A few days ago, my daughter, age 15, was asking what existentialism was. I ended up telling the story of my first practical lesson in existentialism, and the story about my first paper on existentialism, at the age of 15, when I first came out as an atheist.
I have often pondered the meaning of life, but since I’ve figured it out, I don’t think about it much any more. I mean, I knew what it was way back when, except I didn’t know I knew.
Later on in life I realized that I had known it for a very long time, but couldn’t believe it because it was so simple. But after a while I decided that all philosophy should be fought for and implemented in a practical way. If you believe something you should act on it. If you don’t act on it, you don’t really believe it. I apply this same standard to myself. I used to fight for what I believed. Now I don’t. I guess that means I no longer really believe it. It’s more peacock plumage than drumstick.
Fuck! I sometimes wonder if there isn’t a second of my life that I don’t think about the world and my own life in a philosophical way. And even though I know the meaning of life, that doesn’t help too much, since I still have to decide, on a moment to moment basis, how to do the best thing. I almost invariably fail. I figure I’m not trying hard enough. Too fucking lazy. Values just aren’t worth what they used to be, I think. Or maybe I just don’t like myself enough to care.