Monty Python and the Meaning of Sartre

 “Life has no meaning other than that which we give it.”

Really?!? Mister Sartre, you are an ass.

For those who have claimed absolute bombastic certainty, my response has been, “I’m sorry, but you will get over it, trust me.”

For those who (equally bombastically) declare ‘This (X) makes no sense,” I rejoin, “Just because you are incapable of knowing or understanding (X) is not an indication other people share your disability.”

I have made enemies this way.

Existential angst is mainly a product of the peculiar time from the start of WWI to the end of the Cold War, that is, a markedly 20th Century European phenomena. Other peoples and times have not been so afflicted. (And yet, the “smart set” while despising tradition or ‘conservatism’ in all its forms, is as locked into this mode of thought as any other refugee from an ancien régime.)

Life is not something for which we must discover “meaning”; life comes with meaning built-in. In the consciousness of thought, which is not evident in “inanimate objects”, in the ability to make mistakes (of which no automaton is capable), in the terrible searing passions of love and lust, of duty and honor and fellowship, life proclaims its superiority to the insensate.

It may be that “life” is an ephemeral condition in an uncaring universe, limited to this planet and restricted to the time we are here. That changes nothing. Even the least has infinite meaning, because even if only for a flash of time, it EXISTS.

 Shucks, even Monty Python knows that. — “Well, it’s nothing very special. Uh, try and be nice to people. Avoid eating fat. Read a good book every now and then.”

Dum vivimus vivamus.