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Know thyself to be not a god
Dear Reader,
We are not gods. We are only human. One species out of a multitude.
We possess not the strength of Zeus. As per Pascal, the entire universe need not arm itself to crush us. A vapour, a drop of water suffices. We are but a reed, the most feeble thing in nature. There may be nobility in us being a thinking reed, but the capacity for thought that supposedly constitutes the greatness of man is as per Jung, dependent upon powers beyond our control. The rational motivations of the mind can hardly overcome that which acts upon us.
We are not very “special”, despite what our indoctrinators like to say, and we cannot do “anything”. There is a vast treasury of thought and experience that will never be available to us, and there is so much that takes place for which simply nothing can be done. In our physical limitations, imagination may traverse the gap — transporting us far and wide into the great beyond, fulfilling us in our desire to act freely and to impress in the contest of ideals. But even as we do so, the supposedly noble government of imagination sees itself equally intensely to places of utter filth. It conceives the most despicable of images and stories, towards ourselves, those in our vicinity and the community.
Feeble and limited are the human body and mind. Darkness envelops the human soul as does light. Life acts upon us without restraint, and we who live on become weary in spirit.
The ever-present existence itself pays no pity, demanding itself be justified. To live is to carry a Sisyphean rock upon our shoulders for eternity. To be human is to suffer.
Yet the least spirited among us persist, toiling towards the ideals we have been possessed by. The thrill of hope remains in the weariest of spirits. Amidst an immense burden, we muster something from deep within, a will to exert our existence into every new day, and make something out of it!
🪟 8 - Know thyself to be not a god
And... all of this is cause for celebration! The uplifting thought lies in one word repeated throughout. It is we.
Old Man Sitting under a Tree (1909) by Edward Munch (Source)
The wonderful news is it is we that are not so special as we think, or are raised to think! Sure, we may be unique, and there may be “only one of you”. At least, that is what we like to be told, and especially what the authenticists like to say. But in more ways than not, we are also all exactly the same. It is as a lion is indistinguishable from another, so we are to each other. There is more to a human being that connects than that which estranges. Our machinery is the same, and we ought not to ignore this sameness in favour of our uniqueness.
Sameness is cause for solace, for knowing and accepting our common humanity helps us to self-acceptance. A man may find it an impossible task to accept himself in totality when his own shortcomings appear jarring, when the sufferer sees himself as an anomaly among men. But it is easy for him to accept what is common to us all. And so much is common to us all, that he ought simply to gain a broader and deeper conception of what is human — that constitutes more of him than whatever he thinks of himself. There lies a deep solace to be found in such a framing, one that supersedes reassurances. As I like to recite in my mind’s voice, “you come to understand that whatever you suffer, the rest of humanity suffers with you”.
Think about those cases where one is inflicted with the rarest of diseases, who by serendipity stumbles upon a community of fellow sufferers. Does the sufferer not relish in the solace of community? It is because the sufferer now knows that she suffers, but not alone. Once again the tyranny of socialisation is at play, and with it our need to measure our doom relative to others. We go to great lengths to learn whether we are better off than the rest, or worst off. In the same manner, as all of humanity suffers through the burdens in life and the burden of life (beneath the facades), so we may find solace in the knowledge that we belong to a community of sufferers. This I had come to understand over the course of my life, that I suffer, but not alone. I am one of billions.
Certainly, this does not spare those steeped in superiority, for we are not so godlike as we think. Pride arises when the prideful indexes so highly on the social game that they stake their sense of selves on maximal social dominance. They strive radically towards it, becoming so far detached from their humanity that they forget they are of the same species and not gods. And it is a frame worth correcting, for it is humanity in its purest form that grips most deeply! We are struck by a human joy and sorrow, more so than the otherworldly among us. Even the assessment of otherworldliness in others itself warrants correction, for it is a failure to look past the facades into the feebleness behind it. No human can be exempted from human nature. We are the archaic man in the caves. We are the nun in the church. We are the resilient centurion. We are the beggar living off scraps in the street. We are the Nazis. We are the Romantic artist.
It is as per the Delphic “know thyself”. This is not to say, know your “one true self”. Rather, know that you are limited, just like others, and ought not to be likened to gods.
The human race, our parenting and education systems along with it, may be incentivised to indoctrinate every newborn into the idea that they are “special”, and that they can do “anything”. And indeed that is what grips us as children, for they help us relate to those children’s stories that mould our character towards certain ideals. But that creates an error of framing, and it is only as we mature that we have to shed, with unease, the notion that we are special — in the full sense of the word. We are simply human. And there is solace to be found in our understanding of it, for it helps to remove our facades from our own spotlight and that incessant urge to “make a difference”, lest our lives prove a “wastage of time and space”. It is as we realise that all others are embroiled in their own spotlights and so caught up in their own specialness, that we start to look at our own, and the narratives along with it, with doubt.
How can a man call himself “special”? Our nature is feeble, limited and deterministic. We do not even know in the first place what it means to be human, or to live well. Not our origins nor destiny, while the journey itself remains nearly as unclarified as the destination we will arrive at. The human make-up is an incredibly complex machinery, yet it takes so much is a kink in its mechanics to halt its workings! Indeed, life is “the art of drawing sufficient conclusions from insufficient premises”, as I had quoted in perpetually incomplete datasets, and so we may better call ourselves “sufficient”. But I find the primary narrative in the first half: that life is most importantly, an art.
We cannot do anything. But we can do many things, and life is what we make of it. Life is a burden, but also a gift. Yes, the gift of life lies in the gift of limitations! Is that not one of the constituents of great art? Limited as he may be, an artist makes something profound; an emanation of his imperfect soul! And is there a deeper, more serious art than that of living?
The rhetoric on being “special” lies in cultivating a sense of self-worth, with it the confidence to aim freely towards our highest ideals. But “worth” is a murky idea, a matter of beliefs hinged upon that which is relative to others. What might be an alternative to the self-worth paradigm? I have come to think of it in this manner — we could treat our lives as an artist treats a work of art. That is to accept our starting point in its totality, then to exert ourselves as a creative process, aiming to emanate deeply from the soul. And what is the worth of a work of art? It is not clear. Does it matter? The great artist does not care about the worth of his art, only the purity of his art as an emanation of himself. Perhaps the same may be said of the self. The self is drenched in imperfection, but it remains a creative adventure. To be not a god is not grounds to be dispassionate!
Side note: In case it is not clear, I do not claim to know human nature. I have only been possessed by the ideal of seeking the truth offered in it which ought to organise my life. This is what I am exploring in my writing Frames & Axioms. It is at core a reflection on what makes us human, which should answer much of the question of what makes me me. Perhaps at a time when the human race is extinct, an alien race might uncover my writing and have an inkling of what it was like to be human.
Is this not more cause for wonder? We are containers of various, recurring patterns more so than “one true selves”, and there is a fascination to be had with them. How did those patterns arise? Why do we perceive and behave the way we do? Why are we susceptible to certain potent forces? What makes us human? I have found pondering these questions to be more effective than “what makes me, me?” For I have learned that most of me is not unique, rather a unique manifestation of the same structures living within us all. To live is to participate in humanity.