A. Stark Place

 

As a student I was required to write a paper describing Aristotle’s views on the purpose of man—ladies included, of course. Don’t worry, I won’t bore you with the details of what Aristotle has to say. I find him just as dull as you do. I even wonder at his popularity, which I chalk up to his ideas being old. After all, we ordinarily assume that all things written on parchment or velum must tell some timeless mystery. (Why else would the monks have taken such pains to safeguard them?)

But baloney is nothing like whiskey or wine: it doesn’t get better with age. I should know; I lived in a dorm with three men who shared a love for white bread. No, what was wrong back in Aristotle’s time is just as wrong today.

To make a long story—or rather a long argument—short, Aristotle says that the purpose of man is contemplation. Man’s universal goal, he’d tell you, is happiness. Hence, happiness is the ultimate good. Man is most happy while contemplating; so let go of your children, forget about hygiene, and get busy thinking.

Now, it should be clear to all but the few for whom contemplation is a choice activity that we aren’t generally happiest when we do it. Actually, most of us would rather not spend much time in contemplation, or even wish we were able to do it less. I, for one, have a long list of activities I prefer to contemplation, and I bet you do too.

The numbers don’t lie: how many philosophers do you know?

But while few will adhere to his strict regimen of contemplation, some of you may be sympathetic to the rest of Aristotle’s argument.

Let’s take another look at it, and pretend for a moment that man’s purpose is indeed contemplation. Well, if that’s true, and it is true because contemplation makes him happy, doesn’t that mean that man’s more general purpose is happiness? Isn’t he saying, “Man is supposed to be happy, and contemplation is merely the best method for him to achieve this?” But is it our purpose to be happy? Is that what life is all about? There are many, I’m sure, who think so.

I will grant that we’d rather be happy than sad. There’s even talk of a place where people are happy all the time. It’s called heaven, paradise, or that big castle in the sky. Most of us want to go there. Remember, however, that nobody hopes for a heaven where happiness lives amid hardship. Rather, the beauty of heaven is the prospect of a complete change in our circumstances; our hope is that none of the nasty events that cause grief here will occur there.

But Aristotle is talking about man’s purpose on earth—this earth. He’s talking about what we’re supposed to be doing here; and aren’t there times when our circumstances warrant sadness, when laughter is less appropriate than tears, and when happiness is bad and sadness is good?

I’m aware that some will say no. I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve heard someone say, “I just want to be happy.”

And again, I stop listening.

So let’s leave Aristotle for the moment, and determine whether sadness can ever be called good, or whether there is always some better alternative. I’ll do that first with a story.

While my father was dying, I spent most of my time beside him. I quit my job, lived at his house, and left rarely. I spent countless hours sitting with him in the living room, and if he asked I would fetch him something to eat or drink, or help him put on his parka and walk out onto the deck where he’d smoke his pipe. Often, he’d be sleeping and I’d just sit near him wondering when he’d wake up—whether he’d want another ice cream sandwich, some canned peaches, water, another smoke.

My memories are vivid and lasting. I see his face exactly, from the mole on his cheek to his long nose, his olive skin, and his dark moustache. I feel his frail frame through his smelly smoking parka as I help him back into the house. I hear the sound of air rushing through his nostrils as he sleeps.

It pins me down with razor-wire. Then he speaks.

“There’s a button on the back of the furnace for the fan. Press it if it’s cold.”

“Don’t forget to grease the ball-joints every few months.”

“It’s slippery and the station wagon needs new tires.”

“There’s a key hidden in the cupboard on a hook…. ”
 
It riddles my body with grapeshot. Still he doesn’t let up.
 
It is sorrow, complete and unchecked; sadness, deep and unbridled. Nothing else would be good; nothing else would be right.

And there are many more circumstances that call for sorrow. There are the usual things: dead children, broken homes, and grand tragedies. Add to that romance that dies, hearts that are broken, and agonizing hours spent missing someone. These are supposed to make us sad. There’s no acceptable alternative.

It’s true, I admit, that sadness can be avoided, but only by also avoiding the best things in life, and paradoxically, the very things that make happiness possible. It requires cutting oneself off from all meaningful relationships, family ties, and emotional bonds.  Build up an army against sadness and it will defend a wasteland.

So our ancient philosopher, Aristotle, while apparently wise, was entirely wrong. Happiness is not the ultimate good in a world like ours, and it should not be our ultimate goal either. Sadness can be good, or—at the very least—as good as it gets.

Which is exactly what I would have written in my paper if I had handed it in.

I did learn an important truth while stewing about what to write in it: There are things that children, drunks in ditches, and so-called simple folk know that some of our greatest men of learning miss. After all, simple folk know the value of a tear, and we don’t need to learn academic conventions, memorize definitions, or spend a lifetime in contemplation to know it. Sometimes the truth is too simple for that.