Random musings
Wars in the Middle East, droughts in western Europe, floods and fires in eastern Europe, melting ice at the poles. What a mad, fluid world we live in. Worlds change, people die, cities fade. There is a funny thing about it, about me. When dozens of people die in a fire somewhere far away, that does not matter to me. But when a landmark is destroyed, a monument, suddenly I cannot help but feel that the world is a little poorer, that we have lost something old and glorious.
Is that really any way to think? Are individual human lives any less glorious and important than dusty old things? Historical wonders may inspire thousands, even millions, but if the lives of those thousands are snapped like twigs in some disaster, what does it matter? Human lives should matter to me, but they do not, not unless they are somehow connected to me. Perhaps this is wrong, but it is certainly the norm for humanity. Conquerors have shown the same trait for millennia. I am no conqueror, but I am very very human. Is it a coping mechanism man has developed? A way to deal with the horror of thousands of deaths by ignoring it, by not really considering those extinguished flames as people but as numbers? Kill one million, and it is a statistic. Grammar school kids often quote Stalin in hopes of seeming deep and meaningful, but the truth of that quote is not cool, it is tragic. The more people die, the harder it is for us to comprehend the loss. What potential lost? How many people who could have changed the world for the better? Or for the worse?
Or did none of those people matter anyway? Were they just boring fools who would have influenced no one, who would have lived and died without meaning, in vain?
A long long time ago, in a dusty youth hostel somewhere in Europe, there was a stranger. He was just passing through, like all of us, but it was night and we were both a little drunk, so we talked and talked and talked. He was an engineer or a physicist of some sort; it does not matter. He talked passionately of chaos and quantum physics as if they were beliefs and not science. People like the notion of the butterfly effect, he said, because it makes them feel important. If a butterfly in Europe can change the weather in Asia by flapping its wings, every single human is crucial. Everything that happens in this world is because of you and me, because of little things we did or did not do that sent ripples across the planet, influencing others in some tiny way. Somehow you and I contributed to all of humanity's great triumphs in the last 20-something years, and all of its terrible failures. Because everything affects everyone.
That stranger was a little bit crazy. He cheerfully admitted it. He said that most interesting people are a bit off their rocker. Oh, the man certainly was interested. Few other people could ever make quantum physics seem interesting. But there are certain wonders in science, I see that now. It is not all about the measuring and calculating. There are wondrous mysteries. Quantum physics loves observers, that odd fellow said. Nothing is definite until it is observed, and that too makes men feel important, because they are the observers. That was what he discoursed about, and I listened, and talked of other things. Maybe that conversation did not matter in the long run, or maybe it averted a war somehow. It does not matter. As far as I know, all that happened was that I met a stranger once and remembered him today, years after the meeting. Interesting how thoughts creep out of nowhere and jump at you, is it not?
One thing is certain: Our actions affect the world around us, and not always in the way we expected. Ozymandias built his statue so that he would be remembered as the king of kings. Nothing beside that colossal wreck of a statue remains in the desert, but would Ozymandias truly be unhappy? A man came out of the desert with the tale of that pedestal, a poet wrote a few lines about that tale, and old Ozy's name lives on long after his empire crumbled to dust. Perhaps he would have been satisfied with that; he might have been jubilant.
Yossarian refused to wear his uniform because of a man who'd died in his arms, and he attended that man's funeral naked. Could he ever have suspected that fifty years later he would visit the chaplain from that funeral, and the chaplain's wife would talk of a great miracle that had happened to her husband in WWII? Oh yes, a vision from the Lord. A naked man sitting in a tree. Fifty years believing in a miracle, Yossarian, all because you wouldn't put on your uniform.
Another man's name lives on through the ages, though few people even remember who he was any more. There is an expression, 'pyrrhic victory'. It describes a success, but a success so awful it might as well have been a failure. Why is it called a pyrrhic victory? Why, it is named after a ruler whose army won a battle, but was thoroughly decimated in the process. It happened over a thousand years ago, and many rulers have suffered terrible victories since, but that man's name has been appended to all of them. I studied history, and even I cannot remember where he came from or when he lived or any other detail of his life. All he is remembered for is that one flawed victory, but he is remembered nonetheless.
Perhaps I too will be remembered for centuries because of something completely unintended. Poor little Vanessa might yet imprint her name on the ages. A piece of graffitti written on a wall somewhere that future cultures would dig up and analyze the meaning of. A careless compliment to a man on the street, filling him with elation and giving him the energy to finish an important project that would benefit mankind. That would be neat.
Is that really any way to think? Are individual human lives any less glorious and important than dusty old things? Historical wonders may inspire thousands, even millions, but if the lives of those thousands are snapped like twigs in some disaster, what does it matter? Human lives should matter to me, but they do not, not unless they are somehow connected to me. Perhaps this is wrong, but it is certainly the norm for humanity. Conquerors have shown the same trait for millennia. I am no conqueror, but I am very very human. Is it a coping mechanism man has developed? A way to deal with the horror of thousands of deaths by ignoring it, by not really considering those extinguished flames as people but as numbers? Kill one million, and it is a statistic. Grammar school kids often quote Stalin in hopes of seeming deep and meaningful, but the truth of that quote is not cool, it is tragic. The more people die, the harder it is for us to comprehend the loss. What potential lost? How many people who could have changed the world for the better? Or for the worse?
Or did none of those people matter anyway? Were they just boring fools who would have influenced no one, who would have lived and died without meaning, in vain?
A long long time ago, in a dusty youth hostel somewhere in Europe, there was a stranger. He was just passing through, like all of us, but it was night and we were both a little drunk, so we talked and talked and talked. He was an engineer or a physicist of some sort; it does not matter. He talked passionately of chaos and quantum physics as if they were beliefs and not science. People like the notion of the butterfly effect, he said, because it makes them feel important. If a butterfly in Europe can change the weather in Asia by flapping its wings, every single human is crucial. Everything that happens in this world is because of you and me, because of little things we did or did not do that sent ripples across the planet, influencing others in some tiny way. Somehow you and I contributed to all of humanity's great triumphs in the last 20-something years, and all of its terrible failures. Because everything affects everyone.
That stranger was a little bit crazy. He cheerfully admitted it. He said that most interesting people are a bit off their rocker. Oh, the man certainly was interested. Few other people could ever make quantum physics seem interesting. But there are certain wonders in science, I see that now. It is not all about the measuring and calculating. There are wondrous mysteries. Quantum physics loves observers, that odd fellow said. Nothing is definite until it is observed, and that too makes men feel important, because they are the observers. That was what he discoursed about, and I listened, and talked of other things. Maybe that conversation did not matter in the long run, or maybe it averted a war somehow. It does not matter. As far as I know, all that happened was that I met a stranger once and remembered him today, years after the meeting. Interesting how thoughts creep out of nowhere and jump at you, is it not?
One thing is certain: Our actions affect the world around us, and not always in the way we expected. Ozymandias built his statue so that he would be remembered as the king of kings. Nothing beside that colossal wreck of a statue remains in the desert, but would Ozymandias truly be unhappy? A man came out of the desert with the tale of that pedestal, a poet wrote a few lines about that tale, and old Ozy's name lives on long after his empire crumbled to dust. Perhaps he would have been satisfied with that; he might have been jubilant.
Yossarian refused to wear his uniform because of a man who'd died in his arms, and he attended that man's funeral naked. Could he ever have suspected that fifty years later he would visit the chaplain from that funeral, and the chaplain's wife would talk of a great miracle that had happened to her husband in WWII? Oh yes, a vision from the Lord. A naked man sitting in a tree. Fifty years believing in a miracle, Yossarian, all because you wouldn't put on your uniform.
Another man's name lives on through the ages, though few people even remember who he was any more. There is an expression, 'pyrrhic victory'. It describes a success, but a success so awful it might as well have been a failure. Why is it called a pyrrhic victory? Why, it is named after a ruler whose army won a battle, but was thoroughly decimated in the process. It happened over a thousand years ago, and many rulers have suffered terrible victories since, but that man's name has been appended to all of them. I studied history, and even I cannot remember where he came from or when he lived or any other detail of his life. All he is remembered for is that one flawed victory, but he is remembered nonetheless.
Perhaps I too will be remembered for centuries because of something completely unintended. Poor little Vanessa might yet imprint her name on the ages. A piece of graffitti written on a wall somewhere that future cultures would dig up and analyze the meaning of. A careless compliment to a man on the street, filling him with elation and giving him the energy to finish an important project that would benefit mankind. That would be neat.