Heidegger and a Hippo Walk Through Those Pearly Gates Read online

  Time out, bozos! I know all about therapy. I saw a shrink myself for a while because of my anger-management problem. And it turned out you’re right—it was all because my mother just adored my brother Skippy, and Dad, well, you know . . . I’d been bottling up that anger for years. And it had absolutely nothing to do with death or the abyss or any of that mumbo jumbo.

  Maybe, Daryl. But Kierkegaard might say that the whole issue of needing maternal love is just a smoke screen. There are anxieties and depressions that just come with the territory of being a human person, no matter how much your mother loved you or your father put you down. And those anxieties and depressions are the Mother of all the particular anxieties and depressions you groan about on the couch. According to S.K., all your anxiety about everything comes way before the couch complaints—it comes from the fact that you know you’re going to die. And maybe working out your issues about Mom and Skippy and Pops is just a way to distract yourself from your real issue—the Big D!

  If garden-variety neuroses are really masks for our fear of death, it might explain why psychotherapy takes so long. It never gets down to the real issue: deathiness.

  Of course there may be other reasons why normal psychotherapy takes so long. Comedian Ronnie Shakes tells us:

  After twelve years of therapy my psychiatrist said something that brought tears to my eyes. He said, “No hablo inglés.”

  A STREETCAR NAMED DESPAIR

  For Kierkegaard, rock-bottom human anxiety and despair, as compared to neurotic anxiety and despair, have us coming and going. Some of us are overwhelmed by too much possibility: our time-limited selves can’t handle the unlimited options that present themselves to us in both our everyday lives and in our fantasies. So little time, so much I might do.

  Let’s tune in on an anxious mortal dithering in the face of too much possibility:

  Will I ever be as great a kisser as Brad Pitt? Should I give up my law practice and try to make it as a street performer? What should I do with my life? Should I let my inner woman out? How about my inner Rambo?

  Should I try to be both Supermom and run a construction company? Should I have an affair with the postman and risk my happy home life? Or should I deny myself an affair and go to my grave unfulfilled?

  Do I dare to eat a peach? A Mars bar? A magic mushroom?

  Am I a loser?

  If I had an infinite amount of time, I could try an infinite number of these options. But there’s something about death that puts the kibosh on my personal possibilities. Since I’ve got one time-limited life, I don’t want to waste forty years of it trying to be as good a kisser as Brad Pitt. Or, even worse, dithering about whether to try to become as good a kisser as Brad Pitt. Because while I’m dithering, the clock is running down. Tick, tock, tick, tock. Is that your final answer?

  JUST DO IT

  It was exactly these dilemmas that led those latter-day existentialists, the merchandisers at the Nike Corporation, to coin their trademark leap of faith: Just Do It.

  But the Nike folks ran into some cultural boundaries in Africa. They filmed a commercial for hiking shoes in Kenya using Samburu tribesmen. The camera zooms in on one of these tribesmen as he intones a few words in his native Maa just as the “Just Do It” slogan flashes on the screen. When it played on American television, an anthropologist from the University of Cincinnati noted that what the guy actually was saying was, “I don’t want these! I want big shoes!”

  An embarrassed Nike spokesperson admitted they had difficulty finding a Maa equivalent of “Just Do It,” so they just did it with whatever the tribesman felt like saying. Nonetheless, from a Kierkegaardian point of view, the man is a fine example of someone who does not dither about his options.

  Oy! The pressure of being accountable for a finite life is enough to drive a person around the bend. And according to Kierkegaard, our Who-am-I? and What-can-I-be? puzzlements can push us over the edge of anxiety and even make us schizophrenic, like the guy who walked into a psychiatrist’s office and said, “I have an identity problem . . . and so do I.”

  One tempting way out of Kierkegaard’s existential hell of overwhelming what-to-be options is to simply close down. To avoid the angst of too much possibility, I shut myself off completely from the world.

  Our anxious mortal again:

  First I numb myself. It seems like a good anti-anxiety strategy, and in the short term, it is. But now I’m feeling isolated, disconnected from my family, my friends, my dog Moishe, my John Deere riding mower, the Knights of Columbus. And I can’t seem to find my way back! I can’t snap out of it. “Just Do It” just doesn’t do it when my strategy is to not do anything. What started out as a way to escape my fear of inadequacy has me feeling way more inadequate. Back when I felt bad because I wasn’t as good a kisser as Brad Pitt? Man, those were the good old days! Since I numbed out, I don’t feel alive enough to be a person, let alone a kisser.

  The Inescapable Self

  The self is one’s chief interest.

  But I still feel the pain of being me. I’ve only got two choices left: stop the pain permanently—say, by overdosing on trans fats—or try some strategic loopholes.

  LOOPY LOOPHOLES

  Here’s one escape clause that seems promising on the surface, Søren says: stay inside myself, but make it a virtue!

  Let’s tune in again on our anxious mortal:

  Like, I am so aware. I see the big picture and I’m not bothered by the details. Life is a parade, and I have a great seat. And, oh, God, it’s like so good not to be part of the parade. Now I go to the Knights of Columbus meetings, but I keep a certain ironic distance. As a matter of fact, I find it mildly amusing.

  So why, you may ask, am I ordering my third mar tini while the sun’s still out?

  Here’s another of Søren’s tricky tickets out of despair: lose myself in the trivialities of life. Tranquilize myself by getting caught up in “everydayness.” Pas de problème!

  Here’s our Anxious Man again:

  I’m feeling really good. I’ve got my BlackBerry loaded. Every moment of my day is accounted for: 6:00-6:15, first latte; 6:15- 6:45, treadmill; 6:45-7:00, email & Facebook; 7:00-8:00, drive to therapy while listening to my Deepak audiobook; 8:00-8:50, dig into my assertiveness problem with my shrink, Dr. Gonzales; 9:00, sit down at my desk and check my in-box . . .

  Wow! It’s a full life! A 24/7 merry-go-round.

  But wait one second. What’s that in my rearview mirror? It looks like a guy in a black bathrobe riding a pale horse.An off-duty mounted policeman? Omigod, it’s Mr. D. himself! Funny, he wasn’t in my BlackBerry.

  One more Kierkegaardian escape strategy: Bravely throw myself into acts of “defiant self-creation.” Make something of myself.

  Load up my bedside table with self-help books by Wayne Dyer, Eckhart Tolle, Marianne Williamson. Think positive thoughts! Dare to dream the impossible dream! Visualize great goals! Harness the secret powers of the law of attraction! Then my life will have meaning, and that meaning will transcend death. I will be immortal. Like Lawrence Luellen. A name that will live on in eternity.

  You don’t remember Larry?! The inventor of the Dixie Cup?

  Lily Tomlin points out one of the practical problems of trying to make something of yourself:

  I always wanted to be somebody. Now I see that I should have been more specific.

  So, Daryl, you’re probably wondering, what if you’re all mixed up? What if you’ve got so many conflicting life strategies going that you don’t know who you are most of the time?

  The Self at a Gathering

  The Self as Something to Be Improved

  Like, what if you’re both hyper and depressed? Like the manic-depressive who went on vacation and sent a note back to his psychiatrist: “Having a wonderful time. Wish I were dead.”

  No, that’s not what I’m thinking at all! I’m still thinking this Kierkegaard is a few Danishes short of a coffee break. What’s more, he’s depressing the hell out of me.

 
; Okay, Daryl! Here comes the Final Answer—Søren’s clincher.

  There is a way out that doesn’t come up against the dead ends of autoanesthesia, solipsistic confinement, busy-bee-ing, or self-aggrandizement. But, we’ve gotta warn you, it’s not exactly a walk in the park.

  Angst itself is the way out! Pretty cool, eh, Daryl? It’s only when we dare to experience the full anxiety of knowing that life doesn’t go on forever that we can experience transcendence and get in touch with the infinite. To use an analogy from gestalt psychology,1 Non-Being is the necessary ground for the figure of Being to make itself known to us. It’s only when we’re willing to let go of all of our illusions and admit that we are lost and helpless and terrified that we will be free of ourselves and our false securities and ready for what Kierkegaard calls “the leap of faith.”

  We can’t resist telling this golden oldie just one more time. (The devil makes us do it.) It perfectly nails Kierkegaard’s point about one man’s readiness to take that leap of faith.

  A man stumbles into a deep well and plummets a hundred feet before grasping a spindly root, stopping his fall. His grip grows weaker and weaker, and in his desperation he cries out, “Is there anybody up there?”

  He looks up, and all he can see is a circle of sky. Suddenly the clouds part and a beam of bright light shines down on him. A deep voice thunders, “I, the Lord, am here. Let go of the root, and I will save you.”

  The man thinks for a moment and then yells, “Is there anybody else up there?”

  So, Daryl, does Kierkegaard speak to your death-angst? Daryl? Daryl? Where’d he disappear to?

  { 3 }

  Death—The Way to Go!

  Too bad Daryl’s not here, because do we have some cheerful news for him. And it’s straight from the mouth of the nineteenth-century German philosopher Arthur Schopenhauer. For Artie, there’s no reason to have anxiety about death. That’s because death is the ultimate aim and purpose of life. It’s like the ultimate fulfillment!

  Huh? What kind of crazy talk is that?

  Oh, there you are, Daryl, curled up in the fetal position under the porch. Well, take a deep breath, my friend. We know this isn’t the answer you were hoping for. It is kind of a downer at first blush, but Schopey is an acquired taste.

  As it happens, the Schopster did have several interesting ideas about death on his mind. One thing he meant is that life is a constant process of dying. The past, when you really think about it, is just a repository of death, a heap of no-longer-existing events—gone forever, irretrievable, dead as a doornail (or as a dormouse, depending on where you shop for similes). Artie flips the old feel-good aphorism “Today is the first day of the rest of your life” to “Today is the last day of your death, so far.”

  THE PAST AS PRESENT

  Nonetheless, says Schopey, we cling to life because we have this perverted “will-to-live,” which—contrary to our best interests—keeps us from embracing our true destiny, death. It’s views like this that kept Schopenhauer from getting invited to Oktoberfests.

  THE PERVERTED WILL-TO-LIVE ON DEATH ROW

  An Italian, a Frenchman, and an American are about to be executed.They’re told they can have whatever they want for their last meal.

  Tony replies,“A nice bowl of linguini with clam sauce.” He enjoys his plate of pasta and is duly executed.

  Next, it’s Pierre’s turn.“I’d like a nice hot bowl of bouillabaisse.” He relishes each spoonful, and is executed.

  Finally, it’s Bill’s turn. He thinks for a minute, then says, “I’d like a nice bowl of fresh strawberries.”

  “Strawberries?” says the warden. “They’re out of season.”

  “No problem. I’ll wait.”

  “Happy fortieth. I’ll take the muscle tone in your upper arms,

  the girlish timbre of your voice, your amazing tolerance

  for caffeine, and your ability to digest French fries.

  The rest of you can stay.”

  Hold it right there, guys! Schopenhauer’s calling my love of life a “perverted will-to-live”? He’s the one with the perverted view, I tell you! He’s a few bread crumbs short of a schnitzel, and you guys are just eating it up.

  Be patient, Daryl. You’ve got to maintain an open mind on these things. Sure, Schopey had an unusual philosophical take on things. And there’s no getting away from the fact that he’s got a terminal case of Weltschmerz. But if it’s uplift you want, why don’t you go watch Extreme Makeover?

  Truth to tell, Schopenhauer went on to top himself with an even bigger downer. He said that death is a welcome relief from life. He cited Lord Byron as his ally in dissing life’s meager pleasures:Count o’er the joys thine hours have seen, Count o’er the days from anguish free, And know, whatever thou hast been, ’Tis something better not to be.

  In one passage, the Schopmeister even went so far as to conclude that, all life’s heartbreaks considered, ’tis something better never to have lived at all!

  Sam and Joe, two elderly gents, were talking on a park bench.

  Said Sam, “Oy. All my life, one trouble after another. A business that went bankrupt, a sickly wife, a thief for a son. Sometimes I think I’d be better off dead.”

  Joe: “I know what you mean, Sam.”

  Sam:“Better yet, I wish I’d never been born.”

  Joe: “Yeah, but who has such luck? Maybe one in ten thousand?”

  But hold on—Schopenhauer insists he’s no pessimist. Just because he says life is a constant source of suffering and frustration, we shouldn’t jump to the conclusion that he was of the Life-Sucks-and-Then-You-Die school of philosophy.

  Au contraire, Artie was more Buddhist than pessimist. He had read the Buddhist scriptures in an early European translation, and agreed with the Buddha that all existence is suffering. But, also like the Buddha, he didn’t think it ultimately mattered, because the ordinary world is just an illusion. The only thing that’s really real is what he called “Will,” by which he meant the blind, irrational, aimless Force that keeps the whole shebang—and everything in it—going. In short, what’s to be pessimistic about? The stuff that’s always getting our knickers in a knot isn’t real anyhow.

  For Schopenhauer, the problem with life in this world of illusion is that my individual will gets split off from the transcendental Will with a capital W and starts to have a life of its own. First day out of the box, it gets attached to the illusory stuff of the everyday world. Schopenhauer says these illusions include everything, from my career goals to my patriotism to my devotion to my particular religion. These attachments pit my individual will against your individual will, and therein lies the source of all the world’s suffering.

  Of course, one of the big things we get attached to is our own continued survival: we have this crazy will-to-live. How self-destructive can we get, eh, Daryl? Wanting to live only makes us suffer more! So we need to let go, resign ourselves to the futility of the world of appearances, and accept the fact that both life and death are unreal.

  Still unconvinced that Schopenhauer’s not a downer? That’s because you haven’t heard the good news: Will-itself never dies! It has no “death event,” because events occur only in the world of appearance. Will (capital W) is indestructible.

  Blues gone now, Daryl?

  Actually, Daryl, we do feel a little better. Kind of. Like, we can sort of get the feel of these quasi-mystical takes on Life and Death. At least on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays. It’s only the days in between that they sound loony.

  Throughout the entire history of philosophy, thinkers have been trying to figure out the relationship between Being and Non-Being, life and death. These fundamentals boggle the mind. But on days when we have a lot of wonder and awe going for us, we can get a sense of what they mean, and on those days we see “through a glass darkly” that you can’t have Being without Non-Being—or vice versa. And further, that Being and Non-Being are in constant tension with one another. It’s the basic Cosmic Battle. So if Schopenhauer side
s in this battle with the force of Being that he calls Will—well, maybe he is some sort of wacky optimist after all.

  DARYL AND SCHOPENHAUER: THE DIALOGUE

  { 4 }

  Heideggerty-Dog, Ziggity-Boom, What You Do to Me

  Listen up, Daryl, because this next guy has a weird way with words.

  The twentieth-century German existentialist Martin Heidegger is probably the most quoted modern philosopher on the subject of death. Terrific! If we only knew what he was saying.

  To think Being itself explicitly requires disregarding Being to the extent that it is only grounded and interpreted in terms of beings and for beings as their ground, as in all metaphysics.1

  Got it? We especially like his throwaway line, “as in all metaphysics.” Here’s another:Time is not a thing, thus nothing which is, and yet it remains constant in its passing away without being something temporal like the beings in time.2