Читать книгу Contemporary Mind - Some Modern Answers - J. W. N. Sullivan - Страница 8

THE question of whether life has a meaning requires a little definition. The question is, I believe, one that everybody understands; it corresponds to a universal human wonder and anxiety. But it is possible, when one thinks about it, to find it ambiguous. This is often the case where fundamental questions are involved, and too much importance should not be attached to that fact. In particular, one should not fall into the error of supposing that the difficulty of defining something affects the existence of that thing. Most of the things that matter most to us are those which are the hardest to define. But the word “meaning” is certainly somewhat ambiguous. It has, as a matter of fact, a great wealth of meanings. A symbol, for instance, has meaning; it means what it symbolises. Also, an element in a scheme has meaning; its meaning is found in its connections with the other elements in the scheme. It is in this last sense, I think, that we ask whether life has a meaning. But even then the question admits of two interpretations. It is usual, I think, to imagine vaguely some future state of illumination which shall throw a retrospective light upon our present experience, justifying it and showing it to be wholly necessary and good. In that day, in St. Paul’s words, we shall know even as we are known. Evil will be seen as “apparent”—as an aspect of good. All the pain and suffering of the world will be resolved and accounted for as indispensable elements in the great universal harmony. But there are mystics who claim that life does not need justification as an element in some all-inclusive scheme. Our experience, they assert, is justified here and now. There is nothing that has to be argued away or explained in the light of later knowledge. In the light of the mystic vision there is no problem; all is good and all is one. This way of resolving the question, if one could accept it, would seem to be the most satisfactory. Unfortunately, however, the mystic vision appears to be incommunicable.

It is, of course, the existence of evil which makes acute the question of whether life has a meaning, and which also seems to make the question insoluble. All attempts to represent life as part of a divine plan, conceived by a beneficent creator, seem to break down over the fact of suffering. These attempts usually take the form of trying to show that suffering is not evil, but an aspect of good. Good, we are told, could not exist without suffering. Suffering supplies the necessary discipline for the development of the free soul. Thus, courage cannot exist without danger, unselfishness cannot exist without sacrifice. It is true that some forms of suffering seem to enrich and perfect a life. It is also true that suffering has probably been essential to the creation of the greatest works of art we know. But there are forms of suffering for which this explanation loses all plausibility. This is particularly obvious in the case of the sufferings of children. It is also sufficiently obvious in various cases of accident and disease. A detailed description of certain episodes in human history, such as witch-burning, is also sufficient to make incredible the idea that suffering is disciplinary. One feels, indeed, that the idea is not only incredible, but contemptible. One suspects its authors of a smugness, a lack of imaginative sympathy, a cold selfishness, which is almost sub-human. At the best one can only suppose that they are so incapable of experience that they can construct their theories in a sort of imbecile detachment.

Very few men have had the courage fully to face this problem, and perhaps the greatest of these is Dostoevsky. The last word on this question, it seems to me, has been said in his chapter Pro and Contra in The Brothers Karamazov. He there gives cases, not imagined, but taken from the Russian newspapers, of sufferings inflicted on children, and on these cases he founds his argument. Many discussions on this question, as I have said, do little but reveal the insensitiveness of their authors. The theoretic, philosophic, scholarly type so often seems to lack the imagination necessary to realize the problem involved. The realization can only be effected through feeling, and in his capacity to awaken this feeling Dostoevsky is unique. For that reason I cannot do better than state the problem in his terms. A more abstract treatment of the problem would be an evasion of it.

Ivan Karamazov is talking to his brother Alyosha, who intends to become a monk. Ivan wishes to make clear to him what is involved in the acceptance of the religious view of the world.

“I’ve collected a great, great deal about Russian children, Alyosha. There was a little girl of five who was hated by her father and mother, ‘most worthy and respectable people, of good education and breeding.’ You see, I must repeat again, it is a peculiar characteristic of many people, this love of torturing children, and children only. To all other types of humanity these torturers behave mildly and benevolently, like cultivated and humane Europeans; but they are very fond of tormenting children, even fond of children themselves in that sense. It’s just their defencelessness that tempts the tormentor, just the angelic confidence of the child who has no refuge and no appeal, that sets his vile blood on fire. In every man, of course, a demon lies hidden—the demon of rage, the demon of lustful heat at the screams of the tortured victim, the demon of lawlessness let off the chain, the demon of diseases that follow on vice—gout, kidney disease, and so on.

“This poor child of five was subjected to every possible torture by those cultivated parents. They beat her, thrashed her, kicked her for no reason till her body was one bruise. Then, they went to greater refinements of cruelty—shut her up all night in the cold and frost in a privy, and because she didn’t ask to be taken up at night (as though a child of five sleeping its angelic, sound sleep could be trained to wake and ask), they smeared her face and filled her mouth with excrement, and it was her mother, her mother did this. And that mother could sleep, hearing the poor child’s groans. Can you understand why a little creature, who can’t even understand what’s done to her, should beat her little aching heart with her tiny fist in the dark and the cold, and weep her meek, unresentful tears to dear, kind God to protect her? Do you understand that, friend and brother, you pious and humble novice? Do you understand why this infamy must be and is permitted? Without it, I am told, man could not have existed on earth, for he could not have known good and evil. Why should he know that diabolical good and evil when it costs so much? Why, the whole world of knowledge is not worth that child’s prayer to ‘dear, kind God’! I say nothing of the sufferings of grown-up people, they have eaten the apple, damn them, and the devil take them all! But these little ones!”

Dostoevsky then gives another instance of a serf-child of eight years thrown to dogs and torn to pieces before his mother’s eyes to provide sport for a General, his owner, and so comes to his conclusion:

“Listen! I took the case of children only to make my case clearer. Of the other tears of humanity with which the earth is soaked from its crust to its centre, I will say nothing. I have narrowed my subject on purpose. I am a bug, and I recognise in all humility that I cannot understand why the world is arranged as it is. Men are themselves to blame, I suppose; they were given paradise, they wanted freedom, and stole fire from heaven, though they knew they would become unhappy, so there is no need to pity them. With my pitiful, earthly, Euclidean understanding, all I know is that there is suffering and that there are none guilty; that effect follows cause, simply and directly; that everything flows and finds its level—but that’s only Euclidean nonsense. I know that, and I can’t consent to live by it! What comfort is it to me that there are none guilty and that effect follows cause simply and directly, and that I know it—I must have justice, or I will destroy myself. And not justice in some remote infinite time and space, but here on earth, and that I could see myself. I have believed in it. I want to see it, and if I am dead by then, let me rise again, for if it all happens without me, it will be too unfair. Surely I haven’t suffered, simply that I, my crimes and my sufferings, may manure the soil of the future harmony for somebody else. I want to see with my own eyes the hind lie down with the lion and the victim rise up and embrace his murderer. I want to be there when every one suddenly understands what it has all been for. All the religions of the world are built on this longing, and I am a believer. But then there are the children, and what am I to do about them? That’s a question I can’t answer. For the hundredth time I repeat, there are numbers of questions, but I’ve only taken the children, because in their case what I mean is so unanswerably clear. Listen! If all must suffer to pay for the eternal harmony, what have children to do with it, tell me, please? It’s beyond all comprehension why they should suffer, and why they should pay for the harmony. Why should they, too, furnish material to enrich the soil for the harmony of the future? I understand solidarity in sin among men. I understand solidarity in retribution, too; but there can be no such solidarity with children. And if it is really true that they must share responsibility for all their father’s crimes, such a truth is not of this world and is beyond my comprehension. Some jester will say, perhaps, that the child would have grown up and have sinned, but you see he didn’t grow up, he was torn to pieces by the dogs, at eight years old. Oh, Alyosha, I am not blaspheming! I understand, of course, what an upheaval of the universe it will be, when everything in heaven and earth blends in one hymn of praise and everything that lives and has lived cries aloud: ‘Thou art just, O Lord, for Thy ways are revealed.’ When the mother embraces the fiend who threw her child to the dogs, and all three cry aloud with tears, ‘Thou art just, O Lord’! then, of course, the crown of knowledge will be reached and all will be made clear. But what pulls me up here is that I can’t accept that harmony. And while I am on earth, I make haste to take my own measures. You see, Alyosha, perhaps it really may happen that if I live to that moment, or rise again to see it, I, too, perhaps, may cry aloud with the rest, looking at the mother embracing the child’s torturer, ‘Thou art just, O Lord!’ but I don’t want to cry aloud then. While there is still time, I hasten to protect myself and so I renounce the higher harmony altogether. It’s not worth the tears of that one tortured child who beat itself on the breast with its little fist and prayed in its stinking outhouse, with its unexpiated tears to ‘dear, kind God’! It’s not worth it, because those tears are unatoned for. They must be atoned for, or there can be no harmony. But how? How are you going to atone for them? Is it possible? By their being avenged? But what do I care for avenging them? What do I care for a hell for oppressors? What good can hell do, since those children have already been tortured? And what becomes of the harmony, if there is hell? I want to forgive. I want to embrace. I don’t want more suffering. And if the sufferings of children go to swell the sum of sufferings which was necessary to pay for the truth, then I protest that the truth is not worth such a price. I don’t want the mother to embrace the oppressor who threw her son to the dogs! She dare not forgive him! Let her forgive him for herself, if she will, let her forgive the torturer for the immeasurable sufferings of her mother’s heart. But the sufferings of her tortured child she has no right to forgive; she dare not forgive the torturer, even if the child were to forgive him! And if that is so, if they dare not forgive, what becomes of harmony? Is there in the whole world a being who would have the right to forgive and could forgive? I don’t want harmony. From love for humanity I don’t want it. I would rather be left with the unavenged suffering. I would rather remain with my unavenged suffering and unsatisfied indignation, even if I were wrong. Besides, too high a price is asked for harmony; it’s beyond our means to pay so much to enter on it. And so I hasten to give back my entrance ticket, and if I am an honest man I am bound to give it back as soon as possible. And that I am doing. It’s not God that I don’t accept, Alyosha, only I must respectfully return Him the ticket.”

This argument seems to me irrefutable. Who would consent to build a harmony that involved such suffering? Who could enjoy an eternity of bliss that had been purchased at such a price? Dostoevsky, in basing his case on the sufferings of children, has shown his complete understanding of the problem. And it is not the physical agony, but the abused confidence, the betrayed trust, that impresses one as the unforgivable and absolutely evil thing. All attempts to represent suffering as an imperfectly understood aspect of an eternal harmony break down before this argument. If life has a meaning, it is not to be found along those lines. Still less, of course, is it to be found in the idea, that seems to bring comfort to many people, that suffering is due to ignorance and maladjustment, and that the improved mankind of the future will be free from it. For this view really assumes, to begin with, that life is meaningless, and so the problem of suffering does not arise for it. It assumes, in fact, that life has come about by some sort of accident and will in due time come to an end. It has no transcendental significance. It is an episode between two eternities. Suffering is an unfortunate characteristic of life, so far as it has developed up till now. It has no meaning, any more than life itself has a meaning. But, since it is undesirable, we can hope that mankind will one day abolish it. In the meantime we can perhaps bear our sufferings and those of other people with more equanimity by reflecting on the healthy and happy generations of the future. As a solution of the problem discussed by Dostoevsky this is, of course, entirely puerile. But his problem does not exist for this view since it is, in a sense, already solved by the initial assumption that life has no transcendental significance. It is only when we regard life as more than an accident, and morality as more than an expression of the entirely arbitrary biological needs we happen to possess, that the problem of suffering arises at all.

Dostoevsky’s argument leaves no room for any but the mystical solution of the problem of suffering and it is, in a sense, in rebellion against that. For the mystic claims to survey experience in the light of a higher consciousness than we normally possess, and he asserts that the problem of evil is unreal, that it arises from the limitations of the normal consciousness. The mystic claims, in effect, to have attained already the great moment of illumination of which Dostoevsky speaks. It is difficult for one who has never experienced the mystic vision to argue about it, but one can understand Dostoevsky’s distrust of this way of abolishing the problem. If evil becomes unreal, what elements of our experience remain? Is not evil relative to our consciousness merely in the sense that everything else is? It is admitted that if our consciousness is radically changed our problems presumably cease to exist. But they equally cease to exist if we are annihilated. Does that fact illuminate anything? It is really very difficult to understand precisely what is claimed for the mystic vision. Nevertheless, it is not, I am convinced, to be lightly dismissed. In the writings of the great mystics there is a sincerity and profundity of spiritual experience that cannot be mistaken. And the fact that the experience they try to describe seems to be, in essentials, always the same experience, is certainly impressive. It is very remarkable that the mystic state of consciousness was experienced by Dostoevsky himself, and that he found it quite unforgettable and undeniable. It can, in his case, be described as a pathological condition for, when it occurred, it immediately preceded an epileptic fit. But to say this is to say very little, as Dostoevsky points out. It does not necessarily deprive an experience of all validity to find that it can only be experienced in exceptional bodily and mental conditions. And the mystic vision is by no means always accompanied by such conditions.

We may conclude, then, that, for the normal consciousness, the existence of what appears to be entirely gratuitous suffering is an insuperable objection to the belief that life has a meaning. The only escape from this conclusion depends on the acceptance of the validity and relevance of the mystic vision.