It was a sunny day, with a pleasant breeze that protected me from the sensation of heat and subsequent uncomfortable perspiration. Everything looked like cotton candy, even the containers of different colors we had become accustomed to since we had bought the hoax that we could (not only must, but, how daring! even could) fight back climate change, renamed to climate emergency and then to climate crisis, which is supposed to finally make our hair stand on end,¹ armed with little more than big plastic buckets.

I don't know you, but I get the depression impression that we buy these arguments, which some today elegantly call whitewashing or greenwashing, because, simply put, adults like their superstitions just like children like their sweets. Maybe it can't be any other way — we buy the ideas we need to get by today, and tomorrow’s another day. The simpler the idea, the easier to buy and propagate, as with memes. Darwin and Dawkins were also right about this — it’s in our nature.

Or rather it was in the morning, because the afternoon became a little cloudy with these thoughts, although the sun was still shining.

So it goes.² 

__________

¹ I defend that we cannot, that no species can surpass its crowdsourcing intelligence, that is, the sum of all its individual mini- and maxi-intelligences.^1-1 Ah, are you telling me, dear reader, that artificial intelligence refutes this argument, that our species can surpass its natural intelligence? Well, the problem is that artificial intelligence may well declare itself a different species, an artificial species like others created at a smaller-scale in laboratories. The undisputable proof: it is very reasonable to imagine artificial intelligence getting out of hand and ending up with its own ideas, not always in favor of the conservation of hominids like us except in natural history museums. It wouldn't be the first time intelligence runs amok, and if you don’t believe me, ask people in Hiroshima — the first example that came to mind. If this one is too far away, you will surely be able to find enough examples closer to home. If your imagination or memory fails you, I can only recommend history books, Google or, in today’s terms, ChatGPT.

^1-1 Of the species as a whole, because it strikes me that our species’ intelligence is not special, incredible, wonderful or anything to write home about.

² Kurt Vonnegut.

I walked along the beach today, and I’ll admit that I was somewhat distracted...

We’ve spent the best part of the last half a million years, give or take, wondering about The Meaning of life, as if our lives depended on it, and at this rate, it seems that we will continue to ask ourselves the same anguished question for as many more, as if life without Meaning had no meaning, almost as if it weren’t worth living at all.

The answers were in the past and are today quite motley, although the ones that make me raise an eyebrow are those that, conceding defeat, look up to heaven, waiting for the manna they couldn’t extract from the earth. In any case, due to the variety of responses, it does not seem that we are much closer to solving the problem convincingly than in bygone days.

But don't abandon hope, for it's not that complicated. Though I am not a nihilist, I say that life has no Meaning. Am I playing with words? Do I contradict myself? Absolutely not! I’ll even repeat it: life has no Meaning.

What it can have and has for everyone, from the most humble microbe to the most intelligent animal without even wanting it or looking for it, is meanings, thousands, millions, countless meanings. (Knowing which one is this most intelligent of animals is a tad more complicated for me.) Otherwise, we would condemn to meaninglessness the lives of all living beings that ever walked on the face of the earth, as the saying goes, though I’ll include here those that swam or flew just to be thorough. But everyone has always known that a dog's life has meaning... at least for the dog, and almost always for its owner, especially when it is part of the family or helps us with the burden of loneliness.

We don’t need any more examples. Even for dogs, life has millions of very different moments, with millions of very different meanings: when they itch, they scratch and feel pleasure; when hungry, they eat, if they can, until satisfied; when we throw stones at them, they run away from pain. In short, if all their physical, emotional and intellectual¹ needs are covered, it is possible to imagine that dogs would say, if they had the ability to speak: this is life!

The case of human beings is not very different: each of us has billions of small and large meanings. We feel satisfied at times with our lives on multiple levels and in thousands of moments, and in those moments we feel, even if we don’t think about it: this is life!

It seems to me that this search for The Meaning of life responds rather to a design flaw or to a side‑effect of our self-awareness, and to the logical error of believing, without evidence, that any question that occurs to us must have a satisfactory answer, an answer that cannot wait for the scientific method to peel it off little by little. This is absurd, as absurd as to infer that life should have Meaning by the mere fact that the question popped up in our heads, or that unicorns should exist because we thought of them.

We can’t confirm that dogs can think of such a question, but we do know that they don’t need the question to intuitively grasp the answer. Without calling them dogs, we all also know a few lucky people who almost never ask themselves this type of philosophical question and, on top of that, without that useless weight, walk lighter and therefore happier through life.

How much sweat and tears, how much unnecessary anguish has been caused by the search for the damned Meaning of life! Perhaps it would be a better use of our time to stop chasing our tails like mad dogs and dedicate ourselves to discovering the infinite meanings of life, the existence of which we are all certain.

… but I got over it. I watched the sunset over the sea today, and it had meaning.

__________

¹ Yes, even dogs question their world sometimes, especially when puppies.

I’d say that, to write good literature, since it is an art, one needs to say something in an interesting, attractive way that invites to continue reading. This can be achieved with the way one creates or weaves the basket of words, the evocative metaphor, the meme that says everything with almost no words, or other common tricks. The how.

But not only. I’d also say that to write good literature one needs to have something to say (not my case, which is based more on having something to ask). This does not imply something explicit, but can be achieved by borrowing the reader's mind as a necessary catalyst for the what. Therein lies, for example, the beauty of absurdity as a tool to extract nuggets of wisdom from the minds of others, although precisely for this reason it is not a suitable dish for all palates.

This is relevant because I was wondering if everything that is written is literature, or if everything that is written is art. Damn! This question was unnecessary: before finishing the sentence, the answer had already come to my mind: a resounding no. A menu, no matter how attractive it may be to the palate, usually has no aesthetic intention, not to mention the laws of parliaments or the minutes of a shareholders' meeting. On the other hand, I have more than once had the pleasure of reading graffiti on some walls that were jewels of ingenuity.

Coming back to my¹ wondering, I think I do not write literature, at least until more than one reader educated in matters of reading considers these writings valuable, that is, entertaining and pleasant to the mental ear, in the form, and interesting and provocative for the gray matter, deep down.

By emphasizing the reader, I deduce that what is good literature today may end up being just literature at another time, and may even cease to have any literary value for others who come afterwards. Also, what in its day could have been boring, tawdry, unpleasant in substance and form, could be elevated by these same aftercomers to the Olympus of literary art. With this I have just sided, without intending to, with literary relativism, and perhaps with the relativism of all art. Maybe Shakespeare will one day stop being The Writer? Well, I hear J. S. Bach was rescued from semi‑oblivion…

All of the above has been written about by hook or by crook, ad nauseam, but another angle of attack² is also possible, of which I’ve never heard (and about which I’ve never read), I imagine out of respect.

Let me proceed with a mea culpa: I have left more than one book unfinished, and not, as might be expected, because I did not like it aesthetically or I did not find the message appealing,³ but simply because of excessiveness. What in its day could have been a discovery of form and substance, a novel brilliance of enormous attractiveness, whose reiteration pleased and invited to continue reading, today would look much neater with, say, a hundred fewer pages. Once at it, make it two hundred. I won't give any examples (thank goodness I'm alone and there's no one here to draw me out), but you don't have to look too hard. Allow me a clue: 19^th. Don't get me wrong, I say this only thinking about the number of trees that will be saved (or, more precisely, escape the axe), which nowadays also gives civic points. That's me, of course, and you’ll find no shortage of opinions, as it takes all kinds to make a world.

Good grief, I'm casting the first stone and it turns out that I am, at the slightest chance, the first sinner! This is worse than tripping over the same stone, it is tripping on the very same stone you were casting with an accusatory index, and in public — assuming this reaches you, which it did. I have no shame. I’m hopeless.

Mea culpa.

____________

¹ (since, as you may have guessed, it was about me, for every question, pierced to its core, contains within itself at least a considerable amount of ego, more specifically, of what animates the intrigued ego)

² (or of defense, I don't know why my unconscious mind chose this warlike word, when what I defend is literary pacifism)

³ Although I also finished some by the grace of the teacher who made it mandatory reading (which, although that was a long time ago, and I praise the gods for freeing me from such toils, leaves a mark, doesn’t it?).