In our mad rushing hither and thither, in all the teeming
metropolises and the deep time of our machinations as clever mammals on this
earth, has anyone ever given up because he or she deserved better in life? Has
even a single child, man or woman been betrayed and brought low, been shafted
by powers in high places, been crushed or torn asunder by natural forces, and forced
to reckon with the manifest unfairness of it all? Has any victim recognized the
injustice or the absurd abuse of power and chosen to denounce the inhumanity by
turning her agency against herself and snuffing the flame of her consciousness?
In the tales of the farcical Western religions of monotheism
there was such a victim. His name is Job, and the Bible reinforces its
totalitarian logic at that character’s expense, by appealing to an unknowable
divine plan that supposedly rectifies all wrongdoings, rendering any resistance
to God or any loss of faith the only injustice—which God allows to occur out of
his boundless generosity. Thus we have perhaps the most famous example of the fallacy
in which the tyrant endures by blaming the victim for that victim’s weakness. The
hidden meaning of the Book of Job is satirical: not even the tyrannical Lord
God is comfortable with the true reason for Job’s torments, which is why
instead of revealing that he’d merely made a bet with Satan to test Job’s
faith, the Lord changes the subject, buffeting Job with a litany of irrelevant
boasts. The tyrant has no justification because he, too, is trapped by an unsavory
script, corrupted as he inevitably is by his excessive power. Thus, although
Job learns to despise himself and to “repent in dust and ashes,” the reader can
see through the Lord’s bluster and wonder at the fact that while Job can’t
answer the Lord, neither can the Lord answer Job. True, Job is weak and
ignorant by comparison with God, but God is so morally impaired by his
supremacy that like the myriad spoiled, mad kings from history, he may not even
recall his last whim, the bet with the cynical angel, and so when challenged by
Job to defend the apparent injustice of that man’s suffering, the Lord can only
further inflate his swollen ego by testifying to his awesome might.
Religion, then, is no help in the matter. Everyone knows
that there’s certainly been at least one person who has suffered unfairly, who has
been broken by that suffering and forced to give up on life. Of course, instead
of just one such sufferer there have been tens of billions throughout the
Anthropocene. But even one is enough. If just a single person has lost
everything through no fault of hers, such a monstrous system failure taints any
winner’s victory and should subvert the victor’s pride. Every pleasure must
henceforth be enjoyed under a banner that points to the world’s metaphysical flaws.
All of us are called, then, to withdraw in shame, to be embarrassed at the thought
of participating in any endeavour with an open, glad heart. We’re obliged
instead to bear witness to the casualties of existence, to cease fooling
ourselves and to prevent our being dazzled by the tyrant’s distractions. At a
minimum we should be humble in all our thoughts and actions, not merely for any
psychological benefit of that virtue, but to demonstrate that we understand the
philosophical stakes, that we’re on the right side in the struggle.
Unlike our civilized games, there’s no prize awaiting the
existential victor, the noble mind that “fights the good fight, finishes the race,
and keeps the faith.” When we train ourselves to forget that life is a joke and
not a blessing, when we betray our knowledge of the world’s obvious unfairness,
by consigning ourselves to the daily grind in the hope of reaping some petty
reward, we become grotesque clowns, silly little pawns of amoral systems and
programs. By contrast, when we renounce these games or when we at least play
them half-heartedly, knowing in the back of our mind that they’re obscene for excusing
a world that creates so many runners only to ruin them with no moral end in
view, we win nothing but a shadow or a whisper of honour. On the contrary, the
Janus-faced runners are more likely to be ruined in turn, to resemble the crushed
and the fallen whose burdens they can’t help but reflect on.
The proper place for a jaded existential outsider is indeed
beyond the tent in the forest, apart from the glare of the city lights, adrift at
sea with the island of traitors only barely visible in the distance. The
voluntary loser should be shunned by the
masses that applaud the world, ignoring as they do the axiom that nature is
fundamentally hideous. The tragic hero has no wholesome business with the herd,
not even as shepherd, since the shepherd is doomed to become the callous avatar
of monstrous evolution, the zealous player-of-civilized-games that ravages
foreign herds. Thus, that hero has worm-ridden dirt for treasure and cricket
song for applause; instead of being adorned with a sparkling medal, the outsider
is crowned with a void of twinkling alien stars.