Rage, Reason, and the Relentless Need to Hope
A daily fight against apathy and erosion
He who has peace of mind disturbs neither himself nor another. -- Epicurus
Hope hurts. So much easier not to.
Hopeless, you can’t be disappointed. The Skeptics taught ataraxy as a means to eudaimonia. Eudaimonia means well-being, in the sense of bliss. Ataraxy means an indifference so entire English lacks an adequate synonym. “Why should I fear death?” asked Epicurus. “If I am, then death is not. If Death is, then I am not. Why should I fear that which can only exist when I do not?” In America ataraxy equals Zoloft.
America’s crisis has me grasping for mental balance. A pill might make me feel better, but isn’t that defeat? Chemically induced tranquility is imbecility, not mind over matter.
No question, humanity’s enemies have the upper hand, whacking and trampling treasured ideals with whooping glee. Doctors? Lawyers? Truth? Science? Professors? Public Health? Decency? – who you kidding, man! Good means good for me! The right amount to possess is all you can steal! Initial incredulity has morphed into nausea at our kind. “This can’t be happening,” I keep repeating, dazed.
I woke this morning fighting back tears. How shameful is that! Lonely cowboys, jut-jawed detectives, fearless G.I.s are the American epitome! Man up, Carll, I scold myself – no use crying over spilt democracy!
Each day more damage that will take generations to repair. We can repeal vile laws but how to restore trust? So easy to destroy, so difficult to construct! I felt this way when I had cancer decades ago. I didn’t want to think about what was eating me and couldn’t think about anything else.
Ataraxy sounds sweet just now. Alas, not a chance. “To live without hope is to cease to live,” said Dostoyevsky. If I’m not heading somewhere, bushwhacking toward some gleaming dream, I don’t want to live. My today shines from the light of tomorrow. Absent that light, all is dark.
Is hope reasonable? Of course not. Nothing beautiful is reasonable. The glory of existence is imaginary, bestowed on mute facts by our minds. “There is nothing either good or bad but thinking makes it so,” observes Hamlet. It’s our moral obligation to persuade ourselves that all is not lost, so we wage war with gusto.
I will be hopeful if it kills me! What I’m hoping for, paradoxically, is a quick calamity. The sooner markets crater, shelves empty, citizens sicken, innocents are abducted, hurricanes lay waste, the sooner even the dopiest American will waken to our mistake. Were the erosion of our rights, protections, and freedoms gradual, we might get used to it, one predation at a time, but if stabbed, we’ll yelp. “There’s a time to kill and a time to heal,” said Ecclesiastes, “a time to love, and a time to hate; a time for war, and a time for peace.” Now is our time to kill, hate, fight. Ataraxy is AWOL.
The other day, lunching with a dear pal, we agreed not to discuss our national disgrace. That lasted ten minutes. And so it should be. Yes, the theme is repetitive, wearisome, but if we don’t fix this, nothing else will matter much. Dictators’ captives trudge in dreary grayness.
How much lamentation is enough? As much as we can bear. Let rage stiffen us into warriors. Optimism landed us in this mess. How many were convinced our Constitution could withstand any assault? A few months into this maladministration are we still so sure?
Life is what we make of it. I’m trying to make mine into Achilles’. Die of honor on the field of battle! Words are my helmet, breastplate, greaves.