Sisyphus, Aristotle, and Downhill Writing

Roll roll roll your boulders gently down the datastream

Adapted from Sisyphus by Titian (1549).

Rolling stone

Sisyphus was a mythological tyrant who had a lot of fun killing visitors to his kingdom Ephyra (later Corinth). So much for Greek hospitality. The gods of the pantheon were not amused, wantonly killing people was their thing, thank you very much.

Besides being a sadistic tyrant, Sisyphus was also remarkably clever. He weaseled his way out of the gods’ punishment and cheated death. Twice. Eventually, the gods sent swift-footed Hermes to capture Sisyphus and drag him to the underworld. There, Hades came up with the tyrant’s eternal torture. Push heavy boulder uphill, boulder rolls down, do it again. And again. And so on. Today still, a Sisyphean labor refers to a thankless, pointless, seemingly endless task.

But what if Sisyphus fooled the gods one more time?

That’s the argument French philosopher Albert Camus made in his essay The Myth of Sisyphus. Camus argued that life is inherently devoid of purpose and that the search for meaning is futile. Recognizing this absurdity of existence is crucial, but rather than leading to despair, it should inspire defiance. Sisyphus, Camus thought, embodied this defiance. Through accepting his fate and finding meaning in the struggle, the fallen tyrant became an expression of human freedom and strength in a last, eternal middle finger at the gods who cursed him. Camus concluded,

I leave Sisyphus at the foot of the mountain! One always finds one's burden again. But Sisyphus teaches the higher fidelity that negates the gods and raises rocks. He too concludes that all is well. This universe henceforth without a master seems to him neither sterile nor futile. Each atom of that stone, each mineral flake of that night-filled mountain, in itself forms a world. The struggle itself toward the heights is enough to fill a man's heart. One must imagine Sisyphus happy.

I think that last sentence is wrong.

Eudaimonia

I don’t imagine Sisyphus happy. Eudaimonia might be a better candidate.

Aristotle is known for many things, including his emphasis on eudaimonia as the highest human goal. While sometimes translated as ‘happiness’, eudaimonia is a different beast. One way in which Aristotle defined eudaimonia was,

Virtuous activity in accordance with reason.

In our ancient philosopher’s day, virtue was not merely moral. Virtue included living according to your nature and (intrinsically) striving for excellence in what you do. So, eudaimonia, rather than happiness, is self-actualization through reasoned struggle. Eudaimonia is stubbornly becoming your best self by aligning your actions with the person you aspire to be. Eudaimonia is pushing a rock up a hill knowing it will roll down again because that is your defiance against a pointless universe.

Or, as Emily Esfahani Smith wrote in The Power of Meaning,

To Aristotle, eudaimonia is not a fleeting positive emotion. Rather, it is something you do. Leading a eudaimonic life, Aristotle argued, requires cultivating the best qualities within you both morally and intellectually and living up to your potential. It is an active life, a life in which you do your job and contribute to society, a life in which you are involved in your community, a life, above all, in which you realize your potential, rather than squander your talents.

Winning a million dollars in the lottery provides a whiff of happiness; earning a million dollars after years of struggle brings happiness too, but also more. That ‘more’ is eudaimonia. It is not given; it is earned, hard-won, and forever incomplete. It is a journey that lasts a lifetime.

You know, like writing.

Downhill (and up again)

I must confess that writing, even after a decade (makes me feel old, so let’s say I started early), often feels Sisyphean. Ink, physical or virtual, always flows downhill.

You send out pitches and queries. You start a newsletter. You nurture an illusion that shatters when it hits a tree at the bottom of the hill. You try again. More pitches, more queries, and another newsletter post goes out. Downhill. Go again. You read, nay study, writing craft books. You find and refine your voice. Query, pitch, newsletter. Downhill. Go again. More rejections. Has that hill grown taller? When did it become an ice-capped mountain? Doesn’t matter. Querypitchnewsletter, they all blend into one. You write. Fail.

You write again, still, always. It is (or at least often feels) pointless. You pour your heart and/or mind into your stories and essays, click send, and the written rock rolls back down the hill. Then, you write again. You have no choice; it is your quiet defiance, your humble rebellion. You write because it helps you hone your thoughts, see different perspectives, and - ancient muses willing - spy kindred spirits through virtual smoke signals. In a world that values productivity more than creativity, conformity more than self-expression, you write. Still. Stubbornly. You must.

When asked how someone knows they’re a writer and whether there’s any point in even trying to be one, Rainer Maria Rilke, in Letters to a Young Poet, replied,

Go into yourself. Find out the reason that commands you to write; see whether it has spread its roots into the very depths of your heart; confess to yourself whether you would have to die if you were forbidden to write.

This most of all: ask yourself in the most silent hour of your night: must I write? Dig into yourself for a deep answer. And if this answer rings out in assent, if you meet this solemn question with a strong, simple “I must,” then build your life in accordance with this necessity; your whole life, even into its humblest and most indifferent hour, must become a sign and witness to this impulse.

Whatever fumbling, insecure, fragile thing inside you that seeks to spread its wings, let it. Whatever tender obsession lurks in your heart, do it. Do it virtuously, do it with kindness, do it without shame.

You must.

Help me push this boulder of ink and crumpled parchment uphill, will you?