What men call passion is the friction of the soul with the Universe.
Herman Hesse wrote these words (roughly paraphrased) in The Glass Bead Game. Of the many words in that long, dull book (I couldn't bring myself to finish it), these were instantly seared onto my brain. Why? Because I understand them.
I suspect this is one of those "if you have to ask" situations. If you have to ask, you can't afford it. If you have to ask, you won't understand. But let's try, shall we?
Truly great art -- whether visual, written, or philosphized -- can only stem from great torment. Think about it. What does calm, peaceful, serenity give you? Beautiful but vapid Monets. Socially poignant but emotionally flat Jane Austen. Saccharine Emily Dickenson. But what does the tormented soul produce? Van Gogh, Sylvia Plath, Nietzsche! Stormy seas, these people have sailed -- and their art is so much more meaningful and profound because of it.
Monet painted beautiful pictures, Jane Austen wrote fine novels, and I suppose someone out there likes Dickenson. But one's enjoyment of them does not plow the depths of one's soul. On the other hand, even the most placid of Van Gogh's paintings evokes an emotional energy so raw that it is palpable. Plath -- who can read her poems and not feel a sense of self-recognition in their darkness? And Nietzsche -- he went so far off into the universe that he ended up in the nuthouse.
And sadly, that is a common fate for such friction-filled souls. Why did Van Gogh cut off his ear, Friedrich get carted away to the asylum, and poor Sylvia off herself in her early 30s? Why do such brilliant minds, with such insight into reality end up mentally unstable?
Because such souls are few and far between, and at the end of the day humans are social creatures. If one doesn't have another like mind, someone who understands, it takes its toll. Even the accepted-but-social-oddity of the absent minded scientist or out of touch and solitary philosopher eventually cannot resist the innate need for companionship. And so these souls spend their lives alone, adrift, trying to find their way in a world that does not understand them.
Some, like Plath, give in to despair and the desire for release. But those who lack emotional stability to begin with or who simply refuse to assimilate end up in asylums --or today, find themselves in a lifelong relationship with Xanax. I suppose it is to be expected -- what else would a society do with its "crazies"?
I wonder how this phenomenon will change in the modern world. The internet and social networking make it so much easier to meet people far and wide. Will this lessen the solitude of such souls? Will feeling less alone reduce their friction enough to make life bearable?
I've outlived both Sylvia and Vincent, so I guess I'll have to let you know when I get to my padded cell.
The latin root of passion is passus which means pain. If pain is to be endured it must have meaning. I think for the existentialists about whom you are writing that you could look into their lives and evaluate them for their relative strengths in being able to imagine meaningful futures for themsleves. It is not easy to do this. We have bodies, emotions, and responsibilities that can move us away from the future that we designate for ourselves. Plath put her head in the oven because of troubles with a lover. Im not sure what was up with Van gogh, but I know that Nietzsche felt deeply betrayed by the parochial and antisemetic oafishness of Wagner as well as the small mindedness of the german academic establishment. They were human beings who painstakingly pursued their creative passions in and who felt deeply the disappointments that they had with the people around them. I think those feelings destroyed their strength to exist. I think that if one is going to inquire about anything in the world, then they have to take care of themselves in order to minimize the fruitless pain that can be visited by oafs - but not entirely fruitless because nietzsche knew that wagners way was the exact opposite of where modernity should go - and to do ones best to protect ones capacity to journey to the place where only that person can see. If passion is the friction of the universe rubbing against the soul, then the artist needs to be an engine that can transform that can transform that energy into propellant - not an easy task.
ReplyDeleteA most eloquent comment; thank you so much.
ReplyDeletePlath's suicide was most decidedly not about a lover. That may have been the trigger issue, but it was not her first attempt. Her lifelong friction was from being this intense, creative, intelligent being - yet living in a society that saw her "only" as a woman. Even though she led a life with more academic and professional privilege than most women of her day, the "bell jar" experience is inescapable. It still is today, for many women of similar temperment (I cannot speak for men but suppose the same is true for those lying outside society's dictated roles).
Van Gogh had "mental illness" his "whole life," which I interpret to mean he might have been something like bipolar. Which today is treated with magic pills -- ie, by deadening the passion inside. While some leveling out can be good and welcome, ultimately it kills who we are. May as well shove your head in an oven.
Regardless of individual circumstances, what these people have in common is, as you said, a deep disappointment in those around them. Taking care of themselves to minimize this pain is not so simple. I think today we have language that might make it easier, but back then they did not. It was "fit in your box or be a loon." I guess my main point (if I had one) was that feeling isolated in that experience contributes to their loss of will to live or the intensity of their struggle, however you want to characterize it.
After further reflection....
ReplyDeleteYou speak of one's inner passions as the thing that derails us from attaining "the future we designate for ourselves." Absolutely true. But don't forget the external forces. I see these existentialists as having tried, over and over, to attain that future, banging their heads against the wall of ignorance in their societies. I think each of them did stay true to their chosen future -- they each achieved incredible levels of artistry and creativity. But the relentless rejection by society at large proved too much in the end.
So I suppose that my words and thoughts come from the viewpoint of the external forces creating the friction, although it is a bit of chicken-and-the-egg. External forces create internal friction....