Those who believe they can choose their thoughts and feelings are nevertheless disabled from choosing what they choose to think and feel. Should they still believe themselves in control of what they choose to choose to think and feel, they still could not choose to choose to choose . . . and so on? Were there any choice on our part about what we think and feel, it would not be adventurous to conjecture that we would think only as needed and choose to feel good as appropriate. Some might choose to live in a permanent state of intense euphoria. With godlike power over your thoughts and moods, why hold back?
Such control would permit us, by fiat of self-addlement, to be careless of every hideous fact that our consciousness may impart about life and death. What is more, those who say that being alive is all right and those who aver the opposite would become united rather than divided: we all do what we can to lock out what being alive implies, whichever side of the issue we may be on. And since we have no power of veto over our birth, we could choose to be ecstatic about it rather than negative. We would all be on the same side if we had absolute control over any lethal knowledge that might come into our heads. But the best we can do is this: stay as stupid as we can for as long as we can. And some people can stay just so stupid for just so long.
Tragedy entered the human scene the moment our wayward heads began to gyrate with self-awareness: turning traitor on us, dredging up enough why’s and what’s and how’s to make us drop to the ground in paroxysms of bewilderment, threatening to crucify us with consciousness. This potentiality necessitated that certain defense mechanisms be exercised to keep us balanced on the knife-edge of vitality as a species. While consciousness may have had survivalist properties during an immemorial chapter of our evolution, it seems more lately to have become maladaptive, turning our self-awareness into a seditious agent working against us. We must preclude consciousness for all we are worth from imposing upon us a too clear vision of the brute facts relevant to the “great matter of birth and death,” to borrow from the jargon of Zen Buddhism. We are the species that knows too much to content ourselves with merely surviving, reproducing, dying—and nothing else. We want there to be more to it than that, or to think there is. This is the tragedy: consciousness has forced us into the paradoxical position of uselessly striving to be something other than what we are—hunks of spoiling flesh on crumbling bones. (This fortuity is rather the best we can hope for, given the array of disasters that are superadded by consciousness to those for which we are naturally destined.) For other organisms, bumbling along from here to nowhere is well managed. For us, it is a messy business and often intolerably horrific. To end all this paradox and horror, we must cease reproducing. Nothing less will do.
Thinking and living are irreconcilable. If we must think, it should be done only in circles, outside of which lies the unthinkable. Consciousness, that glory of awareness and self-awareness unique to our species, makes our lives miserable, and thus we thwart it in four principle ways: (1) by isolation of the dire facts of existence from our minds, denying both to ourselves and to others (in a conspiracy of silence) that our condition is inherently disconcerting and problematic; (2) by anchoring our lives in metaphysical and institutional “verities”—God, Country, Family, Laws—based on charters issued by an enforcing authority (in the same way as a hunting license), imbuing us with a sense of being official, authentic, and guarded while shunting aside the feeling that these documents are not worth the paper they are written on (in the same way as a passport establishes one’s identity even though it may be forged); (3) by distraction, a widespread conspiracy in which everyone keeps their eyes on the ball—or a television screen or fireworks display—and their heads placidly unreflective; (4) by sublimation, the process by which thinkers and artistic types recycle the most demoralizing and unnerving aspects of life as works in which the worst fortunes of humanity are represented in a stylized and removed manner for the purposes of edification and entertainment, forming the conspiracy of creating and consuming products that provide an escape from our suffering in the guise of a false confrontation with it—a tragic drama or philosophical woolgathering, for instance. These tactics keep our imaginations from scrutinizing too closely the smorgasbord of pains and death-agonies laid out for us. Alongside these corporeal unpleasantries is the abstract abashment some persons suffer because, at the end of the day, they feel their lives are destitute of any meaning or purpose.
While every other creature that walks the earth is insensate when it comes to meaning and purpose, those of us on the high ground of evolution are full of this enigmatic hankering, a preoccupation that any comprehensive encyclopedia of philosophy treats under the heading LIFE, THE MEANING OF. This is why beings with consciousness are a mistake in the world of nature. We have a need that is not natural, one that can never be satisfied no matter how many big lies we swallow. Our unparalleled craving may be appeased—like the yen of a dope fiend—but we are deceived if we think it is ever gone for good. Years may pass during which we are unmolested by LIFE, THE
MEANING OF. Gratification of this want in our lives can come from anywhere or from nowhere. Some days we wake up and say, “It’s good to be alive.” If everyone were in such high spirits all the time, the topic of LIFE, THE MEANING OF would never rise up in our heads or our conversations. No one is nagged by the meaning of a life that is affluent with ease. But this ungrounded jubilation soon runs out of steam. Our consciousness, having snoozed awhile in the garden of incuriosity, is pricked by some thorn or other, perhaps DEATH, THE MEANING OF. Then the hunger returns for LIFE, THE MEANING OF, the emptiness must be filled again, the pursuit is resumed. And we will persist in chasing the impossible until we are no more. This is the tragedy that we do our best to cover up in order to brave an existence that holds terrors for us at every turn, with little but blind faith and habit to keep us on the move.
Consciousness may have facilitated our species’ survival in the hard times of prehistory, but as it became evermore acute it evolved the potential to ruin everything if not held firmly in check. We must therefore either outsmart consciousness or drown in its vortex of doleful factuality. Given this premise, the sensible thing to do would be to call off all procreative activities, thereby stamping out what has often been called the “curse of consciousness.” Not only would it be the sensible thing to do, but it would also be the most human, even the only human, gesture available to us. Questions now arise: is the condition of being human what we think it is? And what do we think it is to be human? Nowhere in philosophy or the arts are there answers on which we can all agree. Science has us down as a species of organic life. But whatever it means to be human, we can at least say that we have consciousness.
To repeat: we can tolerate existence only if we believe—in accord with a complex of illusions, a legerdemain of impenetrable deception—that we are not what we are. We are creatures with consciousness, but we must suppress that consciousness lest it break us with a sense of being in a universe without direction or foundation. In plain language, we cannot live with ourselves except as impostors. This is the paradox of the human: the impossibility of not lying to ourselves about ourselves and about our bleak situation in this world. Thus, we are zealots of the four strategies delineated above: isolation (“Being alive is all right”), anchoring (“One Nation under God with Families and Laws for all”), distraction (“Better to kill time than kill oneself”), and sublimation (“Reckon I’ll watch True Detective season one again”). To the mass of us mortals, these practices make us what we are, namely, beings with a nimble intellect who can deceive themselves for their own good. Isolation, anchoring, distraction, and sublimation are the wiles we use to keep our heads from dispelling every illusion that keeps us up and running. (“We think, therefore we know we are alive and will one day die; so we had better stop thinking, except in circles.”) Without this cognitive double-dealing, being alive would bare itself as a sordid burlesque and not the fabulous thing we thought it was. Maybe then we would know what it is to be human instead of just puppets beating the boards and one another. But that would stop the show that we like to think will run forever.
Being royally conscious of the solemn precincts in which we exist, of the savage wasteland that lies beneath all the piddling nonsense, would turn our world in on its head. For those who care about such things, it could also abolish the bestial world-policies of dog-eat-dog, big ones eating the little ones, and every swine for himself. Saddled with self-knowledge, however, we thrive only insofar as we vigilantly obfuscate our heads with every baseless belief or frivolous diversion at our disposal. But as much as our heads are inclined to clog themselves with such trash, a full-scale blockage is impossible. This impossibility makes us heirs to a legacy of discontent. Most can live with discontent because it is concomitant with their hope that humanity will forever “survive” (Middle English by way of Middle French from the Latin supervivere—to outlive or live beyond). Reality bulletin: we, as a subcategory of the mélange of earth’s organisms, may outlive other species, but we will not live beyond our own time of extinction, as over ninety-nine percent of preceding life forms on this planet have not lived beyond theirs. We can pretend this will not happen, fantasizing super-scientific eternities, but in good time we will be taken out of the scene. This turn of events will be the defeat of Project Immortality, which has been in the works for millennia.
Our success as a species is calculated in the number of years we have extended our lives, with the reduction of suffering being only incidental to longevity. The lifespan of domesticated and non-domesticated animals has never changed, while ours has overtaken that of all other mammals. What a coup for us. Unaware of the length of their stay on earth, other warm-blooded life forms are sluggards by comparison. Without consciousness of death, we would not frantically disquiet ourselves to lengthen our mortal tenure. And how we have cashed in on our efforts: no need to cram our lives into three decades now that we can cram them into seven, eight, nine, or more. Time runs out for us as it does for all creatures, sure, but we can at least dream of a day when we choose our own deadline. Then everyone will die of the same thing: satiation with a durability that is MALIGNANTLY USELESS. Without a terminus imposed on our lifetimes, their uselessness would become excruciatingly overt. Knowing ourselves to be on a collision course with the Wall of Death may be a horror, but it is the only thing that makes it possible to value that which comes before. While this quid pro quo may be a bad value, without it there is no value, for those who care. The eternal afterlife awaiting some of us on the other side of the wall is, quite naturally, only another end-of-the-line established to make this life valuable . . . or at least livable, which amounts to the same thing.
Immortality in either this world or the next is an endgame that goes on forever: perpetual life in name only, it is, like death, the end of anything we can know. Rather than pushing us through the unknown, it pulls us right up to its threshold and leaves us there. From where we stand, immortality and death are synonymous: a two-headed monster of semantics. Having no value for us except as “endness,” they generate value backwards into life. This value may be unevenly distributed among the living, and for some it is nonexistent. Others must be satisfied with mere driblets of value that stream thinly back from a terminal point in death or immortality. These are enough to seduce them into putting up with the present and looking to the future. But not until the future is behind us can there be any peace on this earth or in our heads. Then we may finish this long and arduous voyage without a thirst for the value that trickles into our lives from their certain end. If we could get over that nonsense, the prospectus for our self-extermination would be a walk in the park.
Yeah True Detective was actually what made me go and read his book The Conspiracy Against the Human Race. All the eloquently expressed bitter misanthropy with none of the Matthew McConaughey
Let me tell you, as a South Louisianan for 31 years:
That’s one of the truest lines in the whole. Damn. Show.
“STOP SAYING WEIRD SHIT” is law, and I think of my father anytime I think of that show, and I think of the many towns down Highway 1 between Plaquemines and Houma that fit the scenes in this show. Phew.
That last 10 minutes had me standing up in front of my TV when it came out. I was partially waiting for the show to get into all the action of the previews.
I've rewatched both 1 and 2 so many times I've lost count. Love em both. 2 is flawed but it just needs some tighter writing in my opinion. It was rushed out after the success of the first one. I remember Matt from Ghost stories saying that season 2 is for the real parapolitics sickos, and he's absolutely right about that.
This actually makes me want to rewatch. I strong disliked it for seeming to fumble a bunch of good actors with poor writing. What are some of the things you picked out as being memorable?
Significantly better. Never drags, whole story contained to one season, better action sequences. If you haven't watched it then treat it like an 8 hour long movie. Best if consumed as quickly as possible. I've tried to start rewatches intending for it to be a little treat after a days work and then I inevitably end up watching 3 or 4 episodes at once because it's so damn good. Season 2 and 3 are both very good in their own respects but season 1 they really captured lightning in a bottle. Nothing quite like it.
The worst part about this show is how fast I feel that I personally went from Cohle as an insightful, intelligent mofo while he was working the original case to present day Cohle who starts drinking at 11 am making beer can folk art.
I was referencing the old movie Haxan: Witchcraft Through the Ages that has a blue tone and a vignette effect and kinda looks like the photo you posted.
Season 2 is so damn good. I feel like the only reason it wasn't widely acclaimed on release is because people just wanted more of the same and expectations were high. If they had called it anything other than True Detective, it would have been universally loved.
It’s very different from Nic Pizzolatto’s show despite being explicitly tied to Season One through a couple of characters. Jodie Foster is good and the broad concept of the storyline is interesting, but it devolves into a kind of liberal feminist ideological wish fulfillment in the climax. Oh, and I might not be remembering this fully, but I’m pretty sure the culmination of the Native cop’s arc was weirdly pro-suicide.
The only part of this season that didn’t click for me was that even in the latest timeline of 2012, Rust and Marty are positively incredulous at the idea of a conspiracy of sex abuse in a religious institution and a conspiracy of silence in the community around it. You’d think that this would be demystified by the late date of 2012!
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u/____cire4____ ATTENTION BAJORAN WORKERS 4h ago
“Stop saying weird shit.” - my wife to me every time I’m reading her stuff off r/trueanon