A Happy Life

There were two men. David believed he would attain eternal life after he died if he followed a strict moral code. Stephen thought that he had one chance at life.

David spent his time on Earth suppressing desires and living a clean, simple and modest life. He thought that this choice was bringing him closer to the transcendent, which he believed he could feel. He felt spiritually pure from this self-denial.

Stephen lived somewhat more loosely, allowing himself greater material self-expression. He engaged with the natural world and made use of everything it had to offer. In pursuing worldly happiness, he felt he was making the right choice.

During their lives, both men were content. When they reached old age, both men died.

The Desire for Meaning

Humans are, as far as we know, the only animal on Earth that can intelligently perceive their own existence and ask the question: why? I think every person who has really sat down and thought about the existence of human life would have become incredibly confused and baffled. There is no readily recognisable purpose or motive for my life. Looking at the world around me, it could function just as well without me. It could function just as well- in fact, probably better- without any humans at all.

Some, myself included, come to the conclusion from this that humans are some kind of freak of nature, some mistake of genetics, occupying a universe that is itself a lucky, freakish coincidence; but now we’re here, we might as well make the most of it. This is not an easy position to take. Thinking humans have a powerful and seemingly innate drive for meaning; I sincerely want there to be something more to the universe, I really want to have been put here for a purpose. (And because everyone feels this need, many are very ready to believe anything that satisfies it.) This yearning for meaning is a fundamental force in much of human activity.

I recently listened to a speech given by Richard Holloway, former Episcopal Bishop of Edinburgh, now ‘Christian agnostic’, at the Sydney Writer’s Festival, replayed on ABC Radio National’s Encounter. He talks about our ‘puzzlement at the riddle of existence’ and mentions the three big questions: Where do we come from? What are we? Where are we going? That is, how did humans come about, is there a purpose for our existence, and what happens after death? I think everyone will agree that if we knew the answers to these, we would be content- and life would be a lot less interesting.

Religions answer these questions. For many these are not agonising, soul-destroying enigmas, but simple questions of doctrine: God made us, we’re here to do God’s work, and we’re going to Heaven, to use a well-known set of examples. The religious imagination has provided a powerful series of narratives, symbols and principles that provide transcendental structures, metaphysical frameworks, by which our own pitiful lives are made more meaningful.

I would argue that the need for explanations similarly drives the scientific quest. The process of experimentation, argumentation, dismissal and approval has pushed back the veils of ignorance around a lot of the questions regarding how our world functions and how we fit into it. A lot of science is done in the search for specific, tangible goals, like technological and health applications. But a lot also seems to be driven solely by this desire for meaning. When Copernicus established the Earth’s orbit around the Sun, he was not trying to tangibly improve the lives of present or future humans; he was simply trying to find a truth. The current search for a unified theory in physics, romantically and evocatively coined the Theory of Everything, has similarly taken on an irrational or quasi-spiritual quality: Stephen Hawking was not simply trying to drum up sales when he concluded A Brief History of Time with, ‘for then we would know the mind of God.’

Science tends to lead to what could be labelled ‘cold’ understandings of our existence. Without the warm, fuzzy presence of God or the transcendent, we tend to be left stranded and isolated on a frigid ocean of meaninglessness. Existentialist philosophy can be seen to spring from this sentiment: we are frightened by our insignificant self-consciousness in an impersonal, unaware universe. We are an anomaly, cut off from the rest of nature by the very fact that we are self-aware; if the universe crushes us, it does so without knowing, but we, a product of that universe, for some reason can know, can be conscious of our own predicament (see the work of Hans Jonas). This is what our lives are reduced to in a world to which we ascribe no meaning.

This is an uncomfortable intellectual position to be in, and one from which most people strive to alleviate themselves. Most people are not content with an indifferent universe, a life without purpose, and an inevitable and absolute death. Even though, logically, we might know that believing in the supernatural simply because it makes our lives meaningful may be unjustified, we do it anyway. A friend of mine agrees:

If I am to smile to a fictitious belief...
I am smiling nonetheless.

Even if one could know that there was no supernatural, such a belief would still provide comfort and meaning. Richard Holloway quotes existentialist philosopher Miguel de Unamuno:

Man is perishing that may be,
But if it is nothingness that awaits us,
Let us perish resisting
And let us so live that it will be an unjust fate.

And he continues to say, as an impassioned closing, ‘I like the idea of living as though the universe did mean something – and if it doesn’t, we’ll show it that we are better than it.’

I understand this motivation, this deep desire for there to be something more, for there to be satisfactory answers to the big questions. I have it; we all have it. We all just have to accept each other’s differing conclusions. If you’ll live a happier life believing there is an intrinsic purpose to your existence, it shouldn’t bother me, as long as you respect my acceptance of the cold meaninglessness. Then we can all get along fine.

Flash demons

It’s time for a confession: I’m addicted to online Flash games.

There is something about free, quick, in-browser computer games that is incredibly appealing, more so than your larger commercial games. Over the past six months I have watched hours of my life draining away into these little time-sucking black holes.

They are the perfect procrastination tool for four reasons:

1. They are usually short and level-based, so you can kid yourself into thinking they won’t take long or that you’ll be able to stop yourself after a couple of levels.
2. There are so many of them; you can get bored of one and still have millions left to sustain you.
3. They are easily available in your web browser. It takes absolutely no effort at all to open a new tab to find a plethora of little demons waiting to steal your productivity.
4. They are free.

My advice: don’t start the habit, don’t play a single game, don’t even open one of the websites and, God forbid, do not add it to your bookmarks like I have.

[But if you were interested, I currently use OneMoreLevel.com. Try Shift; it’s a great puzzle game. With sequels!]

17-6-09 edit: And sometimes, you find a game that is practically a work of art. Little Wheel is an aesthetic and aural masterpiece.

The Superlogical

‘Every treasure there is but waiting your pleasure and utilisation. … Yet really there is nothing gained; what you have gained is no gain, and yet there is something truly gained in this.’ (p47)

I have spoken before of the problem of words; how our language can constrain the ideas we can express, and thus determine the very thoughts we can have. Recently, while reading An Introduction to Zen Buddhism by D. T. Suzuki, I was struck by how central this idea is to Zen. Suzuki was a Professor of Buddhist Philosophy from Japan who was writing in the first half of the last century, and was a major figure in bringing to the West what he calls ‘the keynote of Oriental culture’ (p35). The whole aim of Zen seems to be, as Suzuki presents it, to break down conventional logic and everything associated with it, to try to bring one closer to a true, real or raw appreciation of the world and oneself. One of the biggest hindrances to this is a dependence on words and names.

The primary issue Zen has with logic is its inherently dualistic nature. Something cannot be both A and not-A: this is perhaps the most basic foundation from which we understand our world. Zen holds that this is a flawed perspective. Thus we have statements from Zen masters like, ‘Empty-handed I go, and behold the spade is in my hands,’ (p58) which on first perusal seem to be entirely nonsensical. Actually, this holds for the second and third perusals too. Through the use of such statements- or little tales of frustrating nonsense from historical masters, called koans- Zen disciples try to break beyond the strictures of rationality; the remarks are not illogical, but superlogical.

For example, a monk asked his teacher, Joshu, “What is the ultimate principle of Buddhism?”

Joshu replied, “The cypress-tree in the courtyard.” (p106)

Suzuki goes on to say there is no symbolism in this, and if you try to follow any path of rational analysis into the koan, the spirit of Joshu will be laughing at you.

The idea that logic is ‘the bane of humanity’ (p69) is extended to the role of language in forming these logical representations of our world. To put a name on something is to fundamentally call it A. But in Zen, it could also be not-A; or, more precisely, neither. Instead, in the Zen view, an object affirms what it is by its very existence, not through the application of a label or a name to that pure or ‘absolute affirmation’ (p68). Similarly, when Bodhidharma, the First Patriarch of Zen, was asked who he was, he replied,

“I don’t know.” This was not because he couldn’t explain himself, nor was it because he wanted to avoid any verbal controversy, but just because he did not know who or what he was, save that he was what he was and could not be anything else. (p75)

To say anything about who you are constrains the possibilities of what you could be. Your very being is the purest and clearest representation of what you are, according to Zen, and this holds for any object, animal, person, and so on. ‘Even to say it is something does not hit the mark’ (p75). To say, the spade is not a spade, expresses the true state of reality ‘which refuses to be tied up in names’ (p60) more clearly than the logical application of such a label to that object. Such a contradictory statement is intended to challenge our preconceptions of rational thought and open the mind to the possibility of superlogical experiences.

Superlogical experiences? Does that sound a little like the numinous? Indeed it does; in Zen Buddhism these brief moments of transcendence are called satori. When the mind has satori, suddenly the meaning of a koan becomes clear, hitherto unknown regions of the mind are opened up, and logical dualism is outstripped in a regenerative awakening which allows one to see ‘the actual workings of things’ (p109). They are moments of bliss, they bring unshakeable convictions that there is something beyond the intellect, and once they fade, the familiar, mundane world is viewed in a more positive light. Mind you, the only things transcended are the shackles of logic. In Zen the natural world is the only world, and the process of spiritual enlightenment is an attempt to ‘open one’s eye to the significance of it all’ (p85), to see the beauty of Zen in the material world.

To return to the earlier point, the suggestion that the spiritual or numinous experience is indescribable or beyond the scope of language is not unique to Zen; it is found amongst many mystical traditions across the world. In the religious feeling we find the failure of words, and this failure suggests the fallibility of language more generally. In Zen we have a vehement argument against the dominance of labelling and categorisation, so prevalent in our society, and I feel the point is a valid one. Names are all well and good as long as we do not forget, in our analyses and interpretations of those words, the very existence of the things they are trying to represent.

Said Doko despairingly, “I cannot follow your reasoning.”

“Neither do I understand myself,” concluded the Zen master. (p57)