Reading Solomon’s introduction
forced me to recognize a pet-peeve of mine: I am annoyed by a preoccupation
with suffering. I realized this because
Solomon’s description of existentialism has the distinct odor of
masochism. His description begins with a
person exalting or subverting his-/herself. Society is categorized as hostile.
The self-conscious/insecure person then fights back against the
world and discovers the meaninglessness of their preoccupation with the world’s hostility. Apparently, one may somehow
conclude that there are no true values and that humankind is essentially
hypocritical. (xiii) This process sounds like
anything but admirable to me, yet Solomon holds existentialism in high
regard. What?
Granted, many of us—even I—are
familiar with suffering and marginalization.
Many of us—even I—can sympathize with a victim mentality and the
assertion that “everyone” is a hypocrite.
But this description seems roughly equivalent to an adolescent
mindset. That mindset may be appropriate
for first growth, but how does it suit successive stages of aging, experiencing,
maturing?
Of course, some of my disdain is
fueled by disappointment. My
preconceived notion of existentialism was rather romantic. Terrible clash with Solomon’s anxiety-driven
account. But another part of my disdain
is fueled by logic. I need
consistency of meaning. This need is
frustrated by Solomon’s simile, in which existentialism is conceptual sculpting. (xii) It’s all very good and fine
to say existentialism is like sculpture, unless you say that existentialism is
not like art. Which he does. In addition to saying existentialism is not like art, he says it is not
a “mere” expression like poetry. Am I to
understand from this that there are no true values yet at the same time there
are base expressions and fine expressions?
How is that not a value judgement? Furthermore, he claims that there is no Officious List of Existentialist
Authors (xx), then proceeds to cite Nietzsche, Camus, Sartre, and Kierkegaard. Le sigh.
If he’s going negate his own propositions at every turn, Solomon might
just let me pick up my own sense of existentialism by intuition.
Ironically, I see glimmers of a “me
vs. the world” mentality in his communication style. The words he uses must have alternate,
personal meanings; this must explain why he understands art, sculpture,
expression, and poetry different from custom.
But instead of clarifying his meaning with a preamble, he barrels ahead
and acts like the reader’s understanding is wrong, all wrong. I get a sense of exclusion and miserliness
from Solomon’s introduction. This tracks
with my first impression of adolescence.
At this point, the readers are addressed as younger children, presumed
to be too little to understand existentialism anyway. Solomon is purposefully unintelligible. This is probably a form of stylistic
integrity, in keeping with an existentialist attitude.
As frustrating as it is to have my
understanding disrespected by an author, I have hope for this book. Part of my hope is that I can address a
longstanding curiosity I’ve had regarding existentialism. In 2008, I found “Hero,” a webcomic by a
Malaysian artist called Hwei. Hwei cites
Camus as a key influence in the creation of Hero. (Here is at least one place where I can agree
with Solomon, because he calls existentialism “seductive” throughout
the course of his introduction (xix). I was definitely
entranced enough by the fragments of existentialism in Hero to maintain
curiosity for all these years. I still
eagerly anticipate seeing for myself what existentialists say, feeling what
their thinking is like.) Aside from
satisfying my curiosity, I also anticipate gaining insight on the
existentialist mindset. Such insight could help me understand and have
compassion on those who are annoyingly insecure. I’m all for personal
expansion and life skills. Maybe I can even find something admirable in the
midst of self-pity. Here’s to hoping.
