On the Introduction

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.