I’ve reared a fame outlasting brass,
Which in its more than kingly height
Shall Egypt’s Pyramids surpass,
Unharmed by countless seasons’ flight.
The wasting rain, the North wind’s rage,
On it shall leave no lasting trace,
Nor shall it e’er grow dim with age
While Time runs his unfinished race.
Not all of me shall die. For Death,
Though he should still my beating heart,
Takes but a fragment of my breath
And leaves untouched the greater part.
There is one subtle notion that is shared by us all regarding ourselves: an unspoken, yet passionate, desire to leave a legacy – to be remembered. Although it is related to our ambitions to become special and influential, that notion, after all, is quite independent. Elders who happen to be the end of their line evoke our sympathy not only because they lack children, but also because of the sense of termination that they make us feel. Death loses some of its sting when one has someone, or something, to be remembered by. And so we raise graves and monuments, attribute importance to ‘last words’, and yearn for fame – all in the vain hope of leaving something to survive us.
As Frye famously said, the simplest questions are the hardest to answer. The question hereby brought is ‘why?’ – why do we wish to be remembered? The magnitude of our influence may be relevant during our lives, but why worry about its endurance after our death? In the style of Epicurus: why should I worry about that which can only exist when I do not?
And yet, people ardently wish to be remembered, as do I. It would indeed be satisfying to create something that Clio would pass on to posterity and that would hold my signature. That aspiration is a mysterious hope to rise above the crowd, to forever remain relevant and, in a sense, present; I wish it without yet understanding why.
The question of legacy is quite reminiscent of Camus’ main existential question: is life worth living? Since death is inevitable and irresistible, and if we assume perpetual, unworldly, post-death existence to be no more than a superstition, why struggle? Is it not said: sic transit gloria mundi? Is it not better to allow the cold indifference of the world to conquer us, since eventually conquer us it shall?
Such is the void left by discarding religious beliefs. In the absence of faith we are left with nothing but Nihilism, that treacherous beast that would devour any sense of meaningfulness if left unmolested; few are those willing, and fewer still able, to confront it. The age of enlightenment and the rise of atheism have done little to change that human ineptitude; they have only changed the substance of the answers given from theological to scientific and hedonic, while hiding the true nature of the void.
Science forever struggles with its current limits, yet limited it remains. In a sense, scientific answers are founded upon belief. Indeed, theories are tested and critically reviewed, and scientific knowledge is forever expanding. So far truth goes, but eventually one reaches a branch of a theory still left unproven. Even proven scientific facts are susceptible to re-examination, yet those very facts are handed to the general unscientific public, which accepts them (quite justifiably) without the ability to refute them.
While far from attempting to discourage scientific research, I still assert that regardless of the conclusiveness of scientific results, those results are still far from the absolute truth, which is the admittance of ignorance. An atheist incapable of acknowledging the element of faith intrinsic within the preference of science over theology is but a follower of another religion (often called Scientism), a consumer of different answers that are ultimately intended to hide the horror of the void.
On a side note, there is a certain beauty to Nihilism. Nihilism demands the strength to perpetually live within earshot of L’apple du vide, for ‘when you gaze long into an abyss the abyss also gazes into you’, but it also allows the greatest insight to those who brave it. Only from the precipice is the view the clearest.
The absurd gap between the human inability to deal with Nihilism, a failure that stems from a tendency to search for meaning in life, and the universe’s sheer indifference to human desires is the main subject of Camus’ philosophy. Camus answers the question of the meaning of life in several of his works. Briefly, according to Camus, life is worth fighting for despite the inevitability of death, because there is hardly any other option. As the main characters of The Plague profess:
What’s true of all the evils in the world is true of plague as well. It helps men to rise above themselves. All the same, when you see the misery it brings, you’d need to be a madman, or a coward, or stone blind, to give in tamely to the plague.
On this earth there are pestilences and there are victims, and it’s up to us, so far as possible, not to join forces with the pestilences. That may sound simple to the point of childishness; I can’t judge if it’s simple, but I know it’s true.
Such is the irrational, plain way in which Camus deals with the meaninglessness of existence. Indeed, little else can be said in the face of such a crushing realization. If death shall come, let us hold it at the door for as long as we can, for what else can we do?
However, the question of legacy is yet unsolved. If life’s worth is estimated in relation to looming death alone, what is the significance of memory? Why, for example, should we erect a monument for the dead? “Let the dead bury the dead” said a certain Galilean whose legacy, ironically, has been terribly distorted through history. And, indeed, does a monument atone for death?
Some do find a relation between memory and the meaning of life; for them life is only worth living for the sake of attaining a legacy, and otherwise life is “but a walking shadow, a poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage, and then is heard no more.” In the words of Claude Lantier, Zola’s famous protagonist:
So a few years were enough to blot out the places where a man had worked and loved and suffered! Why, then, all this fuss about life if, as a man goes through it, the wind behind him sweeps away all traces of his footsteps?
And yet, does this relation not untie the knot that Camus established around the meaning of life? It again anchors the meaning upon unreachable longevity. To quote Zola but once more: “We’ve stopped believing in God, but not in our own immortality! We’re a sad lot, really!” By passing the meaning of life unto memory we do but prolong the struggle with the indifference of the world, for fading, like dying, is inevitable.
Whence comes it, how comes it—Death? Sudden reverse of all that goes before; blind setting forth on a path that leads to where? Dark quenching of the fire! The heavy, brutal crushing—out that all men must go through, keeping their eyes clear and brave unto the end! Small and of no import, insects though they are!
Even the memory of Horace, who claims he shall outlive the pyramids, shan’t last forever. And assuming fame can be everlasting, did Death indeed leave behind Horace’s greater part? Is fame then, as a syllogism, more important than life? And if so, is the life of those who are doomed to remain unknown and obscure meaningless? The argument thus refutes itself. By depending upon legacy for meaningfulness we do but deny ourselves the attainment of the latter.
My personal conclusion is that legacy is but a form of the illusion in which Napoleon believed: the illusion of immortality. We strive to create a legacy for the sake of symbolic immortality, and that legacy is designed to acquiesce us to our horrid mortality. Life is indeed meaningless – that is, there is no objectively true purpose to it. Once we’ve reconciled ourselves to that demoralizing truth we can, absurd as the notion may sound, appreciate life anew. Our fragile, fleeting existence can become meaningful of its own accord and in a small scope. Meaningfulness is but a question of perception. Accordingly, the simple carpe diem is perhaps the strongest weapon against the void.
Legacy Through Literature
Quod si me lyricis vatibus inseres, sublimi feriam sidera vertice
Regardless of the above, legacy is not so easily discarded. After all, whether I deny the fact or not, even the most rational of conclusions cannot always overcome an irrational desire. I do admit that, despite my logical attempt to strip memory of its importance, I still wish to be remembered. Perhaps because, while it yet remains an illusion of immortality, a legacy can still contribute to our fulfilment.
The subject of legacy requires a somewhat intricate explanation. While many philosophical streams provide different answers, such as happiness, I argue that individuality is the most important aspect of life. If the void is indeed meaningless, and man can create meaning ex nihilio through free will and rational thought, then meaning is inherently subjective. The individual wields the power to create personal meaning, but there lies the limit; any attempt to impose the subjective meaning of one on another human being is therefore tyrannical in nature. Individualism is the the vessel that carries meaning; without it, life can only hold a borrowed sense of meaning, the incompatibility of which is generally masked by platitudinous axioms. If life requires meaning, then it requires individualism; happiness can follow.
Art, therefore, is a manifestation of meaningfulness. I define art as human selection with artistic intent, and both of those characteristics demand individuality. Since art is but a manifestation of personality, the surest way of broadening and fulfilling one’s individuality is through artistic expression. Perhaps this mode of philosophy somewhat verges on Aestheticism, but for now I shall leave the subject of Art, although I shall surely return to it in a different essay.
Artistic expression by itself is insignificant: only within a community does expression, of any form, become substantial. It is no coincidence that even artists, a group almost bursting with individuality by default, only work within a sphere of contemporary styles and modes. “Man is by nature a political animal” says Aristotle, and rightly so.
Considering the fact that art, and through it individuality, can only exist in relation to other art, one reaches the conclusion that only by subjecting one’s art to criticism can one’s individuality expand. A legacy is a lasting acknowledgement and appraisal by critics and the public, and therefore it regains some of its importance. Alas, it cannot yet atone for death, nor is it wise to yearn for legacy for that reason; nevertheless, it remains significant, if only for its contribution to art and personality.
Art can take form in numerous ways. As there are multiple personalities there are also multiple mediums and styles; art is not a creature that easily accepts limitation. However, there are several archetypes of art to which other forms are but a reference. Without attempting to properly delineate its nature we can generally divide art into visual art (e.g. painting and sculpting), musical art, physical art (acting and acrobatics) and literary art. Some people affiliate more strongly with one form of art and some with another, agnostically refraining from setting a hierarchy. I, on the other hand, agree with the words of Oscar Wilde, whose genius was so lamentably mortal:
For the material that the painter or sculptor uses is meagre in comparison with that of words. Words have not merely music as sweet as that of viol and lute, colour as rich and vivid as any that makes lovely for us the canvas of the Venetian or the Spaniard, and plastic form no less sure and certain than that which reveals itself in marble or in bronze, but thought and passion and spirituality are theirs also, are theirs indeed alone.
My goal should therefore be some sort of literary artistic expression: this very text is of the first steps taken in that direction. However, the chances of leaving an impact on the literary world, especially when sticking to a high standard, are incredibly low. Herein lies the great paradox of matching public criticism and subjective expression: satisfying the crowd, hitting upon the social demand, is ever far from a work of art.
The more artists conform to expectations the less individualistic is their work, and conformity turns them from cultural entrepreneurs to merely skilful performers – such has always been the case, but that limitation could never deter true genius from surfacing above the multitude. Sadly, a devastatingly portentous variable has recently joined the formula – globalisation, which has wrested art from the hands of the few and has hurled it, insultingly even, into the domain of the many. The fact that the artistic sphere has become a common lot has caused true genius to eventually succumb. Those who shine the brightest have been replaced by those whose artificial, tepid flame has the most comfortable hue.
Regarding art, better were the days when plebeians remained anonymous – when the political, philosophical and literary spheres were left to patricians. Today one hardly hears voices other than those that would have been considered “commoners” in a different era; their multitudinous and cacophonous cries doom anybody worth hearing to the fatal second page of search engines.
People are not less artistic or skilful than before: if anything, the potential for the appearance of an artistic person has risen dramatically. But how can such a person truly succeed in spite of popular demand when there are countless tasteless critics setting tasteless standards? Especially when there will always be others willing to conform to those standards.
By leaning upon a wider, and hence lower, common denominator we have denied individuality its proper place. The phenomenon is most easily detected within the musical industry, to an extent of which sadly no explanation is required, but it is hardly restricted to that area. The political scene, for example, will never again see the kind of Burke, Talleyrand and Solon.
Personally, however, what stings the most is the presence of that phenomenon in literature. Claiming that the deterioration has been as rapid as it has been elsewhere would hardly be fair to contemporary authors, but that deterioration is definitely discernible. Where have gone the likes of Shelley, Byron, and Balzac? They are but hidden, their delicate and pristine quality buried underneath the rough and hasty work of those most prostrate before popular demand.
Sharply returning to the question of memory and its attainment through literary expression: which then is more important, quality or quantity of legacy? Is it better to be loved and remembered by the many, or esteemed by a collect few? Combining both is nearly impossible, for it now requires more luck than skill.
To me the answer seems clear. When the time comes for me to write a work, and even as I write these lines, I will always do so for the sake of self-expression and not for the sake of popularity. I imagine that my essays on Slavery and on Dialogue won’t grant me sympathy among most.
My work can be shunned and denounced by society, but as long as it is not tainted by the latter’s commoditising influence I shall remain satisfied. It is better to “candidly utter truths that are beneficial to all men, rather than acquiesce in conventional opinion and reap a fat harvest of popular plaudits.” Art over popularity: that is my doctrine. How does that doctrine fit with the aspiration to be remembered? It does not. Desires often negate one another.
Even fame and memory eventually diminish. Erosion affects both the imaginary and the tangible. Et in Arcadia ego; so the shepherds learn of Death; he occupies all existing realms, and ultimately makes all endeavours futile. It is that futility that connects the question of memory to existentialism, but perhaps the same answer can be given to both. If life is the only reasonable option in the face of the void, isn’t legacy as well? What better way to spend life than to create beauty and art – things worth remembering, even if they are to be forgotten.