Francis Berger's Blog, page 168
January 25, 2019
Not Much Luck With Writer Friends, But Still Hopeful
Writing is a solitary activity, but I have always left the door open to the possibility of establishing friendships with other writers. My desire to form relationships with my peers is likely motivated by the many successful and fruitful friendships between authors I have read about. One need look no further than the friendship of Fitzgerald and Hemingway or the Inklings - the connection between Lewis and Tolkien in particular - to recognize that writer friendships can indeed be beneficial and stimulating.
Unfortunately, the vast majority of the friendships I have had with a variety of writers thus far has rarely led to anything worthwhile or valuable. I am not referring to the lack any sort tangible aspects - contacts, recommendations, promotion, and the like - but rather to the more intangible aspects I had hoped friendships with other writers could yield such as comradery, mentorship, trust, guidance, fellowship, motivation, and solidarity.
It has been my experience that most obscure writers - of which I am certainly one - only wish to secure writer friendships for the sole purpose of promoting themselves. This is understandable, but certainly not admirable as it amounts to little more than self-aggrandizing narcissism.
Forever on the lookout for their big break, unknown writers also tend to be ruthlessly ambitious and opportunistic and treat their so-called friendships with other writers as rungs on some imaginary ladder. Most writers are also pathologically self-absorbed. They are keen to have you read and review their work, but show little interest in returning the favor.
Insecurity also is a common issue in writer friendships. Very few writers possess the nobility to admit that something someone else wrote is of superior quality. Rather than praise or encourage their writer friend, most writers sink into a strange state of passive-aggression or become bitter with resentment and either make efforts to sabotage their so-called friend, or do everything they can to sever the friendship entirely. Many writers also struggle to deal with alternative viewpoints, especially political ones. I cannot tell you how many writer friends I lost merely by admitting to something as simple as being a Christian, or revealing my disagreement with whatever manufactured controversy happened to be dominating the headlines.
Forming connections with established writers carries its own set of pitfalls. The points mentioned above apply to friendships with established writers as well, but tendencies such as condecension, scorn, flippancy, and snobbery also come into play. Most established writers are not particularly interested in forming connections with unestablished writers. After all, what advantage does that give them? On the other hand, unestablished writers are extremely interested in forming connections with established writers both as a sign of validation and as an opportunity to gain prestige and recognition.
As I mentioned earlier, my experiences with other writers, both established and unestablished, could be at best described at mixed with a fairly negative slant. My attempts to establish lasting friendships with writers usually degenerated into tangled webs of mild disappointment, mistrust, envy, and resentment. Much of this is due to the simple fact that writing was the only thing I had in common with the writers I befriended in the past, and I have since learned that sharing an interest in writing is not an adequately solid foundation upon which to build a friendship. On the contrary, having nothing but writing in common is positively poisonous because it hinders each party's ability to see the other as a subject rather than an object.
Though I appreciate all the writer friendships I have had in the past and learned something from each one of them, I no longer actively seek out writers as friends simply because they are writers. I am also quite cautious when other writers approach me with their hands extended. It is not so much that I have closed the door on the possibility of having other writers as friends, but the realization that writer friendships must be based on the same stuff regular friendships are.
Love.
Unfortunately, the vast majority of the friendships I have had with a variety of writers thus far has rarely led to anything worthwhile or valuable. I am not referring to the lack any sort tangible aspects - contacts, recommendations, promotion, and the like - but rather to the more intangible aspects I had hoped friendships with other writers could yield such as comradery, mentorship, trust, guidance, fellowship, motivation, and solidarity.
It has been my experience that most obscure writers - of which I am certainly one - only wish to secure writer friendships for the sole purpose of promoting themselves. This is understandable, but certainly not admirable as it amounts to little more than self-aggrandizing narcissism.
Forever on the lookout for their big break, unknown writers also tend to be ruthlessly ambitious and opportunistic and treat their so-called friendships with other writers as rungs on some imaginary ladder. Most writers are also pathologically self-absorbed. They are keen to have you read and review their work, but show little interest in returning the favor.
Insecurity also is a common issue in writer friendships. Very few writers possess the nobility to admit that something someone else wrote is of superior quality. Rather than praise or encourage their writer friend, most writers sink into a strange state of passive-aggression or become bitter with resentment and either make efforts to sabotage their so-called friend, or do everything they can to sever the friendship entirely. Many writers also struggle to deal with alternative viewpoints, especially political ones. I cannot tell you how many writer friends I lost merely by admitting to something as simple as being a Christian, or revealing my disagreement with whatever manufactured controversy happened to be dominating the headlines.
Forming connections with established writers carries its own set of pitfalls. The points mentioned above apply to friendships with established writers as well, but tendencies such as condecension, scorn, flippancy, and snobbery also come into play. Most established writers are not particularly interested in forming connections with unestablished writers. After all, what advantage does that give them? On the other hand, unestablished writers are extremely interested in forming connections with established writers both as a sign of validation and as an opportunity to gain prestige and recognition.
As I mentioned earlier, my experiences with other writers, both established and unestablished, could be at best described at mixed with a fairly negative slant. My attempts to establish lasting friendships with writers usually degenerated into tangled webs of mild disappointment, mistrust, envy, and resentment. Much of this is due to the simple fact that writing was the only thing I had in common with the writers I befriended in the past, and I have since learned that sharing an interest in writing is not an adequately solid foundation upon which to build a friendship. On the contrary, having nothing but writing in common is positively poisonous because it hinders each party's ability to see the other as a subject rather than an object.
Though I appreciate all the writer friendships I have had in the past and learned something from each one of them, I no longer actively seek out writers as friends simply because they are writers. I am also quite cautious when other writers approach me with their hands extended. It is not so much that I have closed the door on the possibility of having other writers as friends, but the realization that writer friendships must be based on the same stuff regular friendships are.
Love.
January 24, 2019
Night Walks In a Winter Landscape
I spend most of any given day sitting behind a desk, which is why I welcome physical activity whenever I can partake in it. I am not a fitness freak or a health nut, but I like staying active and fit. For many years I went to gyms and health clubs, but these day I keep my fitness regimen limited to calesthenics, jogging, and walking. These activities are easy to do in the spring, summer, and autumn when the weather and light conditions are more conducive to these activities, all of which I do almost exclusively in the fields, pastures, and woods surrounding my house. However, as the winter set in, the dark afternoons and the cold ultimately marked the end of my time in nature during weekdays.
Walking on a dark winter evening never posed much of a problem when I lived in cities or suburbs where adequate lighting and shoveled sidewalks ensured I could see where I was going, but walking through the unlit fields and pastures surrounding a small village in rural western Hungary is a different matter entirely. The streets and sidewalks of my village are mostly lit, but I don't enjoy walking there in the winter after I come home from work. For starters, the settlement is so small that it requires three laps around the circumference of the village to clock an hour. Though a little monotonous, this in itself would not be so bad if it were not for two things - the smoke and the dogs.
Most of my fellow villagers heat their homes with wood or any other combustible material they can cram into their furnaces. During the winter, a thick blanket of smoke settles down over the streets and houses in the afternoon and remains until well into the night. The few times I did go for a walk around the village in the evening, I came home smelling like a smoked salami, not to mention the unpleasantness in the lungs after breathing in chimney smoke for an extended period of time. Even more aggravating are the dogs, which are a staple of nearly every rural Hungarian home. Sixty minutes of being incessantly growled and barked at makes for neither a relaxing nor soothing walk, I can assure you.
Three or four smoke-filled walks accompanied by the comforting sounds of ninety-pound German shepherds howling and hurling themselves against steel gates and fences were enough to convince me that evening walks in Fertöendréd were not conducive to either my health or my peace of mind. For a while, I contemplated buying some kind of exercise machine, but I knew I would likely grow bored with it, and it would end up nothing more than a bulky and unsightly towel rack after a month or two. All this time the fields and woods around my house beckoned.
In the end, I found a simple solution to my dilemma and invested in an affordable head lamp, one with illumination strong enough to light up the patch of space before me as I walked. The head lamp was all it took to make the fields and pastures accessible again, and I have been going out for long walks in the fields after work ever since.
In many ways, I prefer walking in nature at night in the winter than in the spring or summer sunshine. There is a stillness in the winter night landscape that cannot be replicated at any other time of the year. No insects buzz past your ears; no birds twitter in the distance. The only sounds are the crunching of my footfalls on the snowy ground and the rustling of dried grass and the frozen branches of trees I pass. Every once in a while I will stir up a duck as walk beside the river bank, or startle an unsuspecting red deer resting in a thicket next to the corn fields. On clear nights, the stars blaze in the blackness revealing the enigmatic beauty and vastness of space, while on foggy nights the vast open landscape is reduced the circle of light before my feet, leaving me no option but sink into deep, contemplative thought.
Regardless of the weather, I am always the only person in the fields at night during winter time, and in my more playful moments I imagine I am the only person left in the world. For the better part of an hour I relish the solitude, but as I make my way back toward my house and the illuminated steeple of the village church comes back into view in the distance, I think of my wife and young son waiting at home. I whisper a quick thanks that I am not truly alone in the world.
As I do so, I consider all the people in the world who are. Those countless faces, some known, others forever unknown, for whom life has become - perhaps temporarily, perhaps permanently - nothing but an endless, dark winter landscape, with no illuminated church steeple in the distance and no family waiting at home. Those countless millions for whom solitude offers no solace; for whom the awe of a starry night sky strikes nothing but unease and despair.
As I get back onto the street leading to my house, I kick the snow from boots and utter a quick prayer for them all, wondering, if and when, my turn will ever come. If it does, I hope some solitary walker in the winter night takes a moment and whispers a prayer for me.
Walking on a dark winter evening never posed much of a problem when I lived in cities or suburbs where adequate lighting and shoveled sidewalks ensured I could see where I was going, but walking through the unlit fields and pastures surrounding a small village in rural western Hungary is a different matter entirely. The streets and sidewalks of my village are mostly lit, but I don't enjoy walking there in the winter after I come home from work. For starters, the settlement is so small that it requires three laps around the circumference of the village to clock an hour. Though a little monotonous, this in itself would not be so bad if it were not for two things - the smoke and the dogs.
Most of my fellow villagers heat their homes with wood or any other combustible material they can cram into their furnaces. During the winter, a thick blanket of smoke settles down over the streets and houses in the afternoon and remains until well into the night. The few times I did go for a walk around the village in the evening, I came home smelling like a smoked salami, not to mention the unpleasantness in the lungs after breathing in chimney smoke for an extended period of time. Even more aggravating are the dogs, which are a staple of nearly every rural Hungarian home. Sixty minutes of being incessantly growled and barked at makes for neither a relaxing nor soothing walk, I can assure you.
Three or four smoke-filled walks accompanied by the comforting sounds of ninety-pound German shepherds howling and hurling themselves against steel gates and fences were enough to convince me that evening walks in Fertöendréd were not conducive to either my health or my peace of mind. For a while, I contemplated buying some kind of exercise machine, but I knew I would likely grow bored with it, and it would end up nothing more than a bulky and unsightly towel rack after a month or two. All this time the fields and woods around my house beckoned.
In the end, I found a simple solution to my dilemma and invested in an affordable head lamp, one with illumination strong enough to light up the patch of space before me as I walked. The head lamp was all it took to make the fields and pastures accessible again, and I have been going out for long walks in the fields after work ever since.
In many ways, I prefer walking in nature at night in the winter than in the spring or summer sunshine. There is a stillness in the winter night landscape that cannot be replicated at any other time of the year. No insects buzz past your ears; no birds twitter in the distance. The only sounds are the crunching of my footfalls on the snowy ground and the rustling of dried grass and the frozen branches of trees I pass. Every once in a while I will stir up a duck as walk beside the river bank, or startle an unsuspecting red deer resting in a thicket next to the corn fields. On clear nights, the stars blaze in the blackness revealing the enigmatic beauty and vastness of space, while on foggy nights the vast open landscape is reduced the circle of light before my feet, leaving me no option but sink into deep, contemplative thought.
Regardless of the weather, I am always the only person in the fields at night during winter time, and in my more playful moments I imagine I am the only person left in the world. For the better part of an hour I relish the solitude, but as I make my way back toward my house and the illuminated steeple of the village church comes back into view in the distance, I think of my wife and young son waiting at home. I whisper a quick thanks that I am not truly alone in the world.
As I do so, I consider all the people in the world who are. Those countless faces, some known, others forever unknown, for whom life has become - perhaps temporarily, perhaps permanently - nothing but an endless, dark winter landscape, with no illuminated church steeple in the distance and no family waiting at home. Those countless millions for whom solitude offers no solace; for whom the awe of a starry night sky strikes nothing but unease and despair.
As I get back onto the street leading to my house, I kick the snow from boots and utter a quick prayer for them all, wondering, if and when, my turn will ever come. If it does, I hope some solitary walker in the winter night takes a moment and whispers a prayer for me.
January 23, 2019
Governments Love Sex Addicts
A theme I addressed lightly several times within my novel The City of Earthly Desire was the direct and indirect utilization of pornography as a tool of social and political control. The first mention occurs about halfway through the narrative when Los Angeles porn producer Nick "The Dick" Salvatore provides a brief outline regarding the evolution of pornography in America while he is making his sales pitch to Béla:
"Attitudes are evolving. Folks are more relaxed now. Morals are going out the window. People are waking up to idea that there is no heaven up there. Heaven is down here and sex is the ticket. And governments love the shit we make. It keeps the citizenry docile and distracted, especially the men. And the women? Well, they like to read their porn, but we aren't writers, are we Billy?"
Keeping citizens docile and distracted has been a trademark of governments around the world since ancient times, which is why including the observation in my novel does not constitute an original insight on my part, but rather an acknowledgement that most governments in the West have passively encouraged the pornography deluge of the past fifty or sixty years and have utilized it as a means of social and political control. Nevertheless, very few people in any given country see this connection or are willing to recognize the connection as a fact.
JM Smith has written an excellent blog post on the subject on The Orthosphere. The post, Who Profits from the Sexual Slave, concisely outlines the main arguments author E. Michael Jones makes in his book Libido Dominandi: Sexual Liberation and Political Control.
In his blog post, Smith writes:
For some reason, perverted sexual desires—sexual desire turned away from its natural end—is even more importunate, obsessive, and prone to violence. I do not know why this is so, but believe it is observably true. All men think about sex much more than is strictly necessary, but a pervert thinks about sex all the time. All men are eager to gratify their sexual desire, but in a pervert this eagerness is a reckless monomania. That is why he used to be called a sex maniac.
Traditional sexual morality was meant to protect men against becoming sex maniacs by forbidding perversions, and by enjoining a degree of chastity in the marriage bed. The latter was based on the prudent conviction that, if a man treated his bedroom as a bordello, he would sooner or later begin to treat a bordello as his bedroom. Traditional sexual morality recognized that human sexual desire has a way of “getting out of hand,” as just about every honest member of our species knows to his (and her) sorrow.
Sexual liberation removed traditional sexual morality and declared a general liberty to indulge in perversion and un-chastity. It denies that human sexual desire has a way of getting out of hand and calls slavery to sexual desire “natural,” “honest,” and “uninhibited.” It celebrates a life built around the gratification of sexual desire, and smiles with a special fondness on gratification of almost any sexual desire that is perverted from its natural end.
So, sexual liberation produces a nation of sex maniacs and slaves to sex because it releases men to be governed by their desires. If anyone draws attention to this mania and slavery, he is denounced as a man twisted by the perversion of prudery.
In all honesty, I had never heard of E. Michael Jones or his book before, but a big part of me wishes I had because it may have provided me with information I could have incorporated into my book. Regardless, I will certainly look into his book Libido Dominandi in the near future. Back to the post, I have printed the excerpt from JM Smith above because they not only address many of the same themes and ideas I did include in my novel, but also reveal truths many contemporary people simply refuse to consider, let alone accept.
Looking back at it now, I suppose part of my motivation for my novel came from, as Smith notes above, the desire to "draw attention to this mania and slavery." I suppose this makes me one of those men "twisted by the perversion of prudery," though I have not been denounced as such yet.
Yet . . .
"Attitudes are evolving. Folks are more relaxed now. Morals are going out the window. People are waking up to idea that there is no heaven up there. Heaven is down here and sex is the ticket. And governments love the shit we make. It keeps the citizenry docile and distracted, especially the men. And the women? Well, they like to read their porn, but we aren't writers, are we Billy?"
Keeping citizens docile and distracted has been a trademark of governments around the world since ancient times, which is why including the observation in my novel does not constitute an original insight on my part, but rather an acknowledgement that most governments in the West have passively encouraged the pornography deluge of the past fifty or sixty years and have utilized it as a means of social and political control. Nevertheless, very few people in any given country see this connection or are willing to recognize the connection as a fact.
JM Smith has written an excellent blog post on the subject on The Orthosphere. The post, Who Profits from the Sexual Slave, concisely outlines the main arguments author E. Michael Jones makes in his book Libido Dominandi: Sexual Liberation and Political Control.
In his blog post, Smith writes:
For some reason, perverted sexual desires—sexual desire turned away from its natural end—is even more importunate, obsessive, and prone to violence. I do not know why this is so, but believe it is observably true. All men think about sex much more than is strictly necessary, but a pervert thinks about sex all the time. All men are eager to gratify their sexual desire, but in a pervert this eagerness is a reckless monomania. That is why he used to be called a sex maniac.
Traditional sexual morality was meant to protect men against becoming sex maniacs by forbidding perversions, and by enjoining a degree of chastity in the marriage bed. The latter was based on the prudent conviction that, if a man treated his bedroom as a bordello, he would sooner or later begin to treat a bordello as his bedroom. Traditional sexual morality recognized that human sexual desire has a way of “getting out of hand,” as just about every honest member of our species knows to his (and her) sorrow.
Sexual liberation removed traditional sexual morality and declared a general liberty to indulge in perversion and un-chastity. It denies that human sexual desire has a way of getting out of hand and calls slavery to sexual desire “natural,” “honest,” and “uninhibited.” It celebrates a life built around the gratification of sexual desire, and smiles with a special fondness on gratification of almost any sexual desire that is perverted from its natural end.
So, sexual liberation produces a nation of sex maniacs and slaves to sex because it releases men to be governed by their desires. If anyone draws attention to this mania and slavery, he is denounced as a man twisted by the perversion of prudery.
In all honesty, I had never heard of E. Michael Jones or his book before, but a big part of me wishes I had because it may have provided me with information I could have incorporated into my book. Regardless, I will certainly look into his book Libido Dominandi in the near future. Back to the post, I have printed the excerpt from JM Smith above because they not only address many of the same themes and ideas I did include in my novel, but also reveal truths many contemporary people simply refuse to consider, let alone accept.
Looking back at it now, I suppose part of my motivation for my novel came from, as Smith notes above, the desire to "draw attention to this mania and slavery." I suppose this makes me one of those men "twisted by the perversion of prudery," though I have not been denounced as such yet.
Yet . . .
January 22, 2019
Roll The Dice - One of Bukowski's Best
When I first read this poem many years ago, I interpreted the subject to be writing, and I still feel this to be the case, but having reread it recently, I am struck by the realization that the message Bukowski transmits here can be applied to almost anything and everything - an therein lies its simplistic brilliance.
"Roll the Dice" by Charles Bukowski
from What Matters Most is How Well You Walk Through the Fire
if you’re going to try, go all the
way.
otherwise, don’t even start.
if you’re going to try, go all the
way.
this could mean losing girlfriends,
wives, relatives, jobs and
maybe your mind.
go all the way.
it could mean not eating for 3 or 4 days.
it could mean freezing on a
park bench.
it could mean jail,
it could mean derision,
mockery,
isolation.
isolation is the gift,
all the others are a test of your
endurance, of
how much you really want to
do it.
and you’ll do it
despite rejection and the worst odds
and it will be better than
anything else
you can imagine.
if you’re going to try,
go all the way.
there is no other feeling like
that.
you will be alone with the gods
and the nights will flame with
fire.
do it, do it, do it.
do it.
all the way
all the way.
you will ride life straight to
perfect laughter, its
the only good fight
there is.
"Roll the Dice" by Charles Bukowski
from What Matters Most is How Well You Walk Through the Fire
if you’re going to try, go all the
way.
otherwise, don’t even start.
if you’re going to try, go all the
way.
this could mean losing girlfriends,
wives, relatives, jobs and
maybe your mind.
go all the way.
it could mean not eating for 3 or 4 days.
it could mean freezing on a
park bench.
it could mean jail,
it could mean derision,
mockery,
isolation.
isolation is the gift,
all the others are a test of your
endurance, of
how much you really want to
do it.
and you’ll do it
despite rejection and the worst odds
and it will be better than
anything else
you can imagine.
if you’re going to try,
go all the way.
there is no other feeling like
that.
you will be alone with the gods
and the nights will flame with
fire.
do it, do it, do it.
do it.
all the way
all the way.
you will ride life straight to
perfect laughter, its
the only good fight
there is.
It's Official: Csíksomlyó Pilgrimage In June
I imagine not many people outside the Hungarian-speaking world have ever heard of the Csíksomlyó Pilgrimage, the annual Pentecost (Whitsun) Pilgrimage of Hungarians to Sumulea, Transylvania, Romania.Though it is difficult to calculate exact numbers, several hundred thousand pilgrims haven taken part in the event every year in the last decade or two. I have thought about going myself for several years since the village I call home organizes a trip to Csíksomlyó every year. Oddly enough, it was my wife who insisted we finally make the journey. I agreed wholeheartedly.
I can't wait for June.
January 21, 2019
Jordan Peterson's Philosophy is a House Built On Sand
I have recently taken some flak for my blog post Jordan Peterson: A Black Hole and a Mirror, which I wrote back on December 12, 2019. Some found my criticisms of Peterson unfair or too subjective; others were quick to point out that I had neglected to mention the positive in Peterson's thinking and the good he often espouses.
I took a moment to reread the post and immediately understood why my thoughts regarding Peterson were being challenged. I expressed myself rather sloppily in that post, and the metaphors I employed were quite muddled. Regardless, I still firmly stand by the main idea I clumsily attempted to express in the that post - on the whole, Jordan Peterson is net harmful; following his teachings and ideas might lead to some temporary good, but the entirety of his philosophy lacks a proper basis, so in the long term it can only lead to harm, and will definitely fail in the end. I will try to make my point more explicitly by using another analogy that will, hopefully, be more easily understood.
For me, Jordan Peterson's philosophy is like the architectural blue prints for a beautiful house. The house itself appears wonderful and solid, containing all the bells and whistles you could wish for - four bedrooms with ensuite bathrooms, a massive living room, gorgeous hardwood floors, a state-of-the-art kitchen and all the rest of it. You take the blue prints and start building the house in a breathtaking landscape that offers inspiring and panoramic views from all sides. When you are finished, you pack up your things and in you move.
For a few days, weeks, or years, you will truly feel at home, comfortable and content. When you glance out the massive windows, you are fed nothing but inspiration. You have finally found your place in the world; a place you belong; a place where things make sense; a place that offers a future; a place you'll finally be happy. You begin to decorate the house to your taste - not deviating from the blue prints too much, of course. You paint the walls and hang some pictures to make the house a little more your own. As you do so, you notice fine cracks in the walls. At night, you begin hearing strange creaks and groans. The days pass and the cracks get bigger. One day you wake up and notice half of the house has sunken into the earth. A few days later the roof splits in two as the sunken half of the house keeps sinking. Before you know it, a major exterior support wall collapses, and your dream house eventually submerges into the ground leaving no trace of its existence behind. And there you are, left with nothing but the crumpled blueprints clenched tightly in your hand.
Simply put, Jordan Peterson's philosophy is like the house described above - a house built on sand. Like the attractive, seemingly solid-looking house above, the problem with Peterson's philosophy lies in its foundation.
If this story above sounds familiar, then you are more aware of New Testament parables than you might care to admit:
24 Therefore whosoever heareth these sayings of mine, and doeth them, I will liken him unto a wise man, which built his house upon a rock:
25 And the rain descended, and the floods came, and the winds blew, and beat upon that house; and it fell not: for it was founded upon a rock.
26 And every one that heareth these sayings of mine, and doeth them not, shall be likened unto a foolish man, which built his house upon the sand:
27 And the rain descended, and the floods came, and the winds blew, and beat upon that house; and it fell: and great was the fall of it. (Matthew 7:24-27)
I am not arguing that Jordan Peterson has no good ideas or talking points, or that his lectures and speeches do not, indeed, present some aspects of truth, beauty, and goodness. The problem is this - the totality of his good ideas is based on something inherently inferior, false, and foolish, and this pretty much guarantees his ideas, even the best of them, lack solid support and will ultimately fail at the most meaningful "level of analysis" (to borrow one of Peterson's own phrases).
Ultimately, Jordan Peterson is very much like the foolish builder above; though he has evidently spent a considerable amount of time studying Christianity, he refuses to hear the sayings and do them. Consequently, he has built his philosophical house on sand.
Having said this, I have nothing against Jordan Peterson personally; nor do I have anything against those who find some utility in his work. I was favorably disposed to Peterson myself for a few months until I gradually recognized the fatal foundational flaw in his thinking. Part of me holds out hope that he may recognize this flaw too, one day. Who knows? Whatever may be, he still has time to build on rock, should he so choose.
I took a moment to reread the post and immediately understood why my thoughts regarding Peterson were being challenged. I expressed myself rather sloppily in that post, and the metaphors I employed were quite muddled. Regardless, I still firmly stand by the main idea I clumsily attempted to express in the that post - on the whole, Jordan Peterson is net harmful; following his teachings and ideas might lead to some temporary good, but the entirety of his philosophy lacks a proper basis, so in the long term it can only lead to harm, and will definitely fail in the end. I will try to make my point more explicitly by using another analogy that will, hopefully, be more easily understood.
For me, Jordan Peterson's philosophy is like the architectural blue prints for a beautiful house. The house itself appears wonderful and solid, containing all the bells and whistles you could wish for - four bedrooms with ensuite bathrooms, a massive living room, gorgeous hardwood floors, a state-of-the-art kitchen and all the rest of it. You take the blue prints and start building the house in a breathtaking landscape that offers inspiring and panoramic views from all sides. When you are finished, you pack up your things and in you move.
For a few days, weeks, or years, you will truly feel at home, comfortable and content. When you glance out the massive windows, you are fed nothing but inspiration. You have finally found your place in the world; a place you belong; a place where things make sense; a place that offers a future; a place you'll finally be happy. You begin to decorate the house to your taste - not deviating from the blue prints too much, of course. You paint the walls and hang some pictures to make the house a little more your own. As you do so, you notice fine cracks in the walls. At night, you begin hearing strange creaks and groans. The days pass and the cracks get bigger. One day you wake up and notice half of the house has sunken into the earth. A few days later the roof splits in two as the sunken half of the house keeps sinking. Before you know it, a major exterior support wall collapses, and your dream house eventually submerges into the ground leaving no trace of its existence behind. And there you are, left with nothing but the crumpled blueprints clenched tightly in your hand.
Simply put, Jordan Peterson's philosophy is like the house described above - a house built on sand. Like the attractive, seemingly solid-looking house above, the problem with Peterson's philosophy lies in its foundation.
If this story above sounds familiar, then you are more aware of New Testament parables than you might care to admit:
24 Therefore whosoever heareth these sayings of mine, and doeth them, I will liken him unto a wise man, which built his house upon a rock:
25 And the rain descended, and the floods came, and the winds blew, and beat upon that house; and it fell not: for it was founded upon a rock.
26 And every one that heareth these sayings of mine, and doeth them not, shall be likened unto a foolish man, which built his house upon the sand:
27 And the rain descended, and the floods came, and the winds blew, and beat upon that house; and it fell: and great was the fall of it. (Matthew 7:24-27)
I am not arguing that Jordan Peterson has no good ideas or talking points, or that his lectures and speeches do not, indeed, present some aspects of truth, beauty, and goodness. The problem is this - the totality of his good ideas is based on something inherently inferior, false, and foolish, and this pretty much guarantees his ideas, even the best of them, lack solid support and will ultimately fail at the most meaningful "level of analysis" (to borrow one of Peterson's own phrases).
Ultimately, Jordan Peterson is very much like the foolish builder above; though he has evidently spent a considerable amount of time studying Christianity, he refuses to hear the sayings and do them. Consequently, he has built his philosophical house on sand.
Having said this, I have nothing against Jordan Peterson personally; nor do I have anything against those who find some utility in his work. I was favorably disposed to Peterson myself for a few months until I gradually recognized the fatal foundational flaw in his thinking. Part of me holds out hope that he may recognize this flaw too, one day. Who knows? Whatever may be, he still has time to build on rock, should he so choose.
January 20, 2019
The Joy of Having a Study to Call Your Own
Until the age of eight, I shared a room with my younger sister, but after my parents purchased our first family home in a small town north of Toronto, Canada, I finally got a room of my own. Without going all Virginia Woolf about it, I will simply state that having a space to myself did wonders for my imagination and creativity. Not long after getting my own bedroom, my parents were kind enough to buy me an electric Smith Corona typewriter for my tenth birthday, and I spent countless hours at my desk - with the bedroom door closed, of course - typing away at my first short stories and early attempts at novels.
Writing is a solitary activity. Though some writers like working in bustling places like restaurants or cafés, I have always preferred the seclusion of a quiet room. As a teenager I began to yearn for a good, old-fashioned gentleman's study, the kind I sometimes saw in films depicting Victorian England, and I made a vow to create a space like that for myself once I had my own house.
Acquiring a house took a decade or two longer than I had originally anticipated, but I am happy to report that I have finally achieved the goal I had set for myself when I was a teenager - I finally have a study to call my own. Of course, creating a study was not my first priority when I purchased this house in Fertőendréd, but once the other essential renovations - floors, electrical and plumbing upgrade, new furnace, roof repair, exterior and interior insulation, painting, new kitchen and bathrooms - were complete, I finally had the chance to turn my attention to creating that study I have always dreamed about.
The space is not completely finished yet, but I have installed wall-to-wall bookshelves along the north wall and have placed my old, antique, double sided desk prominently near the center of the room. I purchased a carpet and even have a deer antler trophy on the wall. I have no real desire to make the room as opulent and rich as a Victorian study, but I have plans to buy a couple of nice chairs, some paintings, a reading chair of some kind, and perhaps some kind of chaise longue or small sofa on which I could take naps on rainy Sunday afternoons.
Though the study is only technically half finished, it is perfectly functional, and after many, many years of reading and writing in whatever space happened to be convenient in the various apartments my wife and I rented around the world, I finally have a study to call my own, but unlike my bedroom in my family's first home in Canada, I never close the door to my study because I am not the only person who uses the space.
My son staked his territory on the other side of my double sided desk not long after I put some temporary chairs into the room. He filled the drawers on the other side of the desk with his pencils, crayons, books, and drawings and stated he would do his work in the room as well. He has kept his word and often comes into the room while I am working and proceeds to do his homework or draw his latest masterpiece. During these times I often pause to help him, or set aside my work and join him in sketching dragons or robots or whatever creatures he happens to find interesting that particular day. Sometimes I read to him, or help him practice his writing. Sometimes we just sit and chat. The whole time I cannot help but think how wonderful it is to have a study to call my own, and how wonderful it is to have someone else with me in this study I call my own.
Writing is a solitary activity. Though some writers like working in bustling places like restaurants or cafés, I have always preferred the seclusion of a quiet room. As a teenager I began to yearn for a good, old-fashioned gentleman's study, the kind I sometimes saw in films depicting Victorian England, and I made a vow to create a space like that for myself once I had my own house.
Acquiring a house took a decade or two longer than I had originally anticipated, but I am happy to report that I have finally achieved the goal I had set for myself when I was a teenager - I finally have a study to call my own. Of course, creating a study was not my first priority when I purchased this house in Fertőendréd, but once the other essential renovations - floors, electrical and plumbing upgrade, new furnace, roof repair, exterior and interior insulation, painting, new kitchen and bathrooms - were complete, I finally had the chance to turn my attention to creating that study I have always dreamed about.
The space is not completely finished yet, but I have installed wall-to-wall bookshelves along the north wall and have placed my old, antique, double sided desk prominently near the center of the room. I purchased a carpet and even have a deer antler trophy on the wall. I have no real desire to make the room as opulent and rich as a Victorian study, but I have plans to buy a couple of nice chairs, some paintings, a reading chair of some kind, and perhaps some kind of chaise longue or small sofa on which I could take naps on rainy Sunday afternoons.
Though the study is only technically half finished, it is perfectly functional, and after many, many years of reading and writing in whatever space happened to be convenient in the various apartments my wife and I rented around the world, I finally have a study to call my own, but unlike my bedroom in my family's first home in Canada, I never close the door to my study because I am not the only person who uses the space.
My son staked his territory on the other side of my double sided desk not long after I put some temporary chairs into the room. He filled the drawers on the other side of the desk with his pencils, crayons, books, and drawings and stated he would do his work in the room as well. He has kept his word and often comes into the room while I am working and proceeds to do his homework or draw his latest masterpiece. During these times I often pause to help him, or set aside my work and join him in sketching dragons or robots or whatever creatures he happens to find interesting that particular day. Sometimes I read to him, or help him practice his writing. Sometimes we just sit and chat. The whole time I cannot help but think how wonderful it is to have a study to call my own, and how wonderful it is to have someone else with me in this study I call my own.
January 19, 2019
Kosovo - A Short Film By Korab Uka
Korab Uka is a young filmmaker from New York City whose credits include working on the production of the feature film Deviant, which was released in 2017. I was lucky enough to have this talented young man as a student for a year or two when I worked as a high school English and history teacher in the Bronx, NY., and I am thrilled to see him making progress as he pursues his ambitions.
This past summer, Korab visited his homeland of Kosovo after an eight year absence and made a short film about the trip. Shot entirely on an IPhone SE, Korab nonetheless does an amazing job detailing what the return to his homeland meant to him. The film is a great example of being able to do a lot with a little. Though only five minutes long, Korab's film succeeds in capturing the experience as well as the feeling and emotions of returning home after a long absence.
I sincerely hope I will see more of this young man's work in the future.
This past summer, Korab visited his homeland of Kosovo after an eight year absence and made a short film about the trip. Shot entirely on an IPhone SE, Korab nonetheless does an amazing job detailing what the return to his homeland meant to him. The film is a great example of being able to do a lot with a little. Though only five minutes long, Korab's film succeeds in capturing the experience as well as the feeling and emotions of returning home after a long absence.
I sincerely hope I will see more of this young man's work in the future.
January 18, 2019
There is Nothing Positive About Pornography
At one level, my novel The City of Earthly Desire is a polemic against pornography. I wrote the novel partly to confront my own previously held attitudes concerning the subject which, if my assumptions are correct, probably mirror the attitude most people hold today - that pornography is essentially harmless, a personal matter, a guilty pleasure, a form of entertainment, etc.
I admit it, for much of my adult life I believed there was nothing particularly wrong with watching pornography or the existence of the porn industry. Yet, no matter how much I thought I believed these things, deep down I always knew pornography was not good - that there was something inherently harmful and pernicious about creating it, participating in it, viewing it and, as it is often phrased today, consuming it. I wrote The City of Earthly Desire partly to challenge these previously held views of mine; writing the novel turned out to be the first step toward the eventual but total elimination of pornography from my life.
I will elaborate on the subject of pornography in future posts, but for the time being I will leave a link to a rather gruesome story that provides a rather shocking example of the harmful effects pornography can unleash on individuals and society. Of course, the story is an extreme example, and any porn apologist worth his or her salt could easily develop an argument to challenge it as proof of the innate harmfulness of pornography in general.
I admit, I would concede to a certain point - the story in the link truly is an extreme case example, but, I would argue, these extreme cases are now increasingly common, and that alone points to something. Regardless, instances like the one described in the link do not address the subtler negative effects of pornography consumption which, in the long-term, are likely far more pernicious. I will address those effects and develop some arguments against pornography consumption in future blog posts.
For now I will simply offer the following once again - let the porn enthusiasts and apologists say what they will, but in my view there is nothing positive about pornography.
Full stop.
I admit it, for much of my adult life I believed there was nothing particularly wrong with watching pornography or the existence of the porn industry. Yet, no matter how much I thought I believed these things, deep down I always knew pornography was not good - that there was something inherently harmful and pernicious about creating it, participating in it, viewing it and, as it is often phrased today, consuming it. I wrote The City of Earthly Desire partly to challenge these previously held views of mine; writing the novel turned out to be the first step toward the eventual but total elimination of pornography from my life.
I will elaborate on the subject of pornography in future posts, but for the time being I will leave a link to a rather gruesome story that provides a rather shocking example of the harmful effects pornography can unleash on individuals and society. Of course, the story is an extreme example, and any porn apologist worth his or her salt could easily develop an argument to challenge it as proof of the innate harmfulness of pornography in general.
I admit, I would concede to a certain point - the story in the link truly is an extreme case example, but, I would argue, these extreme cases are now increasingly common, and that alone points to something. Regardless, instances like the one described in the link do not address the subtler negative effects of pornography consumption which, in the long-term, are likely far more pernicious. I will address those effects and develop some arguments against pornography consumption in future blog posts.
For now I will simply offer the following once again - let the porn enthusiasts and apologists say what they will, but in my view there is nothing positive about pornography.
Full stop.
January 16, 2019
In A World Without Meaning, Pleasure Is All That Remains
"The only moral imperative left to us is pleasure. The only thing we can aspire to is enjoyment."
Anthony Vergil, a character from my novel The City of Earthly Desire , speaks these words when he is confronted by the notion of meaning. An unabashed hedonist, Vergil, who is also simply referred to as Verge in the novel, is a paradoxical character. He fully accepts and understands that, at its most fundamental level, life does possess meaning, purpose, and instrinsic value, and that the meaning, purpose, and value of life are primarily nested in religious and moral principles, yet he rejects these principles on the basis of what he sees as indisputable proof of the thorough defeat of meaning in our contemporary world.
In the novel he deduces that if the concept of meaning were truly valid, it would have easily withstood any and all assaults launched against it. The fact that meaning has been so devastatingly vanquished by nihilistic forces proves, to him at least, that any belief in meaning, noble though it may be, is essentially weak and illusory. Simply put, if meaning, as well as the moral and religious principles supporting it, was real and vigorous, not only would it successfully rise to meet any challenge facing it but it would also, ultimately, defeat the challenges in a decisive manner. Its perceived failure to do so proves, to Verge at least, that the forces of nihilism are far more powerful, hence real, than the forces of meaning. Rather than struggle against the nihilism eclipsing the West, Verge chooses instead to embrace nihilism wholeheartedly in what amounts to little more than a "if you can't beat them, join them" mentality." Once he has embraced nihilism, Verge is quick to notice all that remains to him is pleasure, and he proceeds to make hedonism foundation of his life.
He reveals his ontological outlook in the following manner:
“We are past the point of no return, gentlemen. To borrow a phrase from Pope, universal darkness has buried us all. We have all been enslaved by the empty promise of freedom. This is the sad truth; there is no denying it. All that remains for us in this time of decay is the unrestrained enjoyment of pleasure . . . little indulgences.”
I explored this theme and created the Anthony Vergil character to reflect what I believe to be one of the most pervasive dilemmas in the West. We in the West have suffered and are continuing to suffer through a catastrophic crisis of meaning. Like Verge, I believe many in the West have examined the religious and moral principles that were once the cornerstones of our culture and civilization, but have found them lacking.
I suspect many no longer accept these religious and moral principles for the same reason Verge cannot accept them. In other words, the rejection stems not so much from antagonism or hostility, but rather from a reasoned acceptance that past notions of meaning cannot be truly valid, for if they were they would have better withstood the test of time and progress. That meaning has not formidably withstood the pressures of time and progress illustrates that it is archaic, obsolete, and essentially useless. If this is the case, why struggle against the current of the times?
The rejection of meaning and the meaning inherent in religious, social, and political structures lures one into nihilism. Though modern people are more than happy to reject moral and religious principles, they are not too keen to adopt a thorough belief in nothing; hence, the ultimate meaning in life becomes pleasure. Enlightened governments and social institutions have been eager to support this shift under the banner of liberty, freedom, and equality. As Verge notes in the novel:
"That is the trick, you see. Use freedom and equality to create a world without spirit! Liberate us from everything that once defined us as human beings. Free us from the bondage of morality, responsibility, decency and unleash us upon the world with no higher goal than to gratify our passions!”
Passion gratification and pleasure seeking have thus become the new cornerstones of our culture and civilization (insofar as you can still truly call what exists today culture and civilization). Absolute values are meaningless in such a world, which causes previously held distinctions to blur. Inversions quickly follow. Suddenly, the difference between good and evil is not easy to define. The same applies to other dichotomies such as truth and untruth; and beauty and ugliness. Concepts like higher and lower also become meaningless, even in pleasure. Furthermore, those in power begin to use pleasure to distract and control the masses. The powerful understand that lower pleasures are the most effective mechanisms for control and actively encourage people to indulge in increasingly baser pursuits, something Verge states in the novel:
"People have been conditioned to heed only their urges and desires – the lower, the better."
Wallowing in pleasure is enough to satisfy most people in our contemporary society, but for some the question of meaning remains, like a persistent itch that begs to be scratched. In The City of Earthly Desire, Béla confronts Verge about the inadequacy of pleasure and the need for meaning:
Béla scowled. “If pleasure is all we have left then what’s the point of it all?”
“That’s precisely it! There is no point to it all!” Verge stepped out from behind the table and pointed his finger at Béla in an accusatory fashion. “Pleasure is all we have because pleasure is all we deserve. Pleasure is meaning. Death is lack of meaning. There is nothing else in-between.”
and later in the same scene:
“If pleasure is the only meaning, then we are not fully human.”
“Exactly! For centuries we wholeheartedly believed we were part of divine creation. We based our entire existence around the core of this belief. Well, I have news for you, dear chap – that belief is no longer valid. It has been stolen from us by the same people who fight for social justice and struggle against the tyranny of oppression. It is they who have reduced us to the level of animals. We are objects – commodities to be bought and sold. The quicker you accept that imposed truth, the happier you’ll be!”
At this point some will inevitably make their toward or begin making their way back toward the meaning, purpose, and value contained within religious principles, but this remains an unacceptable option for many. People in the latter category will forgo a sincere acceptance of meaning and continue to substitute it with the faux meaning contained in social and political activism, as Verge points out after Béla complains about the inherent lack of meaning in life:
“It’s not worth it. I’m bored with the little indulgences. They’re fun for a while, but when they end, I feel empty inside. It’s nothing but meaningless pleasure,” Béla muttered.
A distraught look came over Verge’s face. He looked down at the photographs and pushed them about on the table with his hands. “Pleasure is the only meaning we have left. It is both foolish and dangerous to believe you need more.”
“I need to have some meaning in my life,” Béla said in exasperation.
“You want meaning? Delude yourself into believing you are working to make the world a better place. Work toward social justice or battle against oppression or join the struggle to save the environment or some other such nonsense,” Verge said stifling a yawn.
“That’s not what I meant,” Béla said.
The essence of what I have communicated in my novel can be reduced to the following:abandoning the meaning inherent in religious and moral principles has reduced our humanity and our understanding of the worlddenying meaning can be equated with denying realityif you deny reality, pleasure not only becomes the only value, it becomes a necessary value as it is the only positive one available substituting meaning with the meaning supposedly found in humanitarian activism is not only inadequate, but harmful to both the individual and society
Since I began this post quoting Anthony Vergil, I will conclude by doing the same. I believe the line below best summarizes and addresses those who have actively and purposefully accepted the belief that life has no meaning, purpose, or intrinsic value.
"Pleasure is all that remains because pleasure is all you deserve."
Anthony Vergil, a character from my novel The City of Earthly Desire , speaks these words when he is confronted by the notion of meaning. An unabashed hedonist, Vergil, who is also simply referred to as Verge in the novel, is a paradoxical character. He fully accepts and understands that, at its most fundamental level, life does possess meaning, purpose, and instrinsic value, and that the meaning, purpose, and value of life are primarily nested in religious and moral principles, yet he rejects these principles on the basis of what he sees as indisputable proof of the thorough defeat of meaning in our contemporary world.
In the novel he deduces that if the concept of meaning were truly valid, it would have easily withstood any and all assaults launched against it. The fact that meaning has been so devastatingly vanquished by nihilistic forces proves, to him at least, that any belief in meaning, noble though it may be, is essentially weak and illusory. Simply put, if meaning, as well as the moral and religious principles supporting it, was real and vigorous, not only would it successfully rise to meet any challenge facing it but it would also, ultimately, defeat the challenges in a decisive manner. Its perceived failure to do so proves, to Verge at least, that the forces of nihilism are far more powerful, hence real, than the forces of meaning. Rather than struggle against the nihilism eclipsing the West, Verge chooses instead to embrace nihilism wholeheartedly in what amounts to little more than a "if you can't beat them, join them" mentality." Once he has embraced nihilism, Verge is quick to notice all that remains to him is pleasure, and he proceeds to make hedonism foundation of his life.
He reveals his ontological outlook in the following manner:
“We are past the point of no return, gentlemen. To borrow a phrase from Pope, universal darkness has buried us all. We have all been enslaved by the empty promise of freedom. This is the sad truth; there is no denying it. All that remains for us in this time of decay is the unrestrained enjoyment of pleasure . . . little indulgences.”
I explored this theme and created the Anthony Vergil character to reflect what I believe to be one of the most pervasive dilemmas in the West. We in the West have suffered and are continuing to suffer through a catastrophic crisis of meaning. Like Verge, I believe many in the West have examined the religious and moral principles that were once the cornerstones of our culture and civilization, but have found them lacking.
I suspect many no longer accept these religious and moral principles for the same reason Verge cannot accept them. In other words, the rejection stems not so much from antagonism or hostility, but rather from a reasoned acceptance that past notions of meaning cannot be truly valid, for if they were they would have better withstood the test of time and progress. That meaning has not formidably withstood the pressures of time and progress illustrates that it is archaic, obsolete, and essentially useless. If this is the case, why struggle against the current of the times?
The rejection of meaning and the meaning inherent in religious, social, and political structures lures one into nihilism. Though modern people are more than happy to reject moral and religious principles, they are not too keen to adopt a thorough belief in nothing; hence, the ultimate meaning in life becomes pleasure. Enlightened governments and social institutions have been eager to support this shift under the banner of liberty, freedom, and equality. As Verge notes in the novel:
"That is the trick, you see. Use freedom and equality to create a world without spirit! Liberate us from everything that once defined us as human beings. Free us from the bondage of morality, responsibility, decency and unleash us upon the world with no higher goal than to gratify our passions!”
Passion gratification and pleasure seeking have thus become the new cornerstones of our culture and civilization (insofar as you can still truly call what exists today culture and civilization). Absolute values are meaningless in such a world, which causes previously held distinctions to blur. Inversions quickly follow. Suddenly, the difference between good and evil is not easy to define. The same applies to other dichotomies such as truth and untruth; and beauty and ugliness. Concepts like higher and lower also become meaningless, even in pleasure. Furthermore, those in power begin to use pleasure to distract and control the masses. The powerful understand that lower pleasures are the most effective mechanisms for control and actively encourage people to indulge in increasingly baser pursuits, something Verge states in the novel:
"People have been conditioned to heed only their urges and desires – the lower, the better."
Wallowing in pleasure is enough to satisfy most people in our contemporary society, but for some the question of meaning remains, like a persistent itch that begs to be scratched. In The City of Earthly Desire, Béla confronts Verge about the inadequacy of pleasure and the need for meaning:
Béla scowled. “If pleasure is all we have left then what’s the point of it all?”
“That’s precisely it! There is no point to it all!” Verge stepped out from behind the table and pointed his finger at Béla in an accusatory fashion. “Pleasure is all we have because pleasure is all we deserve. Pleasure is meaning. Death is lack of meaning. There is nothing else in-between.”
and later in the same scene:
“If pleasure is the only meaning, then we are not fully human.”
“Exactly! For centuries we wholeheartedly believed we were part of divine creation. We based our entire existence around the core of this belief. Well, I have news for you, dear chap – that belief is no longer valid. It has been stolen from us by the same people who fight for social justice and struggle against the tyranny of oppression. It is they who have reduced us to the level of animals. We are objects – commodities to be bought and sold. The quicker you accept that imposed truth, the happier you’ll be!”
At this point some will inevitably make their toward or begin making their way back toward the meaning, purpose, and value contained within religious principles, but this remains an unacceptable option for many. People in the latter category will forgo a sincere acceptance of meaning and continue to substitute it with the faux meaning contained in social and political activism, as Verge points out after Béla complains about the inherent lack of meaning in life:
“It’s not worth it. I’m bored with the little indulgences. They’re fun for a while, but when they end, I feel empty inside. It’s nothing but meaningless pleasure,” Béla muttered.
A distraught look came over Verge’s face. He looked down at the photographs and pushed them about on the table with his hands. “Pleasure is the only meaning we have left. It is both foolish and dangerous to believe you need more.”
“I need to have some meaning in my life,” Béla said in exasperation.
“You want meaning? Delude yourself into believing you are working to make the world a better place. Work toward social justice or battle against oppression or join the struggle to save the environment or some other such nonsense,” Verge said stifling a yawn.
“That’s not what I meant,” Béla said.
The essence of what I have communicated in my novel can be reduced to the following:abandoning the meaning inherent in religious and moral principles has reduced our humanity and our understanding of the worlddenying meaning can be equated with denying realityif you deny reality, pleasure not only becomes the only value, it becomes a necessary value as it is the only positive one available substituting meaning with the meaning supposedly found in humanitarian activism is not only inadequate, but harmful to both the individual and society
Since I began this post quoting Anthony Vergil, I will conclude by doing the same. I believe the line below best summarizes and addresses those who have actively and purposefully accepted the belief that life has no meaning, purpose, or intrinsic value.
"Pleasure is all that remains because pleasure is all you deserve."
