The Buried Notebooks Pt. 2

1.8 Knowing what it means to be pure and virtuous is not at all the same as being a personification of these qualities. I could be totally conscious of virtue yet completely lack it. Similarly, one could detest immorality, but that doesn’t make him any better than he is. You know, there was a time when secreting my wickedness seemed like a reasonable course, but now I firmly oppose it in indifference. It is not an easy task for one to recognise his wickedness, and subsequently grapple with it. If one ceases to address it, and fails to bring himself together, it transforms into a terribly destructive plague.

1.9 My very existence, as it appears to me, is occupied by an immoderate amount of summits and ravines. It often feels like I can’t find some repose away from the confusion and madness that contaminates my being. There must be some source of unease coming from anywhere and everywhere. If there isn’t, I’m not living, just hanging above troubled waters. There must be a problem, is that not true of all life? There must be some source of anxiety, so that my most fervent desires and fears are frustrated and burrowed under. Wasn’t the Buddha correct when he said that desire is our chief cause of suffering? If I were so selflessly valiant, restrained to the point where my desires are perfectly subdued by a lofty composure, none of this pandemonium would be taken earnestly, and there would be no disquiet pertaining to my pressing need to watch over my perverted desires.

2.0 But then such a state of affairs raises another question, would such supreme calm and order grow monotonous? Would I, perhaps, start to loathe the fact my life is devoid of unease and difficulty? If I were so invincible, whereby nothing would phase me, and my towering strength was superior to any stumbling block life could hurl at me, would life be perceived as an interesting game worth playing? I get the sense that that kind of omnipotence could be fatal, and would shortly engender within myself a repetitious, dull, and flat existence. Because chaos has that magical effect, in spite of its great stamina and pressure; it naturally conveys stupefaction, wonder, mystery, vacancy, etc. These senses imbue life with an ambience that elevates our experience.

2.1 It often requires great sadness to have something to write. I may despise the misery that overcomes me, but I could be grateful for what it grants me: the pressing, violent, raging urge to write, to relieve myself of suffering and find my way back to serenity. A great deal of striking poetry has sprung from the deepest gullies of immense regret, depression, and sorrow, and it would be a terrible catastrophe to mankind if man was insensitive to melancholy, because of the sheer beauty it has erected. And if we didn’t have among us the despicable ugliness that contaminates eternal beauty, we wouldn’t bear the capacity to acknowledge true beauty. We puzzle out things by contrast, and if you exterminate that disparity, you also take the life of profundity, flattening the depth that imparts basic significance. This is ever immanent in numerous facets of life. While women may signify the void; emptiness, darkness, disorder, tenderness and so forth, men signify a certain richness and light; hostility, boldness, heroism, dominance, strength etc. The beauty and harmony of course lies in the union between the two opposites, but corrupt one and the other will suffer. While two corrupt ends may cancel each other and lead an apparently attuned dance, they are nonetheless bastardised within and thus in strife with themselves. Such a union can’t possibly preserve itself, and very often doesn’t because corruption has that cruel repercussion; it doesn’t permit inward stability and freedom from contamination – it ought to infect and tarnish the beautiful, it abominates cleanliness and makes a dreary effort to beat it hollow.

2.2 Perhaps, the vulgar – that is, the vast proportion of men and women – value the empty and meaningless more than they value the profound and meaningful, thus orienting their life in such a way that revolts against honour, righteousness, and purity. I can’t imagine, however, how such dissolution and infatuation for the shallow and vacant could grant man the kind of fulfilment that is basic to his nature. If man treasures the meaningless and makes a fervent effort to sustain it, how could he ever sense the fulfilment that is a natural corollary to a meaningful existence? The fullness in meaning is inherently masculine, but the emptiness is inherently feminine. What does that indicate about the current state of culture? Anyone with some degree of clarity would discern that the fullness that was once requisite and customary among all strong men alike has been relinquished. Its substitute – emptiness – is its inferior and feeble opposite. Ever wondered why we are so unhinged in this muddied puddle of chaos? When the fullness inherent in man – that engenders order, substance, strength, and stability into the world – has gone astray, and the emptiness inherent in woman – that engenders disorder, hubris and pride – has risen to revolt, we suffer the toils of our own capitulation and weakness.

2.3 All men have buried within them the criminal, the transgressor, the sinner. And only those are valorous enough to clasp it in their arms and master it are true men, the rest become, as Nietzsche put it so beautifully, domesticated dogs. You may pity the dog for being compliant with the leash that confines him and call him obedient. But do you realise how much he’s sacrificing to be sold into slavery? Men didn’t come here to be trained and disciplined by women. Docility of this magnitude nauseates, it is the mark of great distaste to fall to your knees in such acts of blind submission. In a world of dogs who are kept ignorant of their own servitude, no wolfish man – strong, honourable and upright – will be revered for his superiority. Conversely, he will be perceived as the chief threat – dangerous and toxic –because he may, by his virile will and heroism, awaken once more in slumbering men the spine and mettle that was once shared and of the essence among them; it had, as a matter of fact, brought them together – an irresistible force that sparked off immense light into the world. A fire for eternity.

You must sin against the degeneracy of the time if you desire to preserve some element of cleanliness. I see no other alternative to this, once you abide by the absurdities of modernity, you are then condemned tenfold for the opposition you may put up later. And isn’t it a callous deception, even an irresponsible one on the side of women – in spite of men’s cowardly submission – to enforce and endorse the kind of feebleness and timidity that they find no security in, that they are repelled by, that in due course leaves them vulnerable? I’ve always asked myself how such women could concurrently demonstrate the qualities of cruelty and foolishness, as if they sadistically love to exploit through instruments of deception, while irresponsibly exposing themselves to danger, to the possibility of no return, to the likelihood of getting cheapened, rather ruthlessly, by the inevitability of oldness.

2.4 Perhaps, the man of modernity should learn to arm himself with the kind of savage callousness that is typical of hubristic women, and then sharply treat them with their own medicine, because that is the only way they surrender.

2.5 If the only way to sustain a meaningful life is to suffer, we certainly didn’t come here to enjoy ourselves, but when you do discover that a great deal of living involves suffering, you naturally question where the meaning lies. When I’m enduring pain, I can’t immediately tell how meaningful or meaningless it is, but we do tend to ascribe happiness or some form of contentment to where meaning lays itself, and when we find out that meaning is more synonymous with sacrifice rather than satisfaction, we are rather disappointed, even often resentful. We hold the belief that because we are suffering, our existence lacks meaning since everyone’s chief aim is to be happy rather than fulfilled. But can’t one suffer in the light of fulfilment, can’t one suffer purposefully without despising himself and life? Wouldn’t this be the apex of meaning? The rich life orders suffering, but suffering is painful and unpleasant. Couldn’t suffering be more pleasant by making it more useful and significant?

Don’t we impose a great deal of suffering on ourselves? That’s extremely unpleasant in and of itself, but what about the suffering that is imposed from outside, that often collides with the wretched suffering of our own – the eternal course of nature – what are we to do about that? If it is a matter of fate and beyond our reach, why do we try and grapple with it as if we could influence it? It seems rather foolish to be so ignorant as to believe your desires – that you prioritise over God and shelter passionately – are more right than your providence, that is laid down by divinity. To reduce our desires and subsequently accept our fate, that is a difficult task. But one should not suppose that because his fate is in opposition to his desires and will prevail over them, life is fundamentally meaningless and to no avail and he should take it against God. If fate is not in our hands, who are we to know whether it is less right for us than what we think is desirable? What we think is desirable is not always as right as fate, we shouldn’t suppose that we ultimately know what is best for us and at what time.

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