insufferable comfort
So I was sitting at lunch, reading "Existentialism from Dostoevsky to Sarte" and taking notes like the nerd that I am, when I stumbled and dwelled upon these bits:
"Romanticism is flight from the present, whether into the past, the future, or another world, dreams, or most often, a vague fog. It is self-deception. Romanticism yearns for deliverance from the cross of Here and Now: it is willing to face anything but the facts."
And regarding Dostoevsky's Notes From Underground (which, embarassingly, though I've owned the book for a couple years, I've not even finished the introduction): "No prize, however great, can justify an ounce of self-deception or a small departure from the ugly facts."
Well, then. I sat there, straddling a box of plans, hunched over a desk, thinking, "golly. What's so bad about self-deception?" But then I realised that there are probably Romantics out there who practice self-deception and that becomes their personal reality. No matter how optimistic (delusional, as it were) I can become about a situation, I still am aware of tragedy or sorrow or negativity. But then I think about how I suppose, in regards to people, I have become completely swept into my perception of a person and when I figure out that the reality of the person conflicts greatly with my twisted notion of them, there's a disappointment that settles over me. However much I try to combat that deliverance from the negative attributes of people, I still manage to fool myself again in the future. What I find interesting is that I don't focus blame on anyone; I merely become a bit disappointed in myself. But then, how can I be disappointed in engaging in a fantasy where no one is hurt and I even have blissful moments because of it?
So, really. It's not a bad thing to be a Romantic; I think I may actually get more out of life because of it. And wonder at living is a prize, a really great prize, that I think can, actually justify that ounce of self-deception, as well as a small departure from ugly (who qualifies that, I wonder?) "facts."
"Romanticism is flight from the present, whether into the past, the future, or another world, dreams, or most often, a vague fog. It is self-deception. Romanticism yearns for deliverance from the cross of Here and Now: it is willing to face anything but the facts."
And regarding Dostoevsky's Notes From Underground (which, embarassingly, though I've owned the book for a couple years, I've not even finished the introduction): "No prize, however great, can justify an ounce of self-deception or a small departure from the ugly facts."
Well, then. I sat there, straddling a box of plans, hunched over a desk, thinking, "golly. What's so bad about self-deception?" But then I realised that there are probably Romantics out there who practice self-deception and that becomes their personal reality. No matter how optimistic (delusional, as it were) I can become about a situation, I still am aware of tragedy or sorrow or negativity. But then I think about how I suppose, in regards to people, I have become completely swept into my perception of a person and when I figure out that the reality of the person conflicts greatly with my twisted notion of them, there's a disappointment that settles over me. However much I try to combat that deliverance from the negative attributes of people, I still manage to fool myself again in the future. What I find interesting is that I don't focus blame on anyone; I merely become a bit disappointed in myself. But then, how can I be disappointed in engaging in a fantasy where no one is hurt and I even have blissful moments because of it?
So, really. It's not a bad thing to be a Romantic; I think I may actually get more out of life because of it. And wonder at living is a prize, a really great prize, that I think can, actually justify that ounce of self-deception, as well as a small departure from ugly (who qualifies that, I wonder?) "facts."