The Myth of the Hero

In talking about the existential dilemma the other day, I found myself willing to go read The Myth of Sisyphus, by Camus, when it was suggested by a friend that I see what I can take away from it.

When the images of earth cling too tightly to memory, when the call of happiness becomes too insistent, it happens that melancholy rises in man's heart: this is the rock's victory, this is the rock itself. The boundless grief is too heavy to bear. These are our nights of Gethsemane. But crushing truths perish from being acknowledged. Thus, Oedipus at the outset obeys fate without knowing it. But from the moment he knows, his tragedy begins.

Do we, at the moment of admitting that deterministic physical laws control our universe, willingly embrace tragedy? That is one of the crux issues of the modern existential dilemma.

Yet at the same time, blind and desperate, he realizes that the only bond linking him to the world is the cool hand of a girl. Then a tremendous remark rings out: "Despite so many ordeals, my advanced age and the nobility of my soul make me conclude that all is well." Sophocles' Oedipus, like Dostoevsky's Kirilov, thus gives the recipe for the absurd victory. Ancient wisdom confirms modern heroism.

Let us say that our consciousness is but a subjective experience of physical realities over which we have no real control. But let us say that we do have some capacity to turn our conscious minds towards values, purposes, and goals. Can we be virtuous? Is that enough? The nobility of Oedipus' soul was enough for him. And that is my view of the heroic -- one who encumbers the burden of virtue for virtue's sake alone: to say, "this is my life, and I can use it to cultivate goodness or evil in myself and others, and with all the absurdity and futility of life, I will still cultivate goodness." Not just "despite" the absurdity of the world, but because of it.

There is but one world, however. Happiness and the absurd are two sons of the same earth. They are inseparable. It would be a mistake to say that happiness necessarily springs from the absurd discovery. It happens as well that the feeling of the absurd springs from happiness. "I conclude that all is well," says Oedipus, and that remark is sacred.

Some might argue that happiness is a mental state to which some peoples' chemistry will not allow access. I don't deny this possibility. For those of us who can access this state of mind (and being), though, ought we not? Is it not all that we can do? What if the other finds his rock too heavy to roll? What can I do for him? Nothing, save rolling my own.

It echoes in the wild and limited universe of man. It teaches that all is not, has not been, exhausted. It drives out of this world a god who had come into it with dissatisfaction and a preference for futile sufferings. It makes of fate a human matter, which must be settled among men.

And this is what renders the human a potential hero -- in the way that she may settle with her own fate, in how she deals with it.

All Sisyphus' silent joy is contained therein. His fate belongs to him. His rock is his thing. Likewise, the absurd man, when he contemplates his torment, silences all the idols.

Sisyphus chooses to see the same beauty and scope of being in his newfound purpose -- in rolling the rock for eternity, that he found when he was allowed to return from the underworld and experience life again. I am reminded of how the beauty of the universe I saw as a theist at first was crushed when I no longer believed. Now that beauty is returned to me, because it is contained within me. That beauty is no longer some inaccessible external Entity from which it cannot be extricated or internalized. That beauty is now the self, the human, and the potential hero (and the potential madman).

In the universe suddenly restored to silence, the myriad wondering little voices of the earth rise up. Unconscious, secret calls, invitations from all the faces, they are the necessary reverse and price of victory. there is no sun without shadow, and it is essential to know the night. The absurd man says yes and his effort will henceforth be unceasing. If there is a personal fate, there is no higher destiny, or at least there is but one which he concludes is inevitable and despicable.

What I did as a theist was define "the highest destiny" to be that which had been given to me by God. What I did not do is recognize that no gift is greater than something earned and learned. It is an oxymoron, a contradiction in terms, to say that I can exist happily and freely, and yet have been put inside of an inescapable and unyielding cosmic plan, in which I was yet a cog, and towards which we traversed I knew not. The highest absurdity.

For the rest, he knows himself to be the master of his days. At that subtle moment when man glances backward over his life, Sisyphus returning toward his rock, in that silent pivoting he contemplates that series of unrelated actions which becomes his fate, created by him, combined under his memory's eye and soon sealed by his death. Thus, convinced of the wholly human origin of all that is human, a blind man eager to see who knows that the night has no end, he is still on the go. The rock is still rolling.

I hope I never lose the eagerness to see, and I hope that the night has an end. I hope I have the courage to continue with that eagerness even should daybreak never give me the merest glimpse. Should the universe in which I live be blind and careless until I die, it is still within my power to see, and to live. I do not have to close my eyes and lay down before my rock has been rolled as far as I can take it.

I leave Sisyphus at the foot of the mountain! One always finds one's burden again.

My own burden at the moment is in maintaining rationalism -- a commitment to reason, and optimism -- a commitment not to only see things as better, but to be better and in so doing, this purpose makes "all well".

But Sisyphus teaches the higher fidelity that negates the gods and raises rocks. He too concludes that all is well. This universe henceforth without a master seems to him neither sterile nor futile. Each atom of that stone, each mineral flake of that night-filled mountain, in itself forms a world. The struggle itself toward the heights is enough to fill a man's heart. One must imagine Sisyphus happy.

The stone is something. It is not nothing. Rolling the stone is doing something. Finding purpose in the struggle. Something that is not only not added to when we add "plus God" to the equation, but is in fact completely negated of all purpose.

The theists have argued with me that a finite purpose, or a temporal life, is the same thing as nothing. But what they do is equivocate something with nothing. They are confused.

If this life is but a mere shadow, and the rest of eternity a bright light, then finding purpose in this present darkness is futile and absurd. Christians (and other theists) admit as much -- they call themselves "pilgrims" and "aliens" in the world in which they live, and call their "home" and their "citizenship" heaven. What they do is ignore the rock at their feet, and the power they have to move it upward, and stare towards the top of the summit. But the summit is obscured with clouds -- the zenith cannot be seen from the foot of the mountain. It is in the struggle that one can see further, though perhaps never to the top, because it is not a given that the mountain upon which we labor has a finite end.
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