Life. . .

—From CB—

A friend wrote a post on her personal questioning of why she was alive. It elicited this:

That raises the questions for all of us. I’m 82, faced daily with multiple maladies and appointments with specialists; my last novel (which we think is really good) sold exactly two copies; my voice goes down to a whisper; I have two kids, but I rarely see them; the art I’ve practiced my whole life, theatre, I don’t practice now. I could complain all day.

I do have a long-term mate, which makes a huge difference, and enough money to live on if I don’t live too long. Right now, I’m writing a novel with a character who could’ve written this post: he’s 36, about to become well-off so he’s just quit his hated job as a substitute teacher, but is asking that exact same question. What am I here for? It almost drives him nuts.

He encounters a homeless derelict whom he steps over daily at the portico of his rooming house:

“As I came to know him, he viewed life in simple terms. He tried to keep warm and dry. He looked for something to eat. He found places to do the duties demanded by nature in as an elegant way as he could. He did his best not to hurt anyone. If disease came upon him, he would suffer and die, no sweat, since that was only the price of being alive for a while. The merry-go-round would finally stop its tuneful rounds.”

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That answers no questions, or perhaps it does. For me at least; I didn’t post it to my friend, as I avoid unasked advice. For me, the essential purpose of life is to live. When you die, you’re dead. If I find otherwise, I’ll adapt to the surprise.

There are any number of ways to “give it meaning”: to make a bundle, to serve God, to serve humankind, and so on. It probably helps to do something that lasts a long time and keeps your memory alive in other minds (unless it’s a major atrocity). And it helps a lot to do something you love, to have someone with you, to have money enough.

I once wrote to make a living, and there came to be at least a chance of fame. Now I write to write.

But (a) there are countless people who never ask the question, and (b) you’re definitely and undeniably going to die. The question is uncomfortable, as we live in a culture that already makes us question our function. And the other part we want to avoid even thinking about, just as the tiny ant scuttling across the counter tries to avoid my looming thumb.

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