A post inspired by my reading so far of Martin Hägglund's This Life: Why Mortality Makes Us Free.
Strife will never arise on account of what is not loved, nor will there be sadness if it perishes, nor envy if it is possessed by another, nor fear, nor hatred—in a word, no disturbances of the mind. Indeed, all these happen only in the love of those things that can perish, as all the things we have just spoken of can do. But love toward the eternal and infinite feeds the mind with a joy entirely exempt from sadness. This is greatly to be desired, and to be sought with all our strength.
This is Baruch Spinoza in his Treatise on the Emendation of the Intellect. He was influenced by the Stoics in believing that thoughts create feelings - so, if you choose to love something, and that something is finite and/or outside your control, you place yourself in a vulnerable position. You may lose it or it may betray your love and thus you will feel pain. Therefore you should decide to value only what is eternal and constant. Spinoza, an excommunicated Jew, had his doubts about organised religion and, having studied the texts with forensic detail, saw Holy Writ as internally inconsistent. Yet he had a conception of God or Nature, as some eternal immanent substance with which the intellect could merge. The key point, in his view, is not to love finite beings or projects. People can die and people can hurt you and who wants that? Projects can fail to come to fruition or not manifest as you expect or not be greeted with interest or approval and that is shattering. Best to emend the intellect and love some abstract infinite something.
The message - and you can see how it was influenced by his reading of the Stoics* although it goes further - is that detachment from worldly interests and affections offers peace of mind. And that is of greater value than passionate engagement.
So, let's say we value only the eternal. What value does my experience today have in that context? The taste of a ripe strawberry on my tongue, the forget-me-not blue sky, the cats curled together like a feline Yin Yang symbol. All are devoid of significance for all are subject to change and decay. If these experiences are infinitely likely to be repeated, they cease to offer the same startling pleasure. If I have all the time in the world, there is no significant choice to make about what best to do now, what best to focus my attention on now.
If I am afraid of what I cannot control, what point in writing? I may have no readers or my readers may make comments I do not like and I may be pained.
What point in seeking to maintain my health? If I believe in an eternal soul that exists in complete contentment, surely that is better than dirty, sinful temporal life? It would be logically inconsistent to seek to extend my life if my real value were placed in an eternal life after death, wouldn't it?
If I withhold my love and interest from matters of this life (which I do actually believe is the only one I have), then I skim through it without living. In fact, if I fail to face up to the stark reality of finitude, then I fail to make the most of my time. It is the very engagement with life, despite the risks, that makes it worthwhile. Indeed, these cats and that dog matter, not despite their mortality but because of their mortality - if they were not vulnerable, temporal and contingent, if they were eternal, their value in a given period surely would be lesser - because I could take their existence for granted. They are precious because I can't take their presence for granted. They are precious because every day is a gift that I could have been without.
If I love a person, their love is valuable because it could be otherwise. If it were guaranteed and eternal, there would be no motivation to work at the relationship. The existential risk is what creates meaning.
Yet always in these loves - and in the love for any project, say, writing a book or creating a political protest movement - there is the fear that it might turn out badly, not achieve the desired end. If one wants to remove the risk of pain, one steps out of the arena and sits on the sidelines of life, commenting rather than engaging, and that could be seen as an act of cowardice. More tragically it is to waste what opportunities life offers for the greatest pleasures - of passion and energy and adventure. The avoidance of possible pain becomes a choice not to engage with life - and by so doing one makes life meaningfulness.
Choosing to live fully, to own one's life, is to be exposed. It is an act of secular faith. And it is this faith in the value of the fragility and beauty of finitude that has given us great art and great discovery - because there have been people brave enough to make their lives dependent on what they do and what they love, despite the risks.
At this time, now, when the risk is more evident than it ever has been for those of us in the West in these post-war generations, such a faith becomes a more deliberate choice. Of course, we should not take risks to our health, but we can choose to invest time and love in what matters to us. Here is this window, these months of seclusion, and what are we going to do with it? As we watch the number of deaths rise, how are we going to treat ourselves and our loved ones? Does this existential risk not make meaning more important? Does it not make you wish to turn away from the superficial and dive into, commit to, your deepest passions?
If my father's health and continued existence is threatened more than before, I wish to make sure that I am valuing him now. I do not wish to detach in order to protect myself from grief. To claim that he would 'go to a better place' could release me from the pain of the possibility of him dying, but crucially that would not act as a motivation to love him and value him as I know him - human, occasionally irritating, honest and loyal. The richness and power of life lies in its evanescence not in dreams of eternity.
NOTES
*The Stoics were not uncaring: it's not that they did not experience love or grief and so on, in fact they valued friendship highly, to the extent they'd be willing to die for a friend. But what they were able to do was overcome the negative emotions.
This is from Seneca's Letter to Lucilius, On Philosophy and Friendship:
If he lose a hand through disease or war, or if some accident puts out one or both of his eyes, he will be satisfied with what is left, taking as much pleasure in his impaired and maimed body as he took when it was sound. But while he does not pine for these parts if they are missing, he prefers not to lose them.
Just read it for the 2nd time. I find it very useful - at this stage of the pandemic.