More a poem than an essay. Which is ok. Poems can be good philosophy.

I assume "she" is your soul, although that's not clear.

I recognize your approach is impressionistic, but I admit I don't know what you're trying to tell, or maybe show, us.

It's beautiful, evocative, intimate and disturbing.
It will take a long time to translate to my pedestrian, materialist language, and in the meanwhile, it will haunt me.

My Soul is like the Dead Sea

“My soul is like the Dead Sea, over which no bird is able to fly; when it has come midway, it sinks down, exhausted, to death and destruction.” – (Kierkegaard, A Fragment of Life)

The reader is sucked in. Already, like a bird attempting to fly over this salty sea of words. A bird flapping in hopelessness. Flight or fight. Either/Or? Neither. Facing the challenge in the hope of understanding.

Persevering with the existential theme of life's negativity, the emptiness and the implicit question asked: "How best to live life...to find happiness?"

Prior to the quote, Kierkegaard writes:

How dreadful boredom is — how dreadfully boring... I lie prostrate, inert; the only thing I see is emptiness, the only thing I live on is emptiness, the only thing I move in is emptiness.
[...]
And what could divert me ? Well, if I managed to see a faithfulness that withstood every ordeal, an enthusiasm that endured everything, a faith that moved mountains; if I were to become aware of an idea that joined the finite and the infinite. But my soul’s poisonous doubt consumes everything. — Kierkegaard

What diverts but a story of ideas and feelings. Some kind of faith in thinking beyond the usual.
To a strange world of perception, perhaps magic.
The author leads on in a mystery to be slowly savoured:

I see her, oh ex nihilo ad nihilum, slithering, grasping for life—yet always finding nothing. Every solid she touches is liquefied; every liquid solidified. She is a walking contradiction: the prey which is its own predator. She has walked the common path undisturbed, and exactly this wellness has made her sick: normality is a paved road—it is comfortable to walk, but no flowers grow on it 1. She has no flower to call her own, and the chasm in her heart has grown to large: she rips herself apart, just to sew herself back together. I betrayed her for a while. I led her up the long steps to the door of indifference. I illuminated the true immeasurable fruitlessness of her life: I made her one of the Συμπαϱανεϰϱώμενοι. The greatest sacrifice one can give is to die; for her, it is to live. — Moliere

Captivating images of someone, a soul-mate? She slithers from nothing to nothing. I think of the Garden of Eden, the snake and Eve. But no, although longing for life, there is a nothing, no tree of knowledge, no forbidden fruit.
Who is the 'I' who narrates? Who betrayed her (another inner self?). How? By leading her astray. Up the garden path...'to the door of indifference'. What kind of 'indifference'? The special Stoic kind or the common garden variety?

The Συμπαϱανεϰϱώμενοι. Not sure what this means. I found:

The Symparanekromenoi is a Greek expression coined by Kierkegaard, translated as “Society of Buried Lives”. It is an expression used to designate the kind of people Kierkegaard would like to write for, convinced that they would share his views, a society of individuals who are living lives that are spiritually entombed.

So, 'she', the counterpart of (presumably a 'he'?) has become captive, her spirit caged?
'The greatest sacrifice one can give is to die; for her, it is to live.'
I don't understand this. Does she want to die because she is in a prison of existential angst? She would sacrifice her own wish to please...who? Can she die to live again? A resurrection of the spirit?

What part does the 'I', the narrator play? God?
And then, the author gives us a break, a poem. Of resilience. Life and Death, Life and Death.
A forever circling battle. On any given day.

The narrator continues with his plan. What she must understand to live upright, facing what lies before her. To not be defeated. To fight the battle of good and bad. Who will win? Are there any winners in life?
If death is seen as the inevitable loss, then I guess not.

The most divine thing a person can do is fight a battle they cannot win to remain undefeated:it is time for the red sun to seep out of her pupils. Today, she shall become brutality to avoid immorality. To avoid pain and failure is to necessitate both — Moliere

The red sun seeping. The heat of a righteous anger under intense pressure?
How does being brutal avoid immorality?

Next up, Nietzsche on great pain burning slowly. Apparently, it compels certain philosophers to go down, deep, deep, down. To turn from:

trust, everything good-natured, everything that would interpose a veil, that is mild, that is medium—things which formerly we may have found our humanity.” – (The Gay Science, Preface, Section 3, p. 36) — Moliere

Why? How?

The author describes a process of transformation, using fantastical images. Absurd strangeness.
And idealistic. 'She' taking up her post as Equanimity, no more Calamity. Almost vampiric in the squeezing of life blood from her old self.

...She shall never despise nor complain ever again: she shall take up her post, needing no oath or witness, doing diligently what she was designed to do with an Mainländerian sense of purpose. Her purpose is inscribed on her heart, but to know it she must lose her fear of tearing off her face and she must drown in that abyss. — Moliere

Wow.
Now, a bit from Marcus Aurelius. One of my heroes who I don't recognise here:

“If you do the job in a principled way, with diligence, energy and patience, if you keep yourself free of distractions, and keep the spirit inside you undamaged, as if you might have to give it back at any moment—if you can embrace this without fear or expectation—[if you] can find fulfillment in what you’re doing now, as Nature intended, and in superhuman truthfulness (every word, every utterance)—then your life will be happy. No one can prevent that.” – (Meditations, Book III, p.33) — Moliere

My own translation is from Meditations, Book 3, section 12 - Martin Hammond, p21.
There is no mention of 'superhuman' and no conclusion that your life will be happy. But you 'will lead a good life'. Perhaps they are one and the same...but, I feel that plenty can stop you from being happy but leading a good life is pretty much up to you. Hmmm...thought-provoking.
I guess my beef is that I don't see Marcus as an existentialist. He adheres to Stoic principles of which 'indifference' is one. However, he engages at a high level of engagement as Emperor of Rome. His actions appear to contradict Stoicism.

And now, we have Socrates 'Know Thyself':

“Nosce te ipsum”: there has been no more useful of a proverb; and there is no price too great to be able to live with oneself. So she faced the legions; she took the blows; she bled the blood; she adapted; she became stronger—an unrecognizable version of herself. The first battle was her thoughts; the second was her actions; and the third was her habits. Until finally, there it was: the thumping chest. She lifts the heavy lid, and there is a heart—branded with the word “εὐδαιμονία”. — Moliere

What does it take or mean to know yourself, when there are so many competing selves?
If your self becomes 'unrecognisable', how much has changed?
The myth of finding the Greek word 'εὐδαιμονία' in a chest, in your heart...
The word is not 'happiness' but the state or process of a spirit seeking wellbeing.

So, yes, engaging thoughts, observing behaviour and daily habits. Will they achieve happiness?
If they are captive, engraved in stone...probably not. But who knows?

“velle non discitur” – (The World as Will and Representation, p. 294) — Moliere

The author ends with words from Schopenhauer.
I am not well-informed. However, I think it relates to Seneca's idea that the will can't be taught.

All humans have some degree of will and quite a bit of egoism. The will of the powerful in politics affects many. It is about having morals. To do what is best. First, do no harm.

One man's happiness is...

***
Reading, reflecting and responding to a piece of philosophy writing.
Hoping to understand. We can only do our best. Thank you for sharing. :sparkle:

An interesting piece of writing, which captures emotion and suffering. It draws upon notable philosophies and a sketch of personal experience in a way which creates a compelling existential essay.

:cool: :up:
You have a way with words!
Edit: I think you could say more, no? @Jack Cummins

No, it's too sad, painful and hopeless. It reminds me of too many instances of real, physical suffering that I've witnessed, and I have no will to witness another. I have to leave this one alone.

No, it's too sad, painful and hopeless. It reminds me of too many instances of real, physical suffering that I've witnessed, and I have no will to witness another. I have to leave this one alone. — Vera Mont

One more time, Vera? I know that it sounds painful and hopeless. However, I think it is the pain of not being who you are and the struggle to unveil yourself and 'come out' of your shell.
The 'she' is in the body of a 'he'. The Soul.

She has walked the common path undisturbed, and exactly this wellness has made her sick: normality is a paved road—it is comfortable to walk, but no flowers grow on it 1. She has no flower to call her own, and the chasm in her heart has grown to large: she rips herself apart, just to sew herself back together. I betrayed her for a while. — Author

The betrayal lies in his covering up, denying his true self or nature. For the sake of 'normality'.
No flowers for him. The pain of not being recognised or to be able 'to live with oneself'.

“Nosce te ipsum”: there has been no more useful of a proverb; and there is no price too great to be able to live with oneself. So she faced the legions; she took the blows; she bled the blood; she adapted; she became stronger—an unrecognizable version of herself. The first battle was her thoughts; the second was her actions; and the third was her habits. Until finally, there it was: the thumping chest. She lifts the heavy lid, and there is a heart—branded with the word “εὐδαιμονία”. — Author

I don't know if my interpretation is correct (probably not!) but it is what came to me first thing this morning.
As you commented, Vera:

in the meanwhile, it will haunt me. — Vera Mont

I think this essay is not hopeless. Sad, yes, but hopeful. It moves from dark to light.
'She took the blows' and did it 'Her Way'.
Sorry to invoke Frank Sinatra but...there ya' go!

For what is a man, what has he got?
If not himself, then he has naught
To say the things he truly feels
And not the words of one who kneels
The record shows I took the blows
And did it my way

What is human, what have we got?
If not ourselves, then we have naught
To say the things we truly feel
And not the words of one who kneels
The record shows, we take the blows
To do it our way.

This can be seen as the powerless taking control to find peace and wellbeing. "εὐδαιμονία”.
The battles are first with our selves. To think, to act, to cultivate positive habits. As far as we are able.
Wiktionary: (ethics) Eudaimonia (in Aristotelian ethics, a condition of living a life of the highest virtue; the state of human flourishing, which is desirable in and of itself, rather than as a means towards some other end)

Just a few thoughts...along the way.
And yes:

It's beautiful, evocative, intimate and disturbing. — Vera Mont

Well done, author! :sparkle: :flower:

My Soul is like the Dead Sea

This song comes to mind.

1974 My Soul - Lesley Duncan (singer/songwriter - a rare public performance)

Who'd be a woman, in this God forsaken town
Oh how I wish I could go
Giving to people I know will bring me down
And if I ache I dare not show, show

My soul, It's stretched at and torn
My soul, Is bleeding and worn
My soul, Must be re-born

Go on.... Go on and use me
I'm just to weak to try
How could you understand my pain
Yes you'll abuse me
You'll fill your cup and fly
Leaving me on the ground again, whoa

Oh no, not gonna make it
Oh no, not gonna take it
[...]

My soul, Is bound to heal
My soul, Will break the seal
My soul, Must be revealed

Sunlight Music Ltd.

The 'she' is in the body of a 'he'. The Soul. — Amity

Perhaps, it is more simple and straightforward.
A revealing and healing of a human's torn soul or mind.

The diamond appears, as it were, only after the immense pressure: every last drop of the blood of her old self must be squeezed out of the pores of her soul. She will no longer hide from the Devil; and in the end the Devil will not be able to find her. This body is mere flesh: its pain is its own—not hers. Equanimity shall be her new name: no calamity can touch her—so long as as she does not allow it to damage her character. — Author

A beautifully described transformation. From old to new self. From one kind of indifference to another.
The equanimity of Stoicism - or similar philosophies - the understanding of the transient nature of external circumstances, to disregard and detach from bodily pain. To take care of one's character, to cultivate a resilient and tranquil mind. As in the Serenity Prayer. To know what is in our control and what is not.

The author knows. :pray: :sparkle:

She has walked the common path undisturbed, and exactly this wellness has made her sick: normality is a paved road—it is comfortable to walk, but no flowers grow on it 1. — Moliere

What happened to bring about this state of affairs? What should the author's soul have been walking on that he was prevented from walking? What prevented it?
I see a painful, self-destructive situation, but I do not see its cause, and without the cause and history, I can't comprehend it.
Why is this soul sick from ordinary living? Is there something unusual about the author that he can't tolerate living among us mortals, or is there something different about him that we ordinary mortals don't tolerate? To me, it matters which is meant. It matters what the demons are and what the Devil wants. No answers are forthcoming.

Invictus

Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds and shall find me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate,
I am the captain of my soul.

- William Ernest Henley

This was a response to serious illness and a leg amputation - in a Victorian medical facility. So it's about overcoming pain, disability and fear of death. But then he goes a little further, contemplating Hell. I can just about imagine what sins a sick young man may have committed. The poem is coherent without any background, and can be taken as a diatribe against an arbitrary god, if we choose to.

I understand that. And, though it reverberates with the same tone, I don't understand this essay. I can't place the suffering in any context I recognize. I can't evaluate his case if I don't know what he's complaining about.

What happened to bring about this state of affairs? What should the author's soul have been walking on that he was prevented from walking? What prevented it?
I see a painful, self-destructive situation, but I do not see its cause, and without the cause and history, I can't comprehend it. — Vera Mont

I don't pretend to fully understand it either. It is a challenge. I appreciate the further prodding to look again. Here I go...

The reader steps in to a (hi)story of identity. For me, the author doesn't need to spell out the background.
That would be boring. Gaps are left to be filled by the imagination. It is poetry. With questions to be puzzled over and not made obvious. Uncertainty is not to everyone's taste. But when is life ever certain?

She has walked the common path undisturbed, and exactly this wellness has made her sick: normality is a paved road — Author

I wrote my initial interpretation above:

The betrayal lies in his covering up, denying his true self or nature. For the sake of 'normality'. No flowers for him. The pain of not being recognised or to be able 'to live with oneself'. — Amity

The social and public identity is a facade to fit in. Like wearing a mask to act a part. The real self not being shown. Repressed or oppressed by social norms into a showpiece of 'wellness'. All is well with the world, not. Life is a painful sham. So, an identity crisis in the making...

Why is this soul sick from ordinary living? Is there something unusual about the author that he can't tolerate living among us mortals, or is there something different about him that we ordinary mortals don't tolerate? To me, it matters which is meant. It matters what the demons are and what the Devil wants. No answers are forthcoming. — Vera Mont

The life being led is not authentic. The suffering is mostly mental. It is about coming to know yourself and the internal struggles - perhaps between the good and the bad, virtue and vice, God and the Devil.
All part of our self. We humans are a mix. I can imagine whisperings in my ear.

The demons sit on the left shoulder, the angels on the right. Both vying for attention. What part of us do we feed at any given time. Do we practice bad or good life habits. What is it that we want? Who are we?
It is finding peace or equanimity in the chaos of life's desires. The battles of the selves; higher and lower.

There are no answers forthcoming because it is left to the reader to find their own meaning.
To try to follow the path of the author, weaving a myth and mystery. Until we reach the end.
And then, we start over because we don't quite get it.

Invictus is similar in that it's about control. How we manage the course of inner life. To take charge of the soul (or mind). To not let anyone or anything conquer it. 'Bloody but unbowed'.

That's my take and all I can muster. And perhaps it's all just a load of rubbish-y fantasy...

For me, the author doesn't need to spell out the background.
That would be boring. — Amity

I respectfully disagree. No soul's journey is boring!

Uncertainty is not to everyone's taste. But when is life ever certain? — Amity

I grasp for meaning and coherence in literature, precisely because there is so much uncertainty, incomprehension and miscommunication in life.

The social and public identity is a facade to fit in. Like wearing a mask to act a part.....
The demons sit on the left shoulder, the angels on the right. Both vying for attention. What part of us do we feed at any given time. Do we practice bad or good life habits. What is it that we want? Who are we?
It is finding peace or equanimity in the chaos of life's desires. The battles of the selves; higher and lower. — Amity

Most of us make choices about that: when to mask and to whom to reveal. We respond to life and other people; we find a workable balance. There is discomfort and compensation, success and failure, self-praise and self-blame. I respect most other people's choices about how to conduct their lives, and most people respect mine. We can usually do this without tearing ourselves to pieces.

I know of situations where people who would otherwise be persecuted live in a confined closet and suffer for it. I try to support them where I can.
I know of instances where ordinary people have an inflated sense of themselves and dramatize their angst at being denied the admiration they consider their due. I have no sympathy for them.
I know of a very few people of exceptional abilities who lack outlets for expression and feel isolated. Sometimes the loneliness and frustration makes them despondent, even suicidal, and they struggle against that impulse. I intuit their feeling of hopeful hopelessness, but can't respond to them appropriately. I suspect what we have here is the last mentioned.

There are no answers forthcoming because it is left to the reader to find their own meaning. — Amity

That's what I'm talking about. It's not about me or anyone I can identify with, so the only meaning I could find would be intellectual, which is context-dependent.

I respectfully disagree. No soul's journey is boring! — Vera Mont

Yes, of course. I mean no disrespect to the life/mind being explored. I meant that there is no need for me to know the past. It would make it more interesting perhaps but it stands fascinating as it is. Joining in the narrative where it is. Or was. Connecting dots with crayon. Or pencil to be rubbed out when I start over!

I grasp for meaning and coherence in literature, precisely because there is so much uncertainty, incomprehension and miscommunication in life. — Vera Mont

Ah, yes, so do I. But not always. It's the attempt to understand what the author is trying to convey by whatever means. Or not. Sometimes, it is in the giving up and simply enjoying the play of words. The impressions left to haunt...

We can usually do this without tearing ourselves to pieces. — Vera Mont

Yes, of course, but this is like a Greek Myth. Still fascinating after all these years. Stories with psychological aspects. The complex and the subtle. To illustrate the complex problems of human existence. It draws on philosophies from the ancient to the modern. Poetry found in films. Images of survival, or not. The resilience we need when chased by a pack of wolves in an icy wilderness when we have nothing. We are only food.

“Once more into the fray,
Into the last good fight I’ll ever know,
Live and die on this day,
Live and die on this day.”2
– (The Grey, 2011) — Author

Is this referring to resurrection and the afterlife of which he will know nothing? A new and 'unrecognisable version' of the self. Hmmm...troubled by religion, there is a crisis of faith. If he is unacceptable to God, then he can longer accept Him.

The tearing of the external face to face the abyss of...what, nothingness? And then what? Is there a rising of the soul without need of religion or appeal to any gods or devils? Society can get stuffed.
The self is sufficient. But is it?

Sometimes the loneliness and frustration makes them despondent, even suicidal, and they struggle against that impulse. I intuit their feeling of hopeful hopelessness, but can't respond to them appropriately. I suspect what we have here is the last mentioned. — Vera Mont

Perhaps so. Perhaps we don't need to respond. Perhaps they don't want us to.
Perhaps we just need to listen. Perhaps imagine. Isn't that what the author is trying to get at.
To somehow convey a message of how to live. The point is to live. To find peace and wellbeing.
To know what we can control, and what we can't.

The first battle was her thoughts; the second was her actions; and the third was her habits. Until finally, there it was: the thumping chest. She lifts the heavy lid, and there is a heart—branded with the word “εὐδαιμονία”. — Author

***

There are no answers forthcoming because it is left to the reader to find their own meaning.
— Amity
That's what I'm talking about. It's not about me or anyone I can identify with, so the only meaning I could find would be intellectual, which is context-dependent. — Vera Mont

I think you underplay your talent for imagination and narrative skills. I haven't been in outer space or witnessed a murder or crucifixion or a helluva lot of things. I read about them, or listen, with an inner eye or ear. Filling in any gaps...or not. You are an actual author of novels. A creative artist with high intelligence.
The author leads us to boldly go where...

Is this referring to resurrection and the afterlife of which he will know nothing? — Amity

I thought it was like the Klingons' 'a good day to die': that is, whether you win or lose, there is glory in the engagement. I have no problem with that part.
It's this I can't fathom or identify:

Every solid she touches is liquefied; every liquid solidified. She is a walking contradiction: the prey which is its own predator. She has walked the common path undisturbed, and exactly this wellness has made her sick: normality is a paved road—it is comfortable to walk, but no flowers grow on it 1. She has no flower to call her own, and the chasm in her heart has grown to large: she rips herself apart, just to sew herself back together. — Moliere

Perhaps we don't need to respond. Perhaps they don't want us to. — Amity

I did that. But posting something in a forum solicits responses; I felt I had to say something. Which was: I don't know what to say.

I did that. But posting something in a forum solicits responses; I felt I had to say something. Which was: I don't know what to say. — Vera Mont

Even not knowing what to say, you still typed the words, your thoughts. Look where they led. To a deeper exploration.

I'm now thinking about the issue of pain. Physical and mental. The philosophy of detachment from it, and even hope. 'Indifference' and non-attachment.
Is this wholly possible or even desirable? Perhaps acceptable as a theory but in practice?

We can practise habits of thought and some principles could indeed become a core part of who we are - but it seems to me that having such perfectly, absolute ideals ( are they?) sets us up for a fall. To fail to meet external and internal standards...can prove disappointing, even devastating for some. If it's a case of all or nothing, some choose nothing. The pendulum swings.

What is it about Greek Myths and their appeal?

On contemplating suicide. In 'The Myth of Sisyphus', Camus writes of two forms: physical and philosophical. Camus wants to live life without appeal - on his own terms without recourse to religion, hope or the big theories of others. Without morals. Amoral. Hope is seen as irrational - the opposite of reason. Airy-fairy without substance. Camus counts quantity of life experiences over its quality as being best. Hope is a quality, not possible to touch, count or account for. So, discounted.

And yet, he uses immaterial imagination to tell his story. To interpret the Greek Myth of Sisyphus. His way. Not my way. Another story...of hope. I believe that we are not attached to hope, rather it is attached to us. Even if we don't see it. It is there. It is part of 'hopelessness'.

Hope is like the sun. That glorious natural and symbolic star. Always there. No matter the weather. The fog and darkness will lift. The wind breezes change. Moods move us. We move, or remove, moods.
We 'live and die on this day'. Follow the seasons. The flight of birds. The rhythm. The rhyme.

“My soul is like the Dead Sea, over which no bird is able to fly; when it has come midway, it sinks down, exhausted, to death and destruction.” – (Kierkegaard, A Fragment of Life) — Author

Pace or peace yourself. Let imagine fly. Sink with hope into poetry. The poetry of philosophy.

“Hope” is the thing with feathers
By Emily Dickinson

“Hope” is the thing with feathers -
That perches in the soul -
And sings the tune without the words -
And never stops - at all -

And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard -
And sore must be the storm -
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm -

I’ve heard it in the chillest land -
And on the strangest Sea -
Yet - never - in Extremity,
It asked a crumb - of me.

'm now thinking about the issue of pain. Physical and mental. The philosophy of detachment from it, and even hope. 'Indifference' and non-attachment. — Amity

Buddhism, Stoicism... to rise above desire, fear, pain. For Christian and Sufi ascetics, just the opposite: to seek and embrace suffering.

Is this wholly possible or even desirable? Perhaps acceptable as a theory but in practice?

To me, it just seems crazy. Healthy animals try very hard to avoid pain and privation; if they must suffer, they try to get through it and heal. Healthy animals seek comfort, wellness, pleasure and joy. Humans have ideas, ideals, theories, disciplines, faiths, cults.... regrets, retribution, suicide, martyrdom, crusades, jihads, genocides. Humans rejected nature but are not very good at civilization.

What is it about Greek Myths and their appeal? — Amity

They are accurate, insightful and succinct commentary on the human psyche, while also picturesque and dramatic - entertaining.

Camus wants to live life without appeal - on his own terms without recourse to religion, hope or the big theories of others. Without morals. Amoral. — Amity

Sounds like a big order. We can manage without other people's theories, if we're clever and confident enough to make our own, but we can't do without other people. I have never seen amorality in practice. I've seen people ignore prevailing moral precepts - selectively - and I've seen people break moral precepts, either in protest or to seek forbidden pleasure.
I'm long out of date on Camus, but I came away with the impression of an ethical being.

Hope is seen as irrational - the opposite of reason. Airy-fairy without substance. — Amity

The drive to survival - our oldest, deepest, most compelling instinct. Hopelessness is wholly rational, imposed by force of logic on the eternal spring in every beating heart.

I'm long out of date on Camus, but I came away with the impression of an ethical being. — Vera Mont

Yes. He was ethical. However, in the Myth of Sisyphus, he writes of an ethics which is less about accepting social moral codes and more about individuals and their values. This is within his theory of absurdism. Outside society's standards. He uses Don Juan as an example of an absurd hero. To illustrate that the only thing worthwhile is the quantity of life experiences not the quality. That is the best life. So, we listen to the catalogue of conquests:

Madamina, il catalogo è questo

My dear lady, this is the list
Of the beauties my master has loved,
A list which I have compiled.
Observe, read along with me.

In Italy, six hundred and forty;
In Germany, two hundred and thirty-one;
A hundred in France; in Turkey, ninety-one;
But in Spain already one thousand and three.

Among these are peasant girls,
Maidservants, city girls,
Countesses, baronesses,
Marchionesses, princesses,
Women of every rank,
Every shape, every age.

With blondes it is his habit
To praise their kindness;
In brunettes, their faithfulness;
In the white-haired, their sweetness.

In winter he likes fat ones.
In summer he likes thin ones.
He calls the tall ones majestic.
The little ones are always charming.

He seduces the old ones
For the pleasure of adding to the list.
His greatest favourite
Is the young beginner.

It doesn't matter if she's rich,
Ugly or beautiful;
If she wears a skirt,
You know what he does. — Wiki

Don Juan does what it takes to satisfy his selfish desires at the expense of others. He is amoral. Unconcerned whether something is right or wrong. A slippery slide to immorality. Wickedness.
He kills the Commendatore, the father of a girl he has seduced.

Camus doesn't seem to be concerned about the immorality. But that is just my understanding. And Camus moved on from that. Also, from hopelessness to hope.

Sounds like a big order. We can manage without other people's theories, if we're clever and confident enough to make our own, but we can't do without other people. I have never seen amorality in practice. — Vera Mont

I agree. What interests me is Camus' prime examples of the absurd hero.
Sisyphus and Don Juan. Fictional characters.

I have probably misinterpreted my reading of Camus...I'm a beginner...

Where were we again? Oh yes, suicide, tearing off the mask...is painless?
The killing of one self so that another self lives. The good wins? Hmmm...

Emotion can win over hard logic. Quality of care over quantity of facts and ticking boxes.
We can think ourselves to suicide but can be pulled back from the brink by that beating heart:

The drive to survival - our oldest, deepest, most compelling instinct. Hopelessness is wholly rational, imposed by force of logic on the eternal spring in every beating heart. — Vera Mont

He was ethical. However, in the Myth of Sisyphus, he writes of an ethics which is less about accepting social moral codes and more about individuals and their values. — Amity

Well, yes. That's a whole 'nother kettle o' sprats. Social mores are not necessarily - indeed, hardly ever - about the value of individuals. They're about the welfare of the social unit, whether that unit is a commune, a tribe or an empires. All ethical individuals must compare the mores of the state with their own attitude to their fellow beings and their world. Divesting oneself of externally imposed values is the first step to building internal values.

Don Juan does what it takes to satisfy his selfish desires at the expense of others. He is amoral. Unconcerned whether something is right or wrong. A slippery slide to immorality. Wickedness. — Amity

I always thought him flat-out wicked. For pleasure and defiance, but most importantly for self-aggrandizement. That is, selectively: I don't know whether he also stole and set fires. The killing was in a duel, wasn't it? Didn't go around murdering people at random. He was just a sexoholic with no support structure or guard-rails, poor lamb.

Where were we again? Oh yes, suicide, tearing off the mask...is painless? — Amity

I hope so, for if/when I need assistance. Reason says that day may come, even though hope would have me suffer longer, only to arrive at the same result.

The killing of one self so that another self lives. The good wins?

The authentic self wins, for good or ill, or they both die of oxygen starvation.
At least, that's the message I intend to take away from this essay.
(I eagerly anticipate the author's comments.)

(I eagerly anticipate the author's comments.) — Vera Mont

Yes. Same here. I've enjoyed our meandering musings. Amusement in mystification. The author had better put us out of our miserable happiness. It's all too much. Not long now... :cool:

The title is quite misleading: that's my fault. I didn't give moliere a title for it (if I remember correctly). The title should be "Oizys' Garden": that is befitting.

More a poem than an essay. Which is ok. Poems can be good philosophy.

It’s literature: not a poem. Literature is the elegant way of making a point, as well as getting people to think for themselves. I prefer it over these ‘essays’ that you refer to, which are really analytic essays, because they are captivating, touch larger of an audience, toiling, and substantial.

I recognize your approach is impressionistic, but I admit I don't know what you're trying to tell, or maybe show, us.

It’s meant as a journey through a very common development of consciousness. Traveling impacts you far more than where you departed and where you end up. The result is the end process of the path you took, and this is one common path.

Wondering who "she" is throughout the essay I kept feeling compelled to want to read, which is an interesting choice. I got the sense that "she" is philosophy itself. (Although upon knowing the title I might have to rethink this...I had this typed from before the reveal -- updated the title @Bob Ross).

I'm wondering about the voice of the author, though -- from where does the author see her? I wouldn't be wondering that except for when you say you abandoned her to the dead it: Who is the one who abandoned her, and now sees her from afar with her struggles? Does the voice of the piece ever come into contact with her again, or is it philosophy itself which is eudemon and our speaker who has abandoned her remains afar? Is it that she is abandoned by all of us and yet she pursues the thankless task set before her all the same?

Not that these have to be answered. Part of what makes this work is that there is a lot of mystery throughout the peice. But I'd like to know about the voice, only because "I" is used -- if it hadn't been then I'd have kept reading this as a third-person impersonal essay.

***

I definitely get the feel that this is influenced by existential thoughts just from the bibliography. But then that has a tension throughout because of the third-person narration throughout. It's not philosophy's soul that's like the dead sea, but the speakers, who sets out to no longer abandon her.

But then the story is of philosophy overcoming, while our author continues to simply notate what she struggles through. Or is the speaker speaking in third person about itself, and so this is philosophy reflecting on itself, but to keep a distance she tells her story in the third person?

****

The style draws me into the world. I like that a great deal, but I think that the essay would benefit from something to help readers to grasp where you're going. I like poetics in philosophy, but I -- to speak poetically -- feel that there could be more of the "rational" side in this piece that, if incorporated, would strengthen the writing.

I don't know if the best way to do that is the answer my questions -- especially since that's what drove me to keep reading -- but I can see the desire for more to make it feel more "philosophical". Not necessarily quotes there... it'd be interesting if you could tie Kierkegaard and Nietzsche to Aurelius in your reflection. Then they'd look more like coherent references for your thoughts.

I hope it is not too haunting: it was meant to strike a cord with a certain audience, but still be meaningful for others.

Wondering who "she" is throughout the essay I kept feeling compelled to want to read, which is an interesting choice. I got the sense that "she" is philosophy itself — Moliere

OK, now I'm guessing "she" is Oizys @Bob Ross

Prior to the quote, Kierkegaard writes:

I’ve always thought Kierkegaard was a subliminal exemplification of a diseased soul: someone that already put the nails in their own coffin, and yet still breathes. His reader-base he was intending to write for were the ‘fellowship of entombed lives’. He was the kind of extreme example of moder-day nihilism and mental illness (about purpose, meaning, and value); but conjoined with a genius intellect and strong will.

Ultimately, of course, Kierkegaard offers the reader blind, leap-like faith as the solution because he couldn’t reason his way out of his existential despair (I would say).

She slithers from nothing to nothing.

‘ex nihilo ad nihilum’ means ‘from [out of] nothing, to [towards] nothing’: I’ve found it to be a great way of referring to those that lack purpose. Those pure breeds of nihilism: a dark picture, but a necessary one.

Who is the 'I' who narrates? Who betrayed her (another inner self?). How?

There’s a saying by (I think) Nietzsche that “those who were seen dancing were thought to be insane by those who could not hear the music”. This short story flips it: “those who were seen entombing themselves were thought to be ill by those who could not hear the screams”. The ‘I’ who narrates betrayed her (ultimately) because they could not—were incapable of—hear(ing) the screams.

What kind of 'indifference'? The special Stoic kind or the common garden variety?

Stoicism doesn’t teach indifference: it teaches equanimity.

So, 'she', the counterpart of (presumably a 'he'?) has become captive, her spirit caged?

Συμπαϱανεϰϱώμενοι refers to the living coffins: those that have died well before their physical death.

'The greatest sacrifice one can give is to die; for her, it is to live.'

See Kierkegaard’s ‘The Unhappiest One’:

We whose activities are, if I am to conform with the sacred tradition of our society, experiments in aphoristic and accidental devotion, we who do not merely think and speak aphoristically but live aphoristically, we who live aphorismenoi and segregati, 3 like aphorisms in life, without society of men, not sharing their sorrows and their joys; we who are not consonants sounding together in the noise of life, but solitary birds in the stillness of night, gathered together only now and then, to be edified by representations of life’s misery, the length of the day, and the endless duration of time; we, dear Symparanekromenoi, who have no faith in the game of happiness or the fortune of fools, we who believe in nothing but misfortune. See how they press forward in their countless multitudes, all the unhappy! Yet, many though they are who believe they are called, few are the chosen. A distinction is to be established between them – a word, and the crowd vanishes; for excluded, uninvited guests are all those who think the greatest misfortune is death, those who became unhappy because it was death they feared; for we, dear Symparanekromenoi, we, like the Roman soldiers, do not fear death; we know of greater misfortunes, and first and last and above all – life. Yes, if there were a human being who could not die, if the story of the eternally wandering Jew were true, how could we scruple to call him the unhappiest?

https://img1.wsimg.com/blobby/go/36ba381a-9850-4782-a471-dbe0bfa3c3b6/downloads/Either_or%20-%20S%C3%B8ren%20Kierkegaard%20(pdf).pdf?ver=1611846256813, page 177.

And then, the author gives us a break, a poem. Of resilience. Life and Death, Life and Death.

The poem is from a movie, The Grey, that was written by the main character’s father that was on the wall. He recites it right before battling to death with a wild wolf—to the death.

The red sun seeping

That which does not transmit light creates its own darkness; but not all light is the product of goodness in the way Plato thinks of The Good as the golden sun….

The heat of a righteous anger under intense pressure?

(:

How does being brutal avoid immorality?

When an organism faces extinction, it either goes to places its predator will not dare to join; or fights the predator head on. Remember, she is both the prey and the predator…

When you have to fight immorality like always having to walk with glass shards in your feet, what do you think will happen to your psychology outlook on your life?

Next up, Nietzsche on great pain burning slowly. Apparently, it compels certain philosophers to go down, deep, deep, down.
…
Why? How?

The deepest of battles is perpetual: it is long-sought and long-fought. It is the kind of suffering that strips you bare for all to see—the kind that forces no stone to be left unturned in your soul. You find out about who you really are, in that moment: you can’t hide.

Almost vampiric in the squeezing of life blood from her old self.

One cannot truly changes themselves by taking prisoners…

I guess my beef is that I don't see Marcus as an existentialist. He adheres to Stoic principles of which 'indifference' is one. However, he engages at a high level of engagement as Emperor of Rome. His actions appear to contradict Stoicism.

Re-read the short-story as a development of consciousness and tell me what you think.

What does it take or mean to know yourself, when there are so many competing selves?

What is eudaimonia? Which leads me to:

The myth of finding the Greek word 'εὐδαιμονία' in a chest, in your heart...
The word is not 'happiness' but the state or process of a spirit seeking wellbeing.

It just is well-being, it is soul living well, as understood through the prism of essences.

The author ends with words from Schopenhauer.
I am not well-informed. However, I think it relates to Seneca's idea that the will can't be taught.

You are onto it. It means ‘willing cannot be taught’. There’s two meanings Schopenhauer gives: that one can will but cannot will what he wills, and that one knows what they will not that they will what they know. I’ll leave you with that to chew on….

:up:

She has walked the common path undisturbed, and exactly this wellness has made her sick: normality is a paved road—it is comfortable to walk, but no flowers grow on it 1.— Moliere


What happened to bring about this state of affairs? What should the author's soul have been walking on that he was prevented from walking? What prevented it?

Normality as a paved road is a quote from a philosopher (of which I forget the name): it refers to the fact that authenticity is stamped out by common norms. The common path is walked so much that a flower cannot bloom on it.

The common path can feel good because it is comfortable and undisturbing, but it this kind of ‘wellness’ that makes many people sick. They go their entire lives without finding true meaning, finding their authentic self, thinking about the deeper things, because doing what everyone else is doing in mainstream, practical life is so easy. Then they get slapped with the bill decades later and have to deal with the seeping hole in their heart. You’ve probably met people to some extent like this: they have no thoughts because it is easier to have them given to them—they have no life, because they won’t depart on their own path. They have no purpose, because they never fought for it.

They take the easy path and find temporary well-being, until it collapses.

This was a response to serious illness and a leg amputation - in a Victorian medical facility

That was a very captivating and interesting poem!

I had this typed from before the reveal -- updated the title @Bob Ross.

Thank you! That’s not your fault: I probably didn’t give you a title. I forgot about this exercise (:

Wondering who "she" is throughout the essay I kept feeling compelled to want to read

There’s purposefully many meanings to the narrator vs. the female dichotomy. You could interpret it as:

OK, now I'm guessing "she" is Oizys

Insofar as “she” is the extreme exemplification of misery, existentialism, etc.; but is there not something beautiful which emerges even out of the purest of evil? Are happiness and unhappiness not twins sisters that either grow up together or remain small together?

The kind of sunlight produced from evil isn’t better but is more awing and provoking than from good—don’t you think? It has a red stain to it...

I'm wondering about the voice of the author, though -- from where does the author see her? I wouldn't be wondering that except for when you say you abandoned her to the dead it

The easy interpretation is that she is her own betrayer. Remember, she is both predator and prey.

Another interpretation is what I told Amity:

There’s a saying by (I think) Nietzsche that “those who were seen dancing were thought to be insane by those who could not hear the music”. This short story flips it: “those who were seen entombing themselves were thought to be ill by those who could not hear the screams”. The ‘I’ who narrates betrayed her (ultimately) because they could not—were incapable of—hear(ing) the screams.

I find this one much more thought-provoking; but both are equally necessary to grasp the totality of the meaning behind the essay.

only because "I" is used -- if it hadn't been then I'd have kept reading this as a third-person impersonal essay.

Yes, and there’s a third interpetation: a personal touch. There’s an audience that will resinate with the essay more than others simply because they have drowned in the same waters; and, ultimately, this is a antidote being offered to them. However, the work is also meant to have meaning which can be applied to anyone. It gets at multiple levels of the illness---even for those who don't realize they have it.

It's not philosophy's soul that's like the dead sea, but the speakers, who sets out to no longer abandon her.

Right! Both she and the speaker are the dead sea in different respects. She cannot find solid ground: every idea she touches dies eventually—after much toil and sweat. The bird never lands for her. On the other hand, the speaker, the Judas, the ignorant passer-by, seeks to help her land but they are the very thing making her seek land elsewhere…. The bird does not land in the sea.

The style draws me into the world. I like that a great deal, but I think that the essay would benefit from something to help readers to grasp where you're going. I like poetics in philosophy, but I -- to speak poetically -- feel that there could be more of the "rational" side in this piece that, if incorporated, would strengthen the writing.

That’s fair. It’s hard to balance revelation and allowing interpretations of literature. I am trying to offer interpretations to people without giving the one(s) I intended.

it'd be interesting if you could tie Kierkegaard and Nietzsche to Aurelius in your reflection. Then they'd look more like coherent references for your thoughts.

I agree and are when they come up. There’s a development of consciousness going on the work that I don’t think anyone has noticed yet; which ties to the different philosophers (which you missed two btw [; ) throughout.

Normality as a paved road is a quote from a philosopher (of which I forget the name): it refers to the fact that authenticity is stamped out by common norms. The common path is walked so much that a flower cannot bloom on it. — Bob Ross

Yes, I got that. What I don't see here is the alternative they should have chosen, how they could have known that was the better choice and did they have the capability and opportunity to choose it? Who decides whether they are well or sick, according to what criteria?

The common path can feel good because it is comfortable and undisturbing, but it this kind of ‘wellness’ that makes many people sick. — Bob Ross

What if most of us are common and content not to walk on flowers, but just look at them alongside the road? If common folk were not a majority, how could they have trod a paved road?

You’ve probably met people to some extent like this: they have no thoughts because it is easier to have them given to them—they have no life, because they won’t depart on their own path. They have no purpose, because they never fought for it. — Bob Ross

No, I haven't. All the people I ever met had thoughts and lives and purposes. I may not approve of some of their choices; I may have found some of them boring; I may feel superior to those people with no special talents or intelligence and I may have considered my causes more noble than theirs. But I'm not happier for having chosen differently, and neither their or my lives made an impression on the universe.

They go their entire lives without finding true meaning, finding their authentic self, thinking about the deeper things, — Bob Ross

What is true meaning and how do you tell it apart from false meaning? What is an authentic self and how can you tell what someone else's authentic self is? What is a 'deeper thing than they're thinking about, and who gets to measure the depth?

because doing what everyone else is doing in mainstream, practical life is so easy.

Not always. Mining coal is hard, even if every man in your village does it for want of a better job. Active service in a war is hard, even if all your cohort is conscripted; bearing and feeding nine children is hard, even if every woman on the street accepts all the blessings God sends them.

Then they get slapped with the bill decades later and have to deal with the seeping hole in their heart.

Old people have regrets, and some of those regrets are about not having pursued their passion. But they're just as likely to be about doing someone wrong or missing opportunities for happiness. If there are holes, they're particular and personal, not metaphysical.

Human beings, like sea lions and zebras, are individual, real, particular, unique - not generalities forming a dull backdrop against which the special ones suffer mental anguish and shine like stars.

I apologize: I forgot to respond.

What I don't see here is the alternative they should have chosen, how they could have known that was the better choice and did they have the capability and opportunity to choose it?

This wasn’t an analytic essay: the prose is provocative, pungent, and crude. I think provided explicated life paths would betray that prose.

Who decides whether they are well or sick, according to what criteria?

“The wellness makes them sick; and the sickness makes them well” is a purposeful equivocation for intents of an aphorism. It is supposed to get you thinking about what sense ‘wellness’ and ‘sickness’ are being referred here. How can a person that is well be sick? How can a sick person be well?

What do you think? When would a well person be sick? Or a sick person well? And why would one make the other?

What if most of us are common and content not to walk on flowers, but just look at them alongside the road?

Firstly, it still stampedes authenticity, individual profoundness, and deep thinking; so what you are asking is essentially “what if most of us are content with being inauthentic, dull, and intellectually shallow?”. To that, I say, secondly, that it will be a very shallow sense of happiness: it is not possible to acquire a deep sense of fulfillment that way; and it will tend to come back to haunt those people who are ‘content’ in this way. It’s almost like the short-term happiness makes them well, but also produces long-term misery……..

 If common folk were not a majority, how could they have trod a paved road?

There would be no common folk in the sense you mean if everyone was authentic; unless everyone was authentically the same, which is highly unlikely.

All the people I ever met had thoughts and lives and purposes...But I'm not happier for having chosen differently, and neither their or my lives made an impression on the universe.

Of course most people have purposes and lives—no doubt; however, many people, especially those that are young, walk a path given to them as the easy downstream path of the river of society. It’s so easy to survive and be immanently healthy (physically) following that path nowadays that many people never are slapped with any sort of struggle that forces them to contemplate the heavier, deeper questions in life.

I would say, as a side note, that happiness is not subjective. No, people are not just as happy doing whatever option they choose (out of the full list of options).

What is true meaning and how do you tell it apart from false meaning? What is an authentic self and how can you tell what someone else's authentic self is? What is a 'deeper thing than they're thinking about, and who gets to measure the depth?

Exactly! That’s what the passage that you quoted is trying to get you to think about.

Not always. Mining coal is hard, even if every man in your village does it for want of a better job. Active service in a war is hard, even if all your cohort is conscripted; bearing and feeding nine children is hard, even if every woman on the street accepts all the blessings God sends them.

Most jobs in the west are not like those you mentioned and more and more women are not having kids (or very few). The fact is that most people in the west, such as the US or Europe, have extremely comfortable lives even if they are drowning in debt. Outside of the West, there are plenty of places that have far worse living arrangements (to your point).

Old people have regrets, and some of those regrets are about not having pursued their passion. But they're just as likely to be about doing someone wrong or missing opportunities for happiness. If there are holes, they're particular and personal, not metaphysical.

A regret tends to be the shadow of the right intuition that one did not follow what is good.

Human beings, like sea lions and zebras, are individual, real, particular, unique - not generalities forming a dull backdrop against which the special ones suffer mental anguish and shine like stars.

I didn’t follow this part; but those of us that suffer in the right and proportionate ways for higher goods definitely shine brighter.