I recall that my first introduction to existentialism was in reading Jean-Paul Sartre’s Nausea at the age of 19. I was on a 9 month tour of Europe at the time (my first and last trip there) and I found a wonderful little book store in Dublin where I spotted the strangely seductive title peering out at me in the philosophy section that begged to be purchased. As a young impressionable socialist I was indeed in search of meaning in life. The foreign sights, smells and lifestyles of Europeans had caused me to further question the existence I understood having grown up in the hyper-consumerism of American life. Sartre was a good place to continue that interrogatory. But like most atheistic existentialist lessons it left me with more questions than answers.
Now that I’m set firmly in middle age, I dismiss most of what Sartre wrote on existence and meaning. That, however, doesn’t mean I understand how others should find meaning in life but only that I have found meaning within the boundaries of the penumbras of my experience. I can only explain my own passions - to those who care - and how love for my family is my primary motivation for living and other passions are simply ephemerally masturbatory. Obviously the former is more important but the latter is not without necessity in my definition of meaning in life.
Three weeks ago I had the final experience of visiting with a friend who suffered a long bout with alcoholism. We had grown up together in the late 60’s and early 70’s - imbibed in an unusual level of hedonism together while we endeavored to understand the universe and our respective stations in it. We were conformists to the Hippie generation and studied all that was counter-cultural at the time and, of course, we studied the chemistry of mind altering drugs.
Over the years he had lost most of his friends due to the obnoxiousness that consumed him after a few drinks - and he always had at least a few. But I made sure I kept in touch with him over the years. I’m not sure why exactly except, perhaps, that we had traveled some serious intellectual terrain together and the bond that was forged was immutable. Eventually we had only our past in common but we always made each other laugh. A few of our children are roughly the same age as his and, over time, we developed a dear friendship with his wife. In recent years she often sought advice from me in dealing with living with a drunk. I’m afraid I wasn’t much help but I’m sure that I did, in some minor way, assuage her guilt about being so angry at him.
When I last saw him he was looking so poorly that it was difficult for me to stay with him; severely jaundiced, bone skinny from not eating and on the cusp of getting the DTs. I spent only about 5 minutes with him and he confided in me that he needed to go the the hospital to detox. I asked him what his plans were if, indeed, he did detox. He remained noncommittal and said simply “I’ll decide that after I detox.” He had been through detox about 4 times in three years. I said to him “Well, if you’re not going into rehab would you leave me your Harley? Better a friend gets it after you’re gone, don’t you think?” I wasn’t serious about the Harley. I was serious about him being gone.
It was apparent to me that my keeping him awake was only an act of torture on my part and he would much rather sleep until he could get the energy to go to the hospital. I told him then that he should know that I’m his friend and if there was anything he needed from me all he had to do was ask. Apparently he hadn’t lost his sense of humor altogether and responded “Can you get me some cocaine?” I said “Anything but that.”
He went to the hospital the next day and in five short days he was dead. I will eulogize him this spring at a memorial service where his family plans to scatter his ashes over the family farm just outside Moscow, Idaho. Inasmuch as he was a Hunter Thompson fan to the core, his wife is thinking about having him spread by a crop duster if it’s possible. It would be fitting. I will miss him. I think he lost his life due to lack of passion. It is sad.
In the interim time the engine blew in the family van and needed to be replaced. The day after he passed away my wife was scheduled for an outpatient procedure for “a women thing.” Things went much differently than planned and she spent several days in the hospital and several more recovering at home. So between being a nurse, taxi driver, cook, housekeeper, etc. I haven’t had much time for those self-gratifying activities that I mentioned previously. That, however, is over and life seems as if it can now return to normal.
I did finish Jonah Goldberg’s book, Liberal Fascism, however, and I will pound out my thoughts on it soon. I enjoyed it very much but it is not without its problems. Long story short; it reaffirmed my libertarianism more than anything.
But during the past three weeks I have suffered something like Antoine Roquentin’s “nausea.” It’s times like these that one must count what one has rather than what one hasn’t. After all, the former is finite and the latter isn’t.