Modern psychiatry, invading the terrain of philosophy, is already a kind of doctrine in which eminent Simões Bacamartes are taking great strides toward the end that the original one had. There is a model of normality, and this model is that of the jester. Anyone who does not fit into it is unquestionably sick and should seek professional help. There are judgments about life, about the environment, about others, there are deliberate behaviors that only spring up in an unhealthy mind. All of them, of course, must be treated. A Seneca, a Schopenhauer, fatally suffers from a disorder. So do all saints, all monks, hermits of any kind, poets, dreamers, adventurers, and many others. A Fernando Pessoa, then, is a raving madman, a lunatic to be tied at the foot of a table. And for all these, the most enlightened modern psychiatry has already attributed a mental illness. All this would be funny, if we were not in an age where freedoms are gradually stifled and individuals are increasingly forced to follow a behavioral primer. It would not be long before the State, based on Science, proposes to correct the disturbed, justifying itself by Marketing. And then the mentally ill, those harmful to the common good, are interned. It is possible to perfectly imagine the Ministry of Health that Orwell did not create, operated by today’s very powerful sociopaths, whose taste for control exceeds all limits ever recorded by history. What a catastrophe!
Category: Notes
My Disease
It is obvious that I would eventually find my own illness in psychology books. I had already foreseen this myself. But it was not without surprise that I came across it, precise and undeniable, as if smiling enthusiastically at the first formal contact. I analyze its symptoms and conclude: I am sick. The shrewd psychiatrist convinces me: I am suffering from a rare disease, I need help, I must overcome my resistance, accept it, and run to the doctor’s office. If I have humility, if I make a sincere effort, I can be converted into a normal human being. What a thing… I have identified so much with the disease that I would gladly provide a smiling photo of myself to enrich with an illustration the encyclopedia of mental disorders. But how ugly is the name of my disease! how repulsive! I admit that I suffer, that I am very, very sad, but why this nominal insult? Surely, because the term of terrible taste or the terrible taste of the term accurately defines an animal of my species to the specialist.
A Whisper
I am, concentrated, composing some verses. I feel my mind boiling. I jump from a dictionary to my draft, alter words, conjure up images, and idealize the ideal rhythm. I find a word, fit it into a verse; but I hit the brakes. “Avanças“: this verb lacks rhyme. I want brilliance, I condense the efforts, I energetically stimulate the thought. Then I hear a whisper: “Esquivanças, esquivanças!” Ah, Camões… what a surprise! I automatically smile: I have won the day! An excellent rhyme, excellent, but… what to say? how to disguise my rudeness? I keep smiling. I cannot simply say that times have changed; it is my verses, Mr. Camões, specifically my verses, that have this innate aridity that is refractory to your brilliance and your sensitivity. I do not know how to make this kind of rhyme. Even if I wanted to, even if I force, my fingers will not type this word inside a verse. But I thank you, I thank you very much. I will spend the rest of the day, like a madman, laughing to myself.
The New Philosophies of “Indulgence”
However plausible, rational, and, above all, seductive these new philosophies of “indulgence” which have sprung up in the last century may seem, regrettably they know little about the inner nature of desire. While there is some basis for criticism of the methods employed by religions to condemn human nature and to inoculate souls with an often unwarranted sense of guilt, and while, no doubt, violent repression of impulses may produce moral monsters, the path of “indulgence” in no way leads to the results these philosophies promise. They err because they think that indulgence will deliver satisfaction to souls, but this, by the means proposed, is very, very fleeting. Indulgence does not make the indulgent master of desires, any more than desires are overcome by repression. Perennial satisfaction comes from a peaceful elevation over the flesh, a turning entirely to something higher, which is nothing other than the adoption of a scale of values different from that of ordinary men. But there it is: for the new philosophers of indulgence, adopting such a scale is unthinkable. What they will never understand is that not every man suffers from desire, because there are those who make its manifestations simply insignificant.