Life is Meaningless
Go, eat
your food with gladness, and
drink your wine with a joyful heart, for it is
now that God favors what you do. Always
be clothed in white and always anoint your
head with oil. Enjoy life with your wife,
whom you love, all the days of this mean-
ingless life that God has given you under the
sun-all your meaningless days. For this is
your lot in life and in your toilsome labor
under the sun. Whatever your hand finds
to do, do it with all your might, for in the
grave, where you are going, there is
neither working nor planning nor know-
ledge nor wisdom.
Ecclesiastes 9:7-10
Far up in the Hills, miles from any town
or house, some friends had gathered around a campfire. It was
night, and the countless trees of pine surrounding them were indistinct
and dark, while a cool, inconstant breeze, which flowed across
the waters of a nearby steam-fed lake, fanned the blazing fire,
and brushed the friends' flushed faces. They were drinking, joking,
and laughing loudly, and their voices rang throughout the valley
in which they were encamped.
"I just made the moon rise!" one
of them abruptly bellowed, leaping to his feet and pointing toward
the sky, a wild gleaming in his eyes. And, indeed, the moon, brilliant
and roundlike a second sun of polished bonethat
very moment was ascending above a mountain of cool stone. At first,
however, both were equally ignored.
"Stop!" the young man shouted.
"Be quietand listen!"
And now, at last, the friends all heard
him and obeyed, for a strange intensity had filled his voice,
and they had marked it. And when they all had fallen quietwhen
their tiny, raucous bubble had finally been piercedthe
stillness of the place flowed in upon them, and rose, engulfing
them like an invisible and ever-patient rising tide.
Meanwhile the friends sat. They stood. They
stared. They listened. They did not move. Water gently lapping
against the lake's near shore for the first time that evening
was heard; stars (though dimmed in their eyes from the light of
the fire) shimmering up above were seen; and the moonsoundlesscontinued
its ascent from behind the valley wall, flooding the valley and
the water and the air with condensing ghostlike sheets of ivory
light. The breeze by now had died. For maybe half a minute all
things seemed to hold their breath.
"What are we listening for?" someone
whispered.
"Shh!" the sky-watcher hissed,
and then, pointing with his bottle, cryptically announced: "The
moon...."
The young men turned their faces and their
ears up to the moon. For some it partly was obscured by the smoke
billowing from the fire; for others it was clearer and seemed
a disc of fiery polished marble or a portal of whitest light suspended
in the sky. But none of them heard a thing.
After what seemed a long time the watcher
spoke again.
"Did you know," he offered softly,
his voice almost a whisper, "that the moon is moving away
from us? Every moment it drifts out farther and gets smaller.
Someday it will be so small, so very far away, it won't even be
seen. Maybe it will even leave its orbitmaybe it will
wander off far into space, and forever be alone...."
The fire, which seemed to dim in the silence
that followed these remarks, crackled softly, the only sound.
"So?" a young man finally queried,
setting down his beer and rubbing his smoke-stung eyes. "What's
your point?"
The sky-watcher shrugged.
"Nothing's permanent," he said.
"Not even the moon."
With this the friends all stared in deep
perplexity. But whether this was due to the news of the moon's
eventual departure or an inability to fathom just why anyone would
say such a thing, only each himself could have declared.
"Let's sing a song!" one of them
cried out suddenly, and instantly everyone leaped upon their feet,
screaming incomprehensibly and howling, their eyes squeezed tightly
shut and their arms and legs flailing and dancing all about. They
seemed filled with tireless energy and joy. And yet the first
young man, the one who claimed (bizarrely) that he had summoned
forth the moon, did not join them, but stepping away from the
fire he wandered off, lost in thought. His name was John. When
the others saw him walking away, however, they shouted loudly
after him, calling for him to come back, and saying his name in
funny voices and laughing. But he only turned and smiled weakly
before fading into the darkness, and vanishing from their sight.
A few seconds later a second member of the group (who had brought only a six-pack of Dr. Pepper from home to drink, much to the amusement of his fellows) rose from his lawn chair where he had sat all evening and followed John into the darkness. His name was Andy.
When Andy had caught up to John they walked,
side-by-side, into the deepening darkness along an old dirt road,
saying nothing. And at first their surroundings seemed quite strange,
for their shadows leaped and lengthened through the trees as the
fire blazed up behind them, more woodand half a gallon
of gashaving been cast upon the crackling conflagration.
But soon the forest gloom closed in around them, the crimson flickerings
died away, and their shadows were completely reabsorbed into the
darkness. Walking even further, the shriek of voices and the violent
crash of metal (their friends had seized an empty keg and transformed
it into a drum) grew increasingly faint, while the soft sound
of the breeze grew ever stronger, until finally it murmured all
around them like a living, breathing thing.
Suddenly John stopped.
"Look back," he said.
Andy looked back. Down belownow
seemingly so far awayhe saw the campfire, now little
more than a feeble, flickering spark. The voices, once so deafening,
were more like whispers that seemed to echo from the bottom of
a well. The heat and blinding smoke were gone-only darkness and
fresh coolness pressed against his tingling skin.
"Now look up," John said.
Andy looked up. From the place in which
stood he could see the stars were burning brighter, and that they
seemed even to have multiplied in just a handful of mere minutes.
They covered all the sky like sundropped, twinkling sparks on
an unbroken field of snow.
It was not long before he noticed other
changes. When they again began to walk, he heard the crunching
of his shoes upon the gravel (each crunch sounded slightly different),
and felt the stones themselves beneath his soles; he inhaled the
freshened scents of moistened pine, and loam, and air; the stars,
so far away, winked through the needly-canopy above, and seemed
to watch and follow him as he moved.
Narrowing his eyes, Andy strained to see into the circumambient darkness down below. He could see nothing. But he could hear and feel, with increasing sensitivity, the interweaving of his breathing with the motion of the breeze that ruffled, breath-like, all around him. And suddenly, for an instant, it seemed as if the breeze had moved inside him, or as if his breath was merging with the breeze. Suddenly he felt dizzy. His pulse kicked in his neck. It was like walking into a cave! He shut his eyes and followed John with his ears.
Having stumbled up the road for several
minutes, the two young men at last emerged from the whispering
cave of trees, and found themselves beneath an open, cloudless
sky. And it was here that they ceased walking, sitting down instead
upon a rock from which they could survey the whole of the valley
down below. From their new vantage point they could behold the
dark face of the lake, as well as the roof of an old and rotting
cabin which slouched between them and their friends, and which
only fitfully was illumined by glowing fingerlicks of the fire.
The blaze itself, however, was now completely lost among the trees,
while the raucous, carefree voices had long since been suppressed
and smothered by the distance and the breeze, as well as by the
sounds of the companions' own more loudly driven breath. And so
it was that the two young men sat and stared, each facing slightly
different ways, at everything they could see. They stared up at
the quiet stars (and saw a falling star) and they beheld once
more the moon, still rising higher in the sky, no longer so obscured
by the great, thick stands of pine.
John spoke first, shaking that vastness
and that silence with human words.
"It looks the exact same size, doesn't
it?" he said, nodding slightly at Earth's satellite in the
air.
Andy looked at the moon, then at his companion.
He said nothing. He wondered if John was making another joke.
He seemed to be smiling slightly.
"And what happened to our friends?"
John continued, as if Andy had answered him. "We can't see
them, can't hear them. We just moved a few hundred yards away
from them-and it's as if they don't exist! But the moon: she's
380,000 kilometers away and we still see her no matter where we
walk. Always the same."
"As long as we stay outside, you mean,"
said Andy with a smile, finally deigning to speak. (And ignoring
the eccentricity of referring to the moon as "she.")
"And also as long as the sky stays clearand as
long as our eyesight stays good."
"And as long as we are alive,"
John added flatly.
"And as long as the moon is still thereas
you say, someday it won't be."
For several seconds John and Andy sat in
silence. John seemed lost in thought, staring fixedly, almost
reverentially, at the moon, as if expecting it to do or say something.
Andy, meanwhile, watched it too, though he also observed John
out of the corner of his eye. (And once glanced over at him directly)
Finally, becoming uncomfortable with the
silence, he said, "Back there you claimed that nothing is
permanent. I was wonderingdid you mean that? I hope
you don't mind my asking."
John shook his head, but was silent for
several moments before responding.
"Yes. I suppose I did," he at
last allowed.
"Nothing?" said Andy. "Not
even a mother's love?"
John smiled grimly.
"Depends on the mother," he said.
"But, seriously, a mother's love can't outlast a mother,
can it?"
Taken aback by this questionas
well as by John's almost mocking demeanoAndy blinked
in surprise.
"I don't know," he answered. "I
was kind of joking when I said that. But maybe it does, you know.
Some people would certainly say so."
"What would you say?"
"I would say I don't know-but I'd hope
so."
"Fair enough," John nodded. "Any
other questions? Stocks, bonds, World Series? Issues with your
girlfriend?"
Andy shrugged. Talking to John was often
strange, especially when he got in one of his peculiar, supposedly
profound moods. At such times John never completely made sense.
He never totally revealed what he was thinking, would make incomprehensible
comments or claims, and would often argue, it seemed, for the
sake of argument itself. Worst of all, he would sometimes seem
to be laughing secretly at everyone around him-as if they were
too stupid to understand him and the mysteries he beheld. He was
in one of those moods right now, and Andy, with a frown of annoyance,
thought that he could almost hear him laughing even then....
Suddenly, in the middle of these thoughts,
Andy found himself falling into a memory: he remembered his mother-how
she dried his hair with a towel when he was a little boy, and
how it spun around him like a whirlwind. He remembered her smell;
her pressing him close to her. The strength of the memory was
uncanny. The next instant he felt mildly annoyed. The instant
after that, he found, to his surprise, that he did have a question
for John.
"I have a question after all,"
he therefore abruptly, and rather loudly, announced. "About
this change thing: if you are right and nothing is permanent,
then how can you say there is good and evil for instance? Or truth?
If nothing is permanent then that means nothing is stable, that
nothing has a firm foundation: everything, according to what you
have said, would be baseless and meaningless, because there could
be no permanent standards. Even a mother's love would be emptyand
love itself would be dead."
John turned his head and stared at him.
"What in God's name have you been reading?"
he demanded incredulously. "You should probably stick to
engineering!"
In the darkness Andy blushed.
"Why?" he asked. "Was it
a stupid question?"
John shook his head.
"No. I don't think it was. It's just...."
"Just what?" Andy demanded.
John glared at the ground next to Andy's
left foot.
"Well, all right," he said at
last. "Let's look at it. If we must."
"Let's."
"Very well. First of all, I need to
know what you mean to discuss exactly. Are we talking about science
or morality?"
"Um.... Both... I suppose."
"Well, science is not really so difficult-it's
only the product of our human reason: it's as true as our reason
is, right? Of course saying this raises the possibility that human
reason isn't actually 'true,' that it doesn't really correspond
with "real" reality. But if this was the case, how could
we know it? Science is based upon faith in human reason; faith
that human reason is somehow in harmony with what we might
call the Great Reason of the universe. If we do not enjoy this
harmony, then that means we're hopelessly trapped in an opaque,
reflective bubble of falsehood. But as I said, we could never
really know this, even if it were true. Reason can't demonstrate
reason is falseif it could, then reason would be true,
but that's a paradox. "
"But that doesn't mean that science
doesn't or can't potentiallygive
us a reliable, permanent view of the universe."
"Well, maybe it does. Maybe what science
sees really is something like what really is. If we do enjoy that
harmony I was talking about, then, in time, perhaps we can discover
the real truth about things in the world by means of the scientific
method, which is just the fundamental principles of human reason
objectified and conscientiously applied to theories and things.
Maybe we have already discovered many truths, though perhaps we're
not positive about them since, after all, we have yet to see the
big picture. Because until then, really, we could never know for
sure. Just because things happen to be a certain way nowor
in this particular, limited placethat doesn't mean they
will be that way in the future or were that way in the past. And,
you know, maybe it all never really had to be this way in the
first place; maybe everything could have easily been different?
Maybe our universe is just one kind of universe amongst an infinite
number of universes, all different, all coming into existence
and all dying and there's no more real reason for any one of them
to exist than any other. The point is, I suppose, can you really
understand anything let alone know you understand
anythingwithout understanding everything? Maybe what
we don't know invalidates whatever it is we do know. So maybe
science is a crock."
Andy stared into the darkness, not feeling
particularly enlightened by this exchange. Meanwhile, the moon,
continuing its journey into the sky, was rising, a perfect circle,
over the world.
After a pause of perhaps a minute Andy spoke
again: "Why don't we just say that scientific knowledge is
at best approximate knowledgealso that, in any case,
we have little choice but to work with it and pursue it? It's
like in a trial: have we found a reasonable doubt? I don't think
so. In fact, I think we've got a lot clues which should lead us
to think we're on the right track. Maybe we've got a long ways
to go-but it doesn't seem unreasonable to say we're on the right
track. Look at all that science has uncovered and helped create.
What other view of the world has flown people from America to
Europe in less than a day, or found a cure for Polio, or put a
man on the moon? That's got to count for something. At least that's
what I think."
In response to this John at first said nothing,
but only smiled up into sky.
"Very well," he then agreed, "on
the basis of failing to find a reasonable doubt we'll convict
scienceand human reasonof bringing us closer
to the truth. Satisfied?"
"Yes," said Andy. "But there's
something else too."
"Oh?"
"There's the question of morality."
"Ah," John said. "Of course.
I suppose that has to fit in there somehow too. How do you suggest
we go about it?"
"I say we cut right to the chase. Answer
this question: Do you believe in God?"
John's eyes widened in mock surprise.
"Believe in God?" he asked.
"That's supposed to mean, I suppose, do I think He exists?
But it's an odd way to frame the question: because generally one
does not believe in things one does not know exist. The
question's assuming the answer to the question it's asking. Because
I can believe in my father or my mother or my friends or myself,
or even my country I suppose-or even humanity as a whole. After
all, I know that they are real and I have a fairly clear idea,
I hope, of what they're like. I have experiences of them from
which to judge. But God? What experiences do I have of God?"
"You're playing games," Andy remarked
sternly.
"Well, think about what you say, then!
But assuming you just mean by that question do I think God exists,
I would have to say I don't knowbut also, to be honest,
I'd have to say I'm pessimistic. Assuming, that is, you mean God
in the sense of being a magnified human."
"A magnified human? What's that supposed
to mean?"
"I mean just this: the popular view
of God is that He is somehow an emotional being who loves us and
cares for us and has a plan for us, and that we, in fact, are
his central concern. They call him Father and believe they can
have a personal relationship with him. But all these attributes-love,
fatherhood, etc., are all uniquely human things-at least in the
sense in which people mean these terms to be taken. Because they
don't mean fatherhood as in the relationship between a father
cockroach and his offspring, nor do they mean by the term love
the love a dog has for his owner. They mean these things in a
very human senseand if this is not what these terms
are meant to mean then tell me what in the world do they
mean? Unless we take them to some extent literally, they're meaningless!
And so that is why I said that God is like a magnified human."
Andy shook his head.
"That's sort of interesting,"
he granted, "but not really where I wanted to go. I think
you've taken us off the track with your... semantics."
"Well where do you want to go, then?
Lead on, sweet prince and I shall follow!"
"You better...."
"So," Andy began again, "if
you don't believe in that kind of God then what kind of God do
you believe in? Is there no God at all?"
"I don't know," John answered,
moonlight gleaming off his hair like a soft halo. "Maybe
there's a kind of Aristotelian unmoved moverbut who
can really say? It's a paradox any way you cut it. Because how
can something come from nothing? Similarly, how can there be something
whose existence is itself uncaused? Whether this uncaused cause
is anthropomorphic or not is irrelevant to the basic issue of
how such a thing could possibly be, though why it should-or needs
to beanthropomorphic I can't imagine. I think the answer,
if there even is an answer, is incomprehensible, is beyond the
power of the human mind to comprehend. It may be there, but we
can't see it. It would be like a dog trying to comprehend the
workings of the space shuttle. What else can you say?"
"But then what about morality?"
Andy pressed. "If God is dead, and this seems to be what
you're suggesting, then everything is permitted and there can
be no Good and Evil, no real meaning at all. In the kind of universe
you're propounding, life would be meaningless! Surely you can
see that!"
John sighed. He kicked at the rock upon
which they sat a few times, then turned and gazed intently into
Andy's eyes: "If you want to know my personal opinionand
you dolife is meaningless."
Andy recoiled from his companion in shock.
"Meaningless?" he cried. "How
can you say that? I've seen you donate money to causes, give five-dollar
bills to beggars! You get angry about politics and world affairsand
individuals too! You're a vegetarian for God's sake! How can you
do all these things and say that life is meaningless?"
John smiled at his friend's dismay.
"I mean," he added, "that
it's meaningless in the cosmic sense-in the sense that there is
no meaning imposed on us from outside. Not that I mean 'imposed'
to sound negativefor most people, myself included, some
kind of divinely mandated meaning can sound pretty intoxicating,
particularly when coupled with an all-powerful, all-loving, perfect
God. Who wouldn't want that?"
"Then why don't you believe it?"
Andy demanded.
"Because I care about the truth. I
don't want to believe in a lie, even if it feels good."
"But people who believe in God aren't
lying!"
"But they're not telling the truth
either! But listen, I'm not saying they're doing it intentionally-though,
to be perfectly honest, I would be chary about throwing out personal
motives altogether. No one's view of things can be entirely unselfish
in the end. We all get into a certain pleasing rut, so to speak,
and get caught up in the habit of mainly seeking out that evidence
which will support our view while, simultaneously, we attempt
to debunk or trivialize or ignore evidence or experiences to the
contrary. It is easy to get trapped. It happens to me all the
time. This is why we must be ever vigilant-and never turn our
back on ourselves."
Andy glowered in frustration. This was just
the sort of beside-the-point commentary that made talking to
John so hard.
"But as usual," he said, "you
still haven't answered my question. Because if life is meaningless
in the cosmic sense then how can it be meaningful in what we might
call the microscopic sense? Isn't that like trying to build castles
in the air?"
"It is! It's precisely that!"
"But how is that possible?"
"How is anything possible?" cried
John, throwing up his hands. "How are you possible, how am
I possible? Everything is like a castle floating in the air-and
a sand castle at that! Because when you really think about it,
the only logical answer is that there really shouldn't be anything
at all!"
"But there is something!" shouted
Andy in exasperation.
"Exactly!" exclaimed John, stabbing
at Andy triumphantly with his finger. "Exactly! And that's
the point! Even when we admit the universe is meaningless in the
cosmic sense, we're still here! Andy, it's so incredible! And
you know what? Sometimes when a man comes to this realization
about how nothing existing is the only logical answer he almost
expects himself to suddenly vanish-as if he had kicked away the
supports which had previously upheld both the universe and himself!
And so some have done this-they've kicked away all the supports!
But guess what?
"What?"
John's arms flew open wide, as if he were
trying to embrace the earth and sky.
"It's all still here," he cried. "The world's still here, I'm still here, the stars are still here, the moonthe whole universe is still here! And so here I am, sitting here on this rock with you at this moment having just said the universe is meaningless. I expect the entire thing to come crashing down-but it doesn't! I expect to vanish into nothingnessbut I don't! So the moment I don't vanish I'm faced with a questiona question which is entirely unavoidable, a question which I am completely and utterly incapable of escaping. Do you know what that question is?"
Andy stared back wonderingly at John, whose
eyes, by now, were glowing feverishly, while his breath was coming
in quick and almost violent gasps. Above John's head, meanwhile,
Andy beheld the moon-the seemingly ever-silent, never-moving-when-you're-looking-at-it,
always ascending moon. Instead of answering John immediately,
however, he took a deep breath and forced himself to relax. Oddly,
he almost thought that he could hear his mother's voice inside
his head. She was singing. Suddenly he was calm, a strange sense
of confidence and security warmly flowing through him.
"No," he said.
"What next?" exclaimed
John triumphantly, leaping to his feet. "What do I do
next? I've got fifty, maybe sixty years of life left: what
am I going to do about it? What am I going to do with it?
What? Tell me!"
"You're asking me what you should do
with your life?" Andy demanded incredulously while gazing
up at his seemingly intoxicated companion in mild alarm.
"Or your own if that's easier,"
John replied. "But first you must accept, at least in theoryand
for just the next few minutesthat the universe is meaningless
in the cosmic sense. Agreed?"
"Agreed," said Andy softly. "At
least I'll try."
"Good," said John. And suddenly
a smile flashed across his face and he sat down again beside his
friend. And now, as they continued speaking, they instinctively
leaned closer together, and the rest of the world beyond their
voices and their minds seemed to fade without a trace away.
"So," said John, narrowing his eyes in concentration. "You're sitting here with me right now-on this rock in the Black Hills in the middle of nowhere. You have just come to the realization that the universe is meaningless. What do you do?
Andy took a deep breath, considering carefully.
"Well," he said, "obviously
I can do anything I want. There are no real laws so I could, say...
kill you and take your wallet."
John nodded.
"That's true, "he said. "You
could do thatif you really need three dollars. But of
course, there are the local authorities who haven't heard that
everything is meaningless and so they could still arrest you and
you could end up spending the rest of your life in prison."
"And yet," Andy countered swiftly,
"what would be so bad about that? If it's all meaningless
it doesn't matter where I am. I may as well just take the risk
and kill you and take your money."
"True," Johnjust as
swiftlyretorted, "but if it's all meaningless why
would you kill me and take my wallet in the first place? If being
nice to people is meaningless then surely being mean to them
is equally meaningless."
"Okay. I guess I would just commit
suicide."
"Yes," John agreed, "you
could certainly do that. Though of course committing suicide is
just as meaningless as living."
Andy blinked momentarily with surprise.
"Well," he said, "yeah....
But at least I wouldn't suffer."
With this, however, John's eyes almost popped
out of their sockets.
"What was that?" he demanded,
his voice almost quivering with intensity. "What did you
just say?"
"I said at least I wouldn't suffer."
"But what does suffering mean?"
John countered. "Suffering is meaningless!"
"Yeah," Andy admitted with a grimace.
"Yeah, I suppose you're right. I guess I wouldn't know what
to do.... Maybe I'd do nothing."
"Sorry!" John laughed, shaking
his finger vigorously at his companion. "Doing nothing is
just as meaningless a choice as any other!"
"So what? Absolutely anything I could
possibly do is meaningless?"
"It sure looks that way."
"And yet it seems a matter of simple
logic that I can't help but do something...."
"That's absolutely right!" agreed
John. "We seem to have tripped ourselves up on another paradox.
Because if life is meaningless, then any choice we could possibly
make must be equally meaningless: there is just no way out of
it. But the fact is that we are already here, and so we just don't
have the luxury of simply vanishing without having to do anything.
We have to do something."
"So then what do weIdo?"
Andy murmured confusedly. "It's a paradox, as you say."
"I agree. Let's think about it for
a few minutes."
And so they did.
Finally John spoke: "Now, Andy... earlier
you had said something about committing suicide to avoid suffering,
a course of actionand a form of motivationwhich
we both decided was just as meaningless as everything elseincluding,
I suppose, pleasure?"
Andy nodded, "Yes. I guess pleasure
must also be meaningless if everything else is."
"So that means that pain and pleasure
are, in a sense, the same thing?"
"I suppose-something like that. Though
it sounds strange to hear it put that way."
"I agree, it does sound strange. So
strange that it deserves a closer look. So herelet's
take a closer look at it by way of an example. And let's put our
particular example in what some might consider extreme terms.
Do you want to hear it?"
Andy smiled.
"Of course!" he said. "Please!
You're torturing me! If you have a solution let's get to it!"
"Okay," John answered. "Listen
carefully. After you realize that life is meaningless you are
given three choicesand you must choose one because,
as we have already agreed, not choosing is not an option."
"Right. So what are my choices?"
"The first choice will be a manner of life that the ignorant would call a life of torment. You will be cast into a prison cell without lights, heating, or air conditioning. The cell is full of biting bugs and centipedes and such-like beasts. You will be fed raw human intestines for food"
"Ugh!" Andy groaned,
interrupting his companion in mid-sentence. "Do you have
to be so grotesque?"
"What do you mean grotesque?"
John responded, utterly straight-faced. "We have experienced
the Death of Grotesquery! Everything is meaningless, remember?
There's no difference between human intestines and chocolate cake.
May I continue?"
"I'm sure you will.... Meanwhile I'll
try to get that image out of my head."
"You can try," John said. "All
right then. So you will be fed raw human intestines every day,
as I said. These raw human intestines will be delivered, say,
through a chute into your cell. In addition to having to eat raw
human intestines, you will never see another human face or hear
another human voice. You will never leave the cell. You will never
go outdoors. Every day, meanwhile, electric currents will be run
through the walls and floor and ceiling of the cell, causing intense
but meaningless sensations of pain. The temperature of your humble
abode will vary from extremely hotsay 130 degrees with
high humidityto extremely cold-somewhere around freezing-but
never anywhere in between. Finally, we will decree that you survive
here seventy yearsinto your nineties in fact. Then,
at last, after seventy years in your meaningless cell eating raw
human intestines while being devoured by bugs and roasted, frozen,
and electrocuted twenty-four hours a day, you will die and be
gone and no longer exist."
"And so what are my other two choices?"
Andy inquired despondently.
"Your next choice is suicide."
"Ah, thank God!"
"Now wait a moment!" John cried,
grabbing Andy by the shoulder.
"What?"
"You keep breaking our agreement concerning
the meaninglessness of everything! You don't thank God, or anything
for that matter, in a meaningless universe! In a meaningless universe,
life in the cell is no less preferable than suicideisn't
that true if it is true that everything is meaningless?"
"I suppose, but-"
"-No buts! Either the universe is meaningless
or it isn't! And don't worry, we'll review that question later
on. But for now I want to complete our survey of the options.
The second option, as I was saying, is suicide. That's quite straightforward
I think and we can probably move onif you have no objection?"
"I have no objection," said Andy.
"Let's move on to my third option."
"Your third option is this: you again
will live seventy years, but instead of living in the cell you
will live here at the cabin along the shores of this lake, beneath
this moon and these stars, and with our friends and myself and
your family and your girlfriend, whofor the sake of
our argumentbecomes your wife."
"Oooshe'd like that! What
else?"
"Let's also say that there are still
many communities in the surrounding hills and that everyone gets
along well together. Every person is free to work as much or as
little as he or she pleases-although, presumably, there will in
any case be certain minimal duties to perform, such as cutting
wood and making meals and the like. You're the woodsman, you tell
me. But most of your time will be spent talking with your friends
and family, paddling in your canoes, and visiting neighboring
towns where scientists and artists are learning and creating and
people are always doing the sorts of things that people are wont
to do. You eat lots of good food, have lots of good friends, and,
dare I say it, enjoy lots of good sex with your good lady wife-which
means you will most likely produce many children, who no doubt
will be seen running and playing in these woods here, as it is
in their nature to do, oblivious to philosophies or religions
or what have you."
"What else can I do besides cut wood
and make babies?" asked Andy excitedly. "Not that I'm
complaining!"
"What else would you like to do?"
"I would like to be a space explorer."
"Would you like to go to Mars?"
"Yes! Mars would be wonderful! Or one
of the moons of Jupiter!"
"Or maybe other planets around other
stars? Why not?"
"Why not indeed!"
"Maybe you'd even find other planets
with life on them-even intelligent life!"
"It's possible! You know I just heard
a theory the other day about how"
"Wait, wait, wait!"
cried John, laughing and lifting up his hands. "Let's not
leave the track just yet! Suffice it to say you can do whatever
you want. I suppose we can't really say whether it would be possible
for you to go to another star, but surely you could, in the next
seventy years, theoretically be able to travel to another planet
in our solar system. But this doesn't need to be completely realisticonly
a theoretical possibility. But let's move on to the end of your
life."
"What is it like?"
"It is quiet and painless. Doctors
are there to provide you with medication to minimize your suffering.
You are surrounded by your children and grandchildren, maybe even
your great-grandchildren. And so that is how you die. And when
you have died you are gone and you go to the same place, so to
speak, as that other man in the cell and the suicide-you all,
as they say, return to dust. So, Andy, these are your three options.
What do you suppose happens next?"
Andy smiled as he replied: "I suppose I have to choose."
"Exactly!" his friend exclaimed. "You must decide!
However, you must simultaneously remember that, since everything
is meaningless, no choice is really any more proper or true or
better than any other."
"Hmm."
"So what do you choose? Behind door
Number 1: the cell; behind door Number 2: the noose; behind door
Number 3: the cabin, missus, and Mars. Which is it going to be?
Rememberyou have to choose!"
Andy smiled slyly in the soft and bluish
moonlight.
"You're going to yell at me for this,"
he said, "but I choose door Number 3."
"Door Number 3?" John exclaimed,
for all the world appearing utterly astonished at Andy's reply.
"Why Number 3? How can you justify that choice?"
"But how can I justify not choosing
door Number 3?" Andy demanded desperately. "As far as
I can tell, I have no choice at all! I could never choose door
Number 1-to do so would be sheer insanity. And when having to
choose between doors Number 2 and Number 3, why not choose Number
3 if we're all going to the same place no matter what we do? I'd
rather have Number 3 than nothing at all!"
"So what you're saying is that Number
3 is better than Number 2?"
"Yes. That's absolutely true."
"And Number 2 is better than Number
1?"
"One would have to be a madman to say
otherwise."
"Then you must be a madman, because
if everything is meaningless then it doesn'tcannotreally
matter! The only rational thing to do is put the options in a
hat and pull one out at random."
Andy, however, shook his head.
"You know," he said, "I'm
not sure what you mean by 'really doesn't matter' anymorewhat
does 'really' mean? Because as far as I can tell, no matter how
meaningless I try to imagine the universe being, I just can't
imagine my being indifferent to which 'door' I choose. If I could
be indifferent to it, I don't think I'd be humanI wouldn't
be anything."
John nodded thoughtfully.
"So what you're saying in a sense is
that your life, at least as far as you're concerned, could only
be meaningless if it didn't exist?"
"It seems so," Andy answered in
amazement. "Because that's the only way my human nature,
dare I say it, could not get in the way of a clear judgment. But
of course, if I have no life then I don't exist which means I
can't choose at all-in which case there is no question and no
problem. So you're right, it seems: to exist is to be, somehow,
meaningful, even if the universe is meaningless on what we have
been calling the cosmic level. Even if, to make it explicit, there
is no God."
John was smiling.
"Isn't that amazing?"
"YesI'm almost feeling a
little breathless!"
"But is it all that simple though?"
"What do you mean?" Andy asked,
his eyes narrowing with suspicion.
"What if," John answered with grin, "I gave you a fourth option?"
"I almost don't want to know!"
Andy groaned.
"First we need to rewrite option Number
3 a little bit, so it is less Edenic and more realistic. Let's
say you can have a wife and kids and family and friends, but you
will live in abject poverty and be unable to afford health care
or be able to adequately feed, clothe, or house your family. In
short, life will be a struggle for all your days. You'll have
some good times, maybe, but you will also definitely have bad
times too, and probably a lot more of them. So that's the new
choice Number 3."
"And what's Number 4?"
"Number 4 will be just like the old
Number 3so you'll get to have all your old pleasures
and avoid having to work fourteen hours a day for a pittance and
live in such terrible conditions."
"What's the catch?"
"The catch is that if you choose option
Number 4, you must inflict severe suffering, perhaps even death,
on others in order to get the good things you desire."
"Must I inflict suffering on others?"
Andy asked with a wince.
"No," John answered. "It's
just going to be one option among four. You're still completely
free to choose any one you like. So what will it be now?"
For perhaps a minute Andy thought carefully.
"You know, John," he finally said,
pronouncing his words slowly, and with care, "I think I'll
stick with Number 3... even though you've soured it."
"How brave of you!" John exclaimed.
"But tell me, why did you choose Number 3 when you just as
well could have chosen Number 4 and had everything?"
"I didn't want to hurt anyone I guess."
"You're hurting your own family-but
I suppose that really isn't the point is it?"
"What do you mean?"
"Well, the point is that you are taking
the infliction of suffering to be badwhy? Remember,
the universe is still meaningless in the cosmic sense: there is
no God who's going to reward or punish anybody for what they do.
Besides, why do you care what someone else is feeling? Why should
I care? Why should we not live our lives for ourselves and enjoy
it to the greatest extent possible? If that means slaughtering
millions, so what? Why not?"
Andy frowned in frustration. Despite all
his efforts, it seemed he could not put an answer into words.
"I don't know," he finally said.
"It just doesn't seem... right."
"But what do you mean by 'seem right?'"
John pressed, "It is neither right nor wrong, it seems! You
have your own pleasure to worry about-not other people's!"
"But what if hurting other people makes
me unhappy?"
"Why would it make you unhappy?"
For several seconds Andy struggled, thinking
with all his might. He felt an answer was therehiding
its face, shyly, somewhere inside him.
"Well," he said, slowly, at last,
"maybe because I just like people. And because no one...
no one likes to hurt or destroy what they like-if that weren't
true I would destroy myself! And so if other people are a means
to a pleasurable end for me, then why should I harm them and make
myself feel worse?"
John nodded thoughtfully, considering these
words.
"This is very interesting," he
said. "So what you're saying is that hurting people is not
right or wrong in a sense in and of itselfit just makes
you feel worse and therefore you should not do it."
"Yes," Andy firmly replied, warming
to his position. "It's the same principle as that behind
the door options: I want what I know is betterbetter
defined as more pleasurable, or at least less painful. That's
the standard we must use to define right and wrong I think."
"So you're a hedonist?"
"In a sense it seems so."
"But all this sounds so awfully selfish!
You don't abuse your wife, for example, because that would make
you feel bad! Don't you care about your wife?"
"Of course I do!" Andy heatedly
exclaimed. "That's precisely why it would make me
feel so bad to harm her! That's precisely why I would want
to protect her! She's not just a means to an end-or rather, she
can't be an means unless I also see her as a end. Because, really,
I don't simply find my happiness through herI
find it in herin all that she is, even!"
John laughed.
"You're getting a little too deep for
me there, Andy," he said. "But I'll take your word for
it. And maybe we can discuss love more carefully some other time-maybe
after you've been married a while when you can tell me what it's
about. Anyway, what I want to hear from you now is a little more
about why you won't go around raping and robbing people."
"Well I suppose I feel that to do so
would, on the whole, be less (far less I would guess) pleasurable
and more painful than not doing it. Those are ugly and terrible
things, and so I think that, faced with the choice of raping and
pillaging and not raping and pillaging, I would have to choose,
as you might say, door Number 2, which is not doing these things.
I would rather do those things which I naturally find more pleasurable,
while doing those door Number 1 things, I think, would actually
cause me pain. So much pain, in fact, that they would probably
poison all my other pleasures. So even assuming I gained anything
from behaving badly at all, I would, on balance, lose far more
than I would gain!"
"But of course you're not saying it's
all as obvious as your first three-door choice?"
"No, not at all. I'm not really explaining
it very well. It certainly isn't something one can necessarily
grasp all at once, but I think there's a great truth lurking in
there. One needs, perhaps, a kind of second sight to see it-yet
I think it's there nonetheless."
"So what about those individuals, and
there are lots of them, who seem to enjoy killing and robbing
and the like? They must enjoy these things if they're doing them.
And everyone, as we know, enjoys money and other kinds of material
profit which such actions can procure."
"But are they really happy? If you
gave them the choice of two doors: behind door Number 1 the kind
of life they are now leading, and behind door Number 2 the kind
of life I would like to lead, one more resembling the idyllic
existence here at the cabin (with, of course, the occasional trip
into space), do you really think they wouldn't choose my kind
of life over theirs? If, that is, they could really know what
each was like and had an completely free choice?"
John nodded thoughtfully
"That's an interesting thought,"
he said.
"But there are grey areas, I think,"
Andy continued. "Like in the option above where I was forced
to live in suffering but could lessen my suffering by harming
others. Can I really prove to someone that they would be happier
not hurting anyone and suffering in some way than in hurting others
and avoiding that suffering?"
"I don't knowI would hope
so. But I seriously doubt those who harm others for their own
personal gain are really better off than those who, in the same
circumstances, don't. And what I'm about to say is perhaps what
you were driving at before. Because by doing such things, though
these people gain money or a kind of pleasure perhaps, I think
it very likely they are losing other things which are far more
valuablethings necessary to their having any chance
for true happiness. For instance, maybe committing murder takes
a degree of selfishness and obliviousness to the value and feelings
of others that makes experiencing true lovetruly meaningful
interconnections with othersimpossible? Or at least
far less likely or significant or pleasurable? They might gain
some material or sexual external advantage, but they simultaneously
would lose something far more valuable internally, because these
things are not truly compatible. Maybe cruelty and selfishness
are directly proportional to unhappiness? Maybe, in short, you
can't brutalize others without brutalizing yourself?"
"But then why do they do such things-if
it doesn't make them happier?"
"Maybe they only think it makes them
happier. After all, people can be addicted to drugs, and the taking
of those drugs can appear to make them happier, even though surely
it is almost alwaysif not alwaysthe case that
they are really unhappy, and that their use of drugs will ultimately
only contribute to that unhappiness. This would mean that they
are not so much becoming happier as they are medicating or suppressing,
for a time, their pain. Maybe drug addiction and evil actions
are the signs and signatures of unhappiness, not expressions or
sources of joy?"
Andy nodded approvingly.
"You speak well, John," he said.
"I therefore suspect," continued
John, "that what we call evil actions are a kind of last
resort for people who have no hope for real happiness or who are
in some other way frustrated or ignorant. Perhaps it seems more
preferable to them to harm others than merely to suffer by themselves
in silence. Maybe, if you have no hope, no love, no knowledge
or experience of what is truly goodif you're trapped
in a lightless cell full of biting insects so to speakextreme
selfishness and indifference to others is the only leg you have
left upon which to stand. Maybe this is all that keeps you from
total despair-or even suicide."
"YesI think we're on to something,"
Andy said approvingly. "But surely our theory needs a lot
more work."
"Of course," John smiled. "But don't we all?"
"To sum up then," said John, "although
it seems the whole question is rather complicated to say the least,
we can say that there definitely is a kind of 'meaning' in the
sense that we human beings have a nature which naturally desires
certain things and fears certain other things, and that this is
in fact the case independently of any cosmic meaning or lack of
cosmic meaning. It seems that our own human meaning, if I can
call it that, is sufficientnot ideal, of course, by
any means, but sufficient nonetheless. It is enough, in other
words, to potentially provide us with a compass with which we
can begin to navigate the course of our lives. And I for one (if
you don't mind me getting a little evangelical here), think it
is the duty of ones such as you and I to consider the question
of a possible 'best direction' very deeply, paradoxes, grey areas,
confusions and all, and to try to bring to others the good news
about the things that truly make human beings happy. Not, of course,
that we've figured it all out! But I do think we're off to a fine
start. We've at least succeeded in establishing the existence
of better and worse kinds of lives. Now we 'only' need to refine
our theory further, and bring these better types of lives into
sharper, cleaner focus. Surely there are many elements which constitute
the greatest happiness, though two of the most importantas
we probably can agree on here tonightmust be love and
knowledge. And you know what? I think I have a third. Because
knowledge, I strongly believe, is meant to be shared, and maybe
it should be shared out of a sense of something at least akin
to love. And so it could be exactly this kind of thingthis
spreading of good news, this sharing of things one has found to
be useful and good with othersthat is itself one of
those great pleasures which we would all be wise to seek. But
I suppose this will all have to wait for later, because we have
obviously bitten off more than we can chew. And besideswhat
timing!I hear our companions stumbling up the road,
calling out our names. And so let's rise and greet them. But first,
let us agree to work together for the cause of human happiness!"
And so saying John stood, pulling Andy up along with him by his arm, and they both smiled broadly at each other, laughing, and vigorously shook hands to seal their pact. Then they turned and immediately ran back down the road to meet their host of friends, who were staggering and screaming and losing their way in the forest. And soon they all were running, tripping, yelling, and laughing through the woods together, which no longer seemed so dark. For their eyes eventually had adjusted to the gloom that at first seemed so impenetrable, while the moon, having risen high above them, cast down her silver rays through the blue boughs of the trees, and freely splashed her light upon the cool dark earth as well as on the faces of the joyous friends. And the companions ran and laughed and played through the forest for what seemed to them a long time, until finally, exhausted, they returned to the decomposing cabin above the lake. And here, one by one, they fell asleep. And they slept together in silence.