There is nothing less poetic and divine than remorse, that stabbing and invincible pain that sets in to hurt. To experience it is to allow the mind to blacken and the sight to catch only the unpleasantness in everything. It is like a dense force that pulls the spirit down in all circumstances. Curious to confront it with the repeated Buddhist recommendation to break and destroy attachments completely. I do not remember seeing them discoursing on the remorse resulting from the suffering generated by such an operation. Perhaps, it will be with effects and healing foreseen on this infinite path of self-annihilation. I am not sure that such a path leads to nirvana when traveled to the end; however, I do know what monsters it is capable of producing…
Tag: philosophy
Once Absorbed, Schopenhauer’s Philosophy…
Once absorbed, Schopenhauer’s philosophy remains like a black lamp that the mind cannot turn away from. There is a magnetism about it, a dark attraction that always makes sure to draw attention to itself. And then it shows itself, always wise, true and unpleasant, as pushing with irrefutable arguments the conduct advocated by its creator. One can say what one wants about Schopenhauer, but one cannot deny his force.
The Moralist Is Someone Who Swallows Stones
The moralist is someone who swallows stones and, unable to digest them, feels them tearing him from the inside in a painful journey that turns into literary groans. Nothing is gained from them, except the realization that they have occurred and will occur again. The moralist can do nothing against the stones, and there seems to be something in him that urges him to eat them again and again.
Any Work Is Bearable…
By Guyau:
« Maudit soit ce travail qui, semblable à la flamme,
Dévore notre vie et la disperse au vent ;
Maudit ce luxe vain, ces caprices de femme
Toujours prêts à payer sa vie à qui la vend ! »
Oh, despair! And the impressive, the unbelievable thing, is to see that such verses today can only come out of very rare feathers, those unable to adapt to the prevailing normality. Undoubtedly, such an unacknowledged feeling is a sin against modern society, which demands the acceptance and exaltation of these qualities and this conduct that seems to strangle human dignity. I believe it was Dostoevsky who reflected, in the freezing cold prison of Siberia, that any work is bearable, but to see it useless, to see oneself striving for nothing, that is absolutely revolting and intolerable to man: in such a situation, the best thing, no doubt, is not to exist. But Dostoevsky, perhaps, was too hasty: at least today, very few seem to fit his observation.