, domineering, headstrong, undisciplined, manipulative, and power-hungry. We are capable, however, of moving past our natural defects, surprisingly, by returning ourselves to ourselves—that is, by finding in existence what makes us a part of it, rather than what makes us, we think, above it.
I find in culture all that life can afford, for culture is the living, breathing embodiment of everything we as a species care about; whether it be the present culture or cultures long dead, we still find our humanness stamped in every epoch we have ever lived in, and thus are we always a part of that great chain of nature:—such a magnificent story we have made for ourselves thus far; how much greatness there is within existence as such, as it appears, as it embodies itself in us, and as we move and progress it further through our spirit. Oh life, oh my: how much I have sought you, how much I have yearned for you, how much I have ignored you… NO LONGER! All appears all-too-clear in my mind now, now that I have become one with all around me; now that I have accepted myself for what I am, as a little bubble brought forth from the raging ocean of time; now that I have found myself within myself, and have loved myself for myself, and have done all I could for the sake of bettering myself—oh yes!—all that leading up to this moment right now: all for me to say, with complete steadfastness, my love for love, and my love for life. That, after all, is the beauty of life: that it can be considered a good at all. But in all this enthusiasm for life, a certain fascination of mine has returned with full vigor.
I have always wondered why it was that during the Enlightenment, man shunned the allegorical and magnificent, as if life itself was not meant to be expressed as we felt but rather as reason dictated to us. This kills life itself, and makes existence a plaything for the mind to ponder and comprehend, dominate even, but never to feel or enjoy. Does one not find the beauties of reason boring, pompous, prolix, lifeless, and utterly abhorrent to all that is life-affirming? To affirm life is amor fati (love of fate), for life is short, art long, and existence all-too-contingent and transitory for us to walk upon (as if on solid ground) with eternal confidence; again, life comes in and goes out like the ocean tides, but never has rest, and is constantly in motion—eternally so, striving after ambitious ends and vain pursuits that we think lead us somewhere but in fact end nowhere. Man is without end but his capacities are limited. Man may speak but not know why he speaks. Man may think but not know why he thinks. Man may know but not know why he knows. Everything in existence is a mystery for man, because man was not made to know existence. Man was made for man, nurtured by nature, killed and was killed, ate and was eaten, lied and was lied to, cheated and was cheated on, waged war and had war waged on him; you see, the whole circle of life is a violent history of violence; from microbe to man, nature bore witness to all that has transpired on the Earth, and was indifferent to every sad existence, and even more so to those whose existence was lived for the sake of eternal life—that is surely the saddest existence of all. In response to every tragedy, including mankind’s very existence, humanity made for itself many pretty narratives in times of need; these stories then went on to be taken seriously, and had authority behind them for no other reason than their popularity, which later became so popular they were enforced by law; later still—much later, in fact—they grew even more popular, so much so that those who decided to reject them were murdered and had war declared on them. Such was the story of religion, and such is why their holy books—be it the Bible, Qur’an, or Book of Mormon—will never hold a candle to the story of nature, to the implicit goodness in existence, and to the inner tranquility that comes with accepting all as true—tolerating every absurdity and contradiction as if it were true: because all… in fact… is true.
I wish mankind was more tolerant to itself. If the Enlightenment was the greatest boon humanity has ever seen, why did it begin in the same century as the Thirty Years’ War? Why has man committed unspeakable atrocity against man, century after century, over differences in belief? Why has man thought it wise to dispense with the numinous simply because other men from past centuries used that feeling to justify barbarity? I do not hold mankind in such contempt as these so-called freethinkers do. These people would have the world stripped of color, beauty, grace, and love if it meant the greatest good for the greatest number; they would do away with all art and expression if it meant saying only what was rational; they would even sacrifice emotion on the altar of reason if they could—so long as people were consistent in all their thoughts and actions. Such a world is one they want, for they themselves value “truth” more than feeling; but hasn’t anyone told them, truth is dead, and we have killed it. What a fright this would cause them. How much dread they would feel, and horror they would express, at the sight of the bloody corpse of truth, strung up like a puppet, and now made to dance to the tune of our hearts! This they cannot allow. They would rather treat “truth” like some sacred idol, made to sanctify and bow before, but never to be heeded—just like how people treat religion today, as if it were a matter of little consequence.
I, for one, like to think I say nothing new, only what I think; and if what I think means going against the world, then so much the worse for the world. I was born to challenge, to not respect, to be difficult, to be obscure, rambling, absurd, ridiculous, etc. My very ideas are consequential because they represent everything that man accepts but does not act on: POWER, EXISTENCE, DESIRE, LIFE. The only thing I worship is the innate capacity within man to overcome. Self-overcoming—Selbstüberwindung! In that lies man’s ability to dare, to know, to feel, to express, in short, to live—to live on in spite of everything being doomed to decay and death. What I despise—for I am a great despiser—is modern man’s tendency to use reason to justify his actions, rather than deferring to the oldest instinct within him: POWER! Man today is anti-power! Man today subjugates power to reason, rather than placing reason upon the rack, nay further, having it hanged, drawn, and quartered. Man today couldn’t begin to fathom the immensity of his own power. That is precisely why he is so weak today: man today uses reason not to empower but to justify, to convince others rather than to act himself, to feel comforted rather than actively challenged. The whole of humanity at present seems to lie under a curse, a crippling fever, a debilitating anxiety—as if from within a dream—which they cannot break loose from: this curse… is REASON! For far too long have sophists and charlatans taken the reins, and have run the whole species into a wall of paradoxes and confusions which reason itself cannot break them out of. Oh, silly reason, when will you open up man’s heart and reveal his true nature to him? Never, because you assume the heart is ultimately subordinate to reason—as if the heart had no say in reason, and as if reason were implicitly better than feeling. For shame, I say. It is a great shame because these people know nothing of others, let alone themselves, and yet they assume that merely because they follow deductions they assume as rational, they should yoke the rest of the Earth with them in that silly belief. All this ultimately stems from a negative evaluation of humanity. They hold all to be stupider-than-thou because they go with what is instinctual rather than what is rational. I, however, am not so disrespectful towards humanity. I, rather, like to think I hold man’s existence in high regard, and would only love to see him self-actualized and empowered; but these philologī ratiōnis (lovers of reason) think themselves atop a pedestal, never to be overthrown, because in their mind they already see the future, and that future is one where man cannot find pleasure in existence if he does not have a reason for his pleasure. But, to echo Meister Eckhart again, pleasure has no why. Existence has no why. All is but a repetition in the great sea of being; the waves may crash differently than before, and the sun may shine off the shore at different angles, but all repeats eternally—undifferentiatedly!
That is why I consider myself a redundant man, an absurd man, even a wretched and vain man: because I love nothing more than to compare one infinite with another—to weigh one eternity with another—while at the same time contrasting their eternal opposites, until I feel I have completely understood and synthesized them all. Such a totality is impossible to comprehend, but that is why I repeat myself.
The poet of existence has no qualms going over again and again the same experience if new material may be brought forth from it. That, in essence, seems to be what modern man lacks today: the ability to overcome, to increase in power, through the use of repetition. Man needs a new lens by which to view reality. Until that lens is offered—and so long as he resorts to reason over passion in the interim—the sages of old and great men of the past will have to be continuously cited to them; thus will they have to be consulted, their words read but passed over without consequence, infinitely, ad nauseam, until repetition itself is tired of repetition.