The Second Existential Crisis
The trigger for my second existential crisis (the first one was why I pursue immortality and if happiness is what defines a person) was a concert held by the Singapore Symphony Orchestra, featuring the prodigal violinist Chloe Chua. Chloe collaborated with an organist from the Juilliard School on several Baroque-style works for organ and violin; the rigor and brilliance of the virtuosity were breathtaking.
Yet after the concert, a strange and unsettling feeling crept up. I saw with absolute clarity the vast gulf in ability between myself and a true genius—and I felt dejected. I had always believed that I could change the world through my own capabilities, or at least iteratively build upon myself (whether physically or mentally). But toward the end of high school and throughout my university life, I became increasingly aware that there are countless whose abilities rival mine or far surpass it. In the world of violin performance, only a handful can produce what might be called “God-like music.” In theoretical physics, only a few are capable of proposing epoch-making models. The same is true of mathematics, science, philosophy… and yet nearly all such individuals possess intellects far beyond the ordinary. I realized that the opportunity to create something transcendent is not personally controllable (a collapse of the arrogant “me, me, me!”); And further, that “creating something transcendent” may not even be something I am capable of (a failed aspiration toward “approaching, becoming, surpassing” divinity).
Ever since I came to understand that “absolute happiness” cannot serve as an individual’s ultimate meaning, I have been searching for the next possible candidate for ultimate meaning. To realize that one may be unable to effect any decisive change upon the world or civilization—or to allow even a fragment of one’s spirit or physical existence to persist long-term, or permanently, in time—is profoundly dispiriting. This was especially so because, just one week before the concert, I had finished reading Faust and found myself sympathetic to Goethe’s claim that the goal of life is “active creation.” In a certain moment, I abandoned the entire existential framework I had previously constructed. I suddenly saw that the statement “one’s meaning lies in that oneself that was thrown into the world” is vague. What about the self? How to make it constitute meaning? I know I cannot attach my meaning to some external concept; yet I also seem unable, through my own abilities, to transform myself in the foreseeable future. So where, then, should the present me go?
Once again, I could not find the meaning of my existence.
At this moment, an answer to this question can be approached through two binary separations: that between intrinsic and extrinsic meaning, and that between meaning and value.
By “intrinsic,” I mean everything that occurs within the individual, especially metaphysical matters related to mind and thought. By “extrinsic,” I mean all material existences, particularly the collectives to which we belong—organizations, professions, communities, societies, civilizations. Grammatically speaking, I roughly distinguish “meaning” and “value” as a qualitative versus quantitative difference. From this, we obtain four categories: extrinsic meaning, extrinsic value, intrinsic meaning, and intrinsic value.
First, I want to assert that all standards capable of measuring value are external and arbitrary. Any tool that allows quantification—from units of measurement to psychological rating scales—must be introduced into our thinking from outside; it is exceedingly unlikely to be something generated purely from within. Therefore, whether extrinsic or intrinsic, value is arbitrary. Anything quantifiable is arbitrary.
Second, extrinsic meaning must also be local. When I begin to consider my significance to any given group (a set), I am inevitably led to consider the significance of that significance at the scale of humanity as a whole (a set of sets), and then further at the scale of the universe (three nested sets). What a nihilistic mode of argument this is! Yet I cannot stop myself from imagining the kind of influence I might exert as the scale continually expands. When we debate the binary existence or nonexistence of meaning at different scales, can a single existence truly outweigh dozens of orders of magnitude of emptiness?
That leaves us with intrinsic meaning. Self-interest, self-respect, self-strengthening, self-reflection… A cry of “me, me, me” may be shameful in terms of social meaning, but it most accurately reflects what I live for. My creed is that “Human beings possess infinite spiritual potential and meaning”, and it is through this creed—through my own infinitude—that I seek to resist an infinitely-scaling nihilism. The word “transcendence” was something I only began to notice after encountering it in Dostoevsky’s works. But from the moment I recognized it, I felt drawn to it and wanted to understand it thoroughly. “Infinity” is certainly a component of transcendence, but I am equally certain it is not the only one. At least in my current understanding, transcendence also contains echoes of the Taoist idea of the “unity of heaven and humanity”—a longing for the unification of subject and object. By intuition, I believe that an intrinsic pursuit of transcendence (Übermensch?) could serve as my ultimate goal, yet I do not know how to take the next step, nor do I know what exactly I should be pursuing. I have not even finished defining “transcendence” itself. This is no doubt due to my limited exposure to philosophy.
Still, as I have always done when I find myself at a loss, I can set a secondary goal: to understand the core of transcendence. For this, I will experience—live through—it.
(An aside: In Jacques Barzun’s old book Classic, Romantic, and Modern, he evaluates Classicism, Romanticism, and Modernism up to 1960. In his cultural-historical prose, I saw reflections of my own Romanticism [the desire to shape oneself through experience, to recognize both human energy and human frailty], a satirical portrait of Modernism [“The Modernist Ego,” self-centeredness], and lingering traces of Classicism [the vision of a static, unchanging order].)
I will continue along the life trajectory I set for myself at the end of high school—if only for the next four years. At first, I thought this was because I like to separate my abstract fantasies from practical reality, refusing to bring the former into the latter before fully resolving them (that is, metaphysical thinking does not interfere with everyday life). Later, I realized that as long as I wish to continue experiencing, I will continue down my current path: understanding the core of consciousness and memory through neuroscience (to see what determines our inner thoughts), and grounding it through philosophy.
It is time to read some Nietzsche.
(I won’t formally study modern philosophy until the second semester of my sophomore year, but I’m already excited.)
The only unresolved problem in this framework is this: how should I explain you—my friends—in my life? Why does interacting with you and maintaining relationships bring me such joy?
I think the simplest answer is that, in you, I also see myself.