But what if all that stuff about “kissing the joy as it flies”, which I wrote about some time ago here (see “The pragmatics of love”), just does not seem to work, or work out, and despite all one’s attempts to do justice to one’s beloved — albeit within the inescapable limits of one’s humanity — she (or he) just seems to slip further and further away from you, until it becomes a slippery slope and you cannot stand on it any longer, and eventually you start sliding, and then … you fall?
It happens. It’s life, they say. Affairs of the heart, the French would say, are fraught with difficulties and pain, alongside all the excitement and joy that they may bring. Put more philosophically, one might say that it is one of the many manifestations of human finitude — the inescapable existential condition of ultimately failing, shattering in the face of the goals we set ourselves, and of the desires that have us in their grip most of the time without us even being consciously aware of it. Put more concretely, no matter how hard one believes one is trying to live up to one’s love for someone, your own failings and frailties, as well as the impact of these on one’s beloved, can suddenly cause what one thought to be a “good” love relationship, to erupt in one’s face. And no matter how hard you try to put the shards of the love-vase together again, you turn out to fail, like all the king’s horses and all the king’s men with Humpty Dumpty. Even the king’s men are finite, and fallible.
Someone from whom one could learn an invaluable lesson in this regard is the Danish philosopher Kierkegaard. In the course of presenting readers with different “models” of human existence, Kierkegaard argues that neither the “aesthetic” model of existence (which entails living a fragmented life of reflective “enjoyment”, where one does not really have a “self”, but rather a series of masks), nor the “ethical” model of existence (where one “becomes” an “integrated” self through commitment and “doing battle” with time), can really do justice to what a human being fundamentally is.
It is only in the religious model, for Kierkegaard, where one truly discovers one’s finitude, that is, where one discovers that, “as compared to God’, all our finite attempts are like nothing. In other words, even our very best attempts amount to sitting between two stools in the ashes, as it were, for neither the aesthetic, nor the ethical way of existence teaches one to embrace your finitude and fallibility resolutely — it is only the religious mode of existence that can teach one this, through the realisation that a chasm separates our limited existence from the infinite. And unless we accept and resign ourselves to the truth of the inadequacy of even our “best” human endeavours, we will never be able to live fulfilled lives.
Even when one strips Kierkegaard’s third model of its religious language — and it is not really necessary to do so — it still teaches one a profound truth: not that one should give up trying one’s best in carrying out the (presumably morally acceptable) tasks confronting one, but that IF one fails, one should do so without rancour and resentment, because humans are not infinitely powerful, omnipotent beings, but fallible and finite. Nietzsche calls such resentment the “spirit of revenge against time and its ‘it was’ ”.
It is infinitely difficult to resign oneself to one’s inherent human limitations, of course. We always seem to want to turn back the wheel of time through our words of explanation, of compensation, of promise and renewal of commitment. But fact is, we have failed, and we have to accept the consequences. Even if one’s beloved can bring her or himself to the virtually impossible point of forgiveness, that is no guarantee that all will be well again, because in finite creatures the love for someone that we sometimes (often) believe we will have in our hearts forever, is all too susceptible to the ravages of time. It could also happen — because we are here not only in the realm of the finite, but of complex human capacities, too — that forgiveness may happen against all odds, and that such an act of forgiveness rekindles love, however improbable it may seem. But true forgiveness is difficult, if not impossible.
Why should forgiveness in the face of a moral misdemeanour, or an ethical outrage, be “virtually impossible”? Jacques Derrida has valuable insights on this. He distinguishes two kinds of forgiveness — the one conditional (or “economic”) and the other unconditional (or “aneconomic”). The first kind is usually accompanied by all manner of conditions, and has the form: “I will forgive you as long as you will do such and such”, while the formal structure of the latter amounts to the paradox: “I forgive you because what you have done is unforgivable”. This second kind of forgiveness is what really counts, of course, because — and this is the point Derrida is making — something that is “forgivable” (a mere peccadillo), does not really call for forgiveness. But something “unforgivable” does — something like what was perpetrated by the Nazis during the Holocaust, or what was done to black people under apartheid, or what a person in a love-relationship does, out of fallibility, to alienate him or herself from the other.
This is why, even if one feels incapable of doing it, for forgiveness to happen, one should make the effort at performing the “excessive gesture” of (“aneconomic”) unconditional forgiveness, even if, in the end, some version of the “economic” variety actually comes to pass. (If anyone is interested in finding this in his work on forgiveness, as examples Derrida discusses the work of the Truth and Reconciliation Commission in South Africa, as well as one’s position on the Shoah or Holocaust in Germany during the Second World War.)
Nevertheless, even if someone can make the impossible gesture of forgiveness, this does not mean that, in the case of a crisis of love between two people, love will of necessity be resurrected, if it faltered in the course of what happened to erode it in the first place. But it is also just possible, precisely because such forgiveness, when extended, is the event of the impossible.
It must be a thrill living inside your mind.
So, if Kierkegaard and Derrida and whatnot really have the distillation of all life’s troubling answers, why can’t they ever say simple stuff simply? You have to slurp through 400 pages of interwoven brainiac spaghetti to see if there’s even one sentence worth remembering for future reference and of personal relevance. Bo-ring.
Beautiful – and also applicable to Jonathan Jansen maybe?
Blip – Boredom is often a function of incomprehension.
Narnia – Sure – I agree about Derrida’s concept of unconditional forgiveness being pertinent to Jonathan Jansen’s ‘forgiveness’ of the Reitz four. But I’m afraid the majority of people in the country would not understand this, and would neither invoke even ‘conditional forgiveness’, nor stop clamouring for revenge. Small wonder that humanity does not seem to be able to extricate itself from the vicious cycle of aggression and revenge. This is why Derrida calls unconditional forgiveness ‘impossible’, as you know. As for the Reitz four, I believe that Jansen was right in his decision, BUT that here the economic variety of forgiveness should be interwoven with the unconditional variety. Forgive them, yes, but require of them to do penance by doing community work for at least a year. Then, perhaps, they may learn the meaning of compassion and a common humanity.
Is it possible to forgive someone without engaging in self-betrayal in the process?
When we ‘forgive’ (in the aneconomic sense) what actually happens to our sense of self? When we absorb a devastating hurt are we saying ‘my pain matters less than your contrition so I will accept the pain you inflicted’– and also the pain I am inflicting on myself–in order to relieve your sense of guilt?
Forgiveness is only necessary when a boundary of some kind has been violated, when a trust has been breached–in other words, when one person betrays another–deliberately, not inadvertently.
Understanding the dynamics and dimensions of such a betrayal takes us into archetypal realms where our only guide is myth or allegory. Within the Christian ethos as it has come down to us, Christ makes a pact with his betrayers: the acceptance of Judas’ kiss and the prophecy that Simon Peter will deny Christ 3 times before the ‘cock crows’. Simon Peter denies that he will deny Christ, a double irony and an attempt to deflect the pain his failure of nerve will cause him.
In a third example Christ supposedly says of his executioners: “Father, forgive them for they know not what they do”. Which raises the question of moral awareness-or the lack of it-so compellingly dramatised in The Reader, for example.
To what extent is moral blindness exculpatory–if at all? And what role does it play in our ability to forgive? TBC
Obviously, ‘forgiveness’ is a process, not an event. It doesn’t happen in an instant–Christ’s example notwithstanding. All hurt is ego-related. Betrayal throws doubt on the esteem in which one believed oneself to be held by the beloved. “How COULD you?” expresses the situation accurately. If you loved me in the way I UNDERSTOOD you to mean LOVE, how could you betray me? We tend to see our virtues magnified in the eyes of the beloved and our faults minimised. Perhaps, this is why the hurt hurts SO much. It is not just the interior self that has been injured; it is also one’s identity within the relationship that is now called into question. Self-doubt makes one even more vulnerable and one wonders what he/she did to ‘deserve’ such a betrayal by the beloved. Or has one been deluded all along? Did the partner ever REALLY love me?
Forgiveness in this context demands a period of self-reflection for both partners. I think it is impossible to forgive what we do not understand. We can bury a hurt and call that forgiveness but it isn’t. Forgiveness demands a total re-structuring of the relationship, a deeper awareness of one’s own motives and a new understanding of the fragility of the bonds of trust.
There are no shortcuts to forgiveness if one is to avoid self-betrayal in the process. Ultimately, however, is not all betrayal Self-Betrayal, a deliberate temporary blindness?
Siobhan, quite an insightful comment with which I couldn’t agree more. If aneconomic forgiveness is really to occur the person who has suffered the injury should have gone through the process of trying to understand why they were (or at least think they were) subjected to the hurt. The significance of understanding is that one can then begin to clear the “doubt” which would cause the inevitable resurfacing of the event in their memory to conjure negative emotions directed at themselves and the perpetrator. I say inevitable because I think its near impossible to erase the memory of significant events in our lives especially negative ones as it is human nature to give heavier weighting to negatives in comparison to their positive equivalents (and more so for events where unconditional forgiveness is most appropriate). So if both the forgiver and the forgiven are to benefit from unconditional forgiving, the forgiver should allow themselves to come terms with the possible underlying reasons for the event of hurt and not simply suck it up, be the better man and forgive.
You’re right, Bert. Boredom does stem from incomprehension.
Now, if someone writes a book — or a blog — what is he/she trying to do? Transmit all the stuff swishing about in their head into the head of the reader via the printed page.
It needs to be kept as simple as possible.
40 words rather than 400 pages.
Few, or no, puzzling and arcane brainiac -isms and -ologies.
Shoot straight.
@Blip – Bert IS shooting from the hip. Don’t really understand why you cannot see that. Then again, we live in a society where we are expected to say something in sms style in order to attract and retain attention, Its is SO sad!
@Bert, I think that Jansen’s gesture was radical, but I also believe that one cannot throw money ar victims and expect them to smile and forgive. So was this Derridean forgiveness? I think Jansen was aiming in the right direction, but missed the mark. I am expecting the equality court ro come up with community service as a ‘sentence’ -get them out there working with HIV/AIDS orphans and see if this changes there view of themselves and the world – one can only hope…)
Shall we forgive Blip,he knows not what he says?
One can’t really blame him, the new twitter generation has the concentration span of a gnat.
@Andile,
Thank you for your comment. You make a good point about painful events and memory. We do seem to hold on to hurt longer than we do joy.
The Buddhists would tell us all suffering results from ‘attachment’ to the ‘impermanent’. That applies particularly to human relationships. When we open ourselves to intimacy with another person, we are taking a risk. There are no ‘guarantees’ in life–no matter the marriage ‘vows’ say.
No doubt it is wiser to live in a state of non-attachment to avoid the pain of betrayal or abuse at the hands of another. However, non-attachment does not exempt us from the obligation to cultivate compassion for all suffering which Buddhists locate in the sense of ourselves as being isolated from others. Profound levels of interdependence characterise all life in the universe(s) so to deny our own interdependence sets us up for disappointment and hurt.
Consciousness contains all possibilities, including the capacity to hurt ourselves and others either by choice or–more subtly–by failing to choose thereby acting from UN-conscious motives.
The more conscious we are, the less likely we are to inflict harm because we are less likely to need to justify ourselves by ‘keeping score’ (Derrida’s ‘economic’ model of ‘forgiveness’). To harm another is to invite harm at the hands of another. Likewise, to recognise that we are all capable of all things helps keep our expectations in perspective within intimate relationships.
Pain arises from disappointed expectations.
Does this mean we should strive to live in ‘splendid isolation’? It may be physically possible to do so as for example hermits and anchorites have done. But even they were not completely independent. Food and water would be brought to them by others who recognised that ‘serving’ another without regard to reward was a way to reduce the power of the Ego.
Additionally, by serving the needs of the hermit or anchorite, the ‘carer’ was growing in compassion without attachment to the object of that compassion. [ The story of St. Stephen 'Stylite" is instructive in this regard.]
I should make clear here that despite my references to various religious traditions, I do NOT subscribe to ANY religion. I find the pure form of Tibetan Buddhism attractive for its great wisdom and long tradition of the cultivation of consciousness as a means to reduce human suffering. For those who are about to object that Buddhism is a religion like any other I would say no, it is not. Buddhists do NOT believe any kind of God. Their ‘deities’ are archetypes–not literal beings.
Buddhism was and is a philosophy above all else. The rituals are interesting for the way in which they engage consciousness. Some will perceive only the entertainment value, others will understand the subtle communication between levels of consciousness evoked by combinations of sound, movement and colour combined with a detached state of mind.
The message is always: impermanence, compassion, and the unity of consciousness. Therefore, Do No Harm.
I believe there is great good to be found in many spiritual traditions; there is none to be found in dogma.
For those who are interested in the questions raised above, I would recommend several books. “The Wisdom of Insecurity” and “Does It Matter?”, both by Alan Watts deal with the questions of attachment and impermanence. “The Meaning of Happiness” and “This Is It” are practical, witty and non-dogmatic spiritual wisdom.
Watts, originally schooled as an Anglican priest, was a serious student of Taoism and Zen. No friend of Dogma, Watts moved beyond the confines of religion to open the western mind to the wisdom of other traditions.
I would especially recommend Watts’ autobiography “In My Own Way”. His ‘pilgrim’s (rake’s?) progress’ takes us with him down the various paths he trod in his quest to understand the place of humans in the cosmos and the nature of ‘reality’. It is funny, engaging, profound without being abstruse, and as with all of his books, includes the reader in the debate.
@Bert,
I’m still wonder if humans are capable of either unconditional love or unconditional forgiveness. I think it is possible for humans to feel unconditional love in relation to animals and human infants but from the time that a sense of ‘right and wrong’ or ‘appropriateness’ develops I think we enter into a sort of covenant with others to refrain from doing them harm. To breech that covenant must entail consequences. The alternative is amoral anarchy…
Once in a while even the most stable relationships assume a disturbing life of their own, going into downward spiral, or at least losing altitude. Further, such seasons of relational regression (maybe disintegration) at times corresponds with our best efforts at stabilisation, healing and personal amendment of life. That’s been my experience. To be sure, it flies in the face of popular ‘can do’ relationship books, Dr Phil, and so on. Moreover,sharing this scarcely sounds a note of comfort for those in free-fall, struggling at the relationship controls. So why bother? Well, what comfort does come, such as it is, takes the form of an affirmation of our collective humanity, viz. the futility of some of our best effforts, no matter how sincere or full of solemn oaths.Kierkegaard (if I understand Bert correctly, as I’d rather read the latter than wade through Soren)offers a gritty, durable philosophy (religion?), avoiding both the aesthetic (personae) option and the ethical treadmill of renewed (often self-flagellating) resolutions, enabling us to come to terms with our humanity and finitude, and perhaps that which transcends it too.As a religious (Christian) philosopher Kierkegaard gives the lie to that caricature of the religious person as living in cloud cuckoo land – the place of happy endings. He’s quite an austere, blood-and-guts fellow. I like it. Then again, the Danish weather can be bloody awful.
Correction to my last comment above: It should read Simeon the Stylite.
Wonderful data! I’ve been searching for some thing like this for a while now. Thank you!