On Suicide

Albert Camus wrote in The Myth of Sisyphus that the only "truly philosophical problem" is that of suicide. And here we are—more than half a century later—pondering the same question, rolling the same rock up the same tired hill. But rather than revolt against the absurd as Camus consciously chose to do (who does that anymore?), we pose the question in a more sterile form: Should one have the legal right to take one's own life under the care of a physician? In time we will answer this question.

But buried beneath the surface is a more fundamental concern: Who owns us? There are various ways in which institutions own us. Through the draft the state determines who shall fight for such ideals as honor and justice. Never mind, however, that the interpretation of such ideals heavily depends on who is spouting them. Through faith and fear of hell the church presents the proper mode of living. Never mind, however, that the proper mode one "chooses" heavily depends on the accident of birth. And by framing the argument in terms of physician-assisted suicide, the state decides that our lives are not our own. Unless, perhaps, we are too ill to march and too fatigued to fear. And by acting in like manner, we are all complicit in perpetuating this assumption.

In answering questions of morality, we should consider the ways in which our actions reduce human suffering rather than adhere to rules rooted in superstition and tradition. The question is neither one of national honor—a mutable and hence meaningless abstraction—nor one of religious faith. Rather, it is one of freedom. Freedom to act in accordance with our own principles and values insofar as such actions do no harm to others.

From a young age we are taught to walk in a straight line and view belief sans evidence as a virtue. But in a world of myriad faiths, who shall choose which line is straight? At the moment it is those who hold power and work hard to keep it.

Camus died tragically in a car accident carrying with him the unfinished manuscript that would become his posthumous novel, The First Man. It is the account of one man's memories of sea and sun, a testimony of life as a work of art consciously created on one's own terms. In fact we are all in the midst of creating great works of art. And like Camus' manuscript, these works remain unfinished. And thus the final question: How hard will we fight to make them our own?

Works discussed in this piece:

Camus, Albert. The Myth of Sisyphus and Other Essays. Translated by Justin O'Brien. New York: Vintage Books, 1991.

———. The First Man. Translated by David Hapgood. New York: Vintage Books, 1996.

Gauloises and Silence

I am making my way through Albert Camus' The Fall again. I read it a few years ago, which resulted in a trip to Amsterdam in December 2007. The book is a gem, and I will reproduce one insightful passage here, appended with my comments:

Something must happen—and that explains most human commitments. Something must happen, even loveless slavery, even war or death. Hurray then for funerals!

The character speaking is Jean-Baptiste Clemence, and this self-described "judge-penitent" is issuing a confession on our behalf. The passage above reminds me of a theme that runs through Emil Cioran's work. That is, we are slaves of history—shackled in time and condemned to fits of action. The substance of this action is rather immaterial, so long as we are doing something. The following, an excerpt of a piece called "Nonsense" from Cioran's book On the Heights of Despair, is one example among many of his view of history and the "human commitments" of which Clemence speaks:

When the ticking of a watch breaks the silence of eternity, arousing you out of serene contemplation, how can you help resenting the absurdity of time, its march into the future, and all the nonsense about evolution and progress? Why go forward, why live in time?

And these words from All Gall Is Divided, in which Cioran directly confronts humankind's incessant flailing:

If History had a goal, how lamentable would be the fate of those who have accomplished nothing! But in the universal purposelessness, we stand proud, ineffectual streetwalkers, riffraff well-pleased with having been right.

Camus, of course, traffics in the absurd, and it is interesting to note how his and Cioran's responses differ. Camus believes in existential revolt, perhaps most clearly outlined in The Myth of Sisyphus. Cioran, on the other hand, assumes a less active role, choosing instead to contemplate, among other things, a return to the unborn state.

Arthur Schopenhauer also has some words to say in Parerga concerning our need for things to happen:

Men need some kind of external activity, because they are inactive within. Contrarily, if they are active within, they do not care to be dragged out of themselves; it disturbs and impedes their thoughts in a way that is often most ruinous to them.

There is clearly a pessimistic strain in the work of Camus, Cioran, and Schopenhauer, but this pessimism does not necessarily signal defeat. Ultimately, the choice of response is ours. How will we choose to craft a life in direct opposition to the absurd? Perhaps we first need to redefine what constitutes action, as Cioran does in The Trouble with Being Born:

In the days when I set off on month-long bicycle trips across France, my greatest pleasure was to stop in country cemeteries, to stretch out between two graves, and to smoke for hours on end. I think of those days as the most active period of my life.

Perhaps there will come a day when we no longer feel the need for something to happen, when we are content with the smoke of a Gauloise bathed in silence.

Works discussed in this piece:

Camus, Albert. The Fall. Translated by Justin O'Brien. New York: Vintage Books, 1956.

———. The Myth of Sisyphus and Other Essays. Translated by Justin O'Brien. New York: Vintage Books, 1991.

Cioran, E. M. All Gall Is Divided. Translated by Richard Howard. New York: Arcade, 1999.

———. On the Heights of Despair. Translated by Ilinca Zarifopol-Johnston. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1992.

———. The Trouble with Being Born. Translated by Richard Howard. New York: Arcade, 1998.

Schopenhauer, Arthur. Suffering, Suicide and Immortality. Translated and edited by T. Bailey Saunders. Mineola, NY: Dover, 2006.