In order to get out of bed in the morning, we can't think too much. It seems that the ability to do anything at all hinges on a certain degree of automatism. Emil Cioran writes the following in Drawn and Quartered:
My doubts have not been able to get the better of my automatisms. I continue to make gestures to which it is impossible for me to adhere. To overcome the drama of this insincerity would be to renounce, to annul myself.
As soon as we begin to think or even question the motivation behind any action whatsoever, a small rift appears between intention and execution. At first, the rift is barely perceptible, welling up on rainy days or Sunday mornings. But this inchoate awareness feeds on itself until the rift becomes a chasm that spoils everything. At this stage, even the smallest gesture becomes an exercise in absurdity, and words are nothing more than meaningless abstractions.
When it first becomes clear that we feel out of place in the world, a natural reaction is to swim against the current and question ourselves. After all, most of us were raised to believe in something that gives us a reason to do things: family, religion, justice. As soon as such notions become suspect, we might become angry at the world and discover the cathartic power of invective. The pen can do wonders, and there is no doubt that giving form and coherence to our thoughts can quell our most destructive impulses.
But this protracted orgasm of the word cannot last forever. Over time it weighs us down and uses us up. No longer infused with the desire to annihilate ourselves, we begin to recognize the impotence of anger and the supremacy of silence, as Cioran writes in On the Heights of Despair:
When it first becomes clear that we feel out of place in the world, a natural reaction is to swim against the current and question ourselves. After all, most of us were raised to believe in something that gives us a reason to do things: family, religion, justice. As soon as such notions become suspect, we might become angry at the world and discover the cathartic power of invective. The pen can do wonders, and there is no doubt that giving form and coherence to our thoughts can quell our most destructive impulses.
But this protracted orgasm of the word cannot last forever. Over time it weighs us down and uses us up. No longer infused with the desire to annihilate ourselves, we begin to recognize the impotence of anger and the supremacy of silence, as Cioran writes in On the Heights of Despair:
After having struggled madly to solve all problems, after having suffered on the heights of despair, in the supreme hour of revelation, you will find that the only answer, the only reality, is silence.
What do we do when every action feels contrived and useless, when the nature of every response is contaminated by a sense of arbitrariness and contingency? There is no easy answer, and there is no way to rid ourselves of that feeling of torpor that insinuates itself into every activity. At this point, the world becomes nothing more than a stage we use to entertain ourselves.
But we can use this malady to our advantage and shape it in a way that benefits us. First, we must recognize the automatism that underlies our movements and rise above each act by detaching ourselves from the act itself. Each time we get up in the morning, make ourselves a pot of coffee, go to work, we should perform the activity without believing in it and by refusing to lose ourselves in its uselessness. By injecting lucidity into the mix, we shed the automatism and consequently elevate ourselves above the act.
Second, we must learn to see the beauty in every futile gesture, every pointless task. When there is no burden of meaning to weigh anything down, we liberate ourselves from the merry-go-round. By doing this, we also rid ourselves of any possibility of disappointment. This alone is a strong reason to disbelieve in the redemptive power of hope.
Third, we must praise the purifying properties of inaction and defend it against the insults of busybodies. In order to guilt human beings into doing things, humanity deemed sloth an impure state, a problem to be dealt with. We must reclaim sloth as our own and worship it as the virtue that it is. Restlessness lies at the root of every catastrophe, as Cioran writes in All Gall Is Divided:
Violent actions are the appanage of the nations which, alien to the pleasure of lingering at the table, are ignorant of the poetry of dessert and the melancholies of digestion.
Never satisfied with lying still, our species has unthinkingly moved from one calamity to the next—the automatism of collapse, the disease of disaster.
I am most at peace when I contemplate the supreme disorder of things, when I lie on my couch for hours because no reason to rise is worthy of my respect. I may pass the time with a book or a film, but I understand these pursuits are only diversions, little tasks to fill up the otherwise vacuous hours. Suffocated by the senseless, we must be content merely to breathe. This alone must be enough.
