What is the most valuable thing in your life?

[Dür Ktulhu]

I often experience a near orgasmic euphoria when listening to skilled vocalists sing. Opera, musical theatre, solo artists, rock and folk bands. Harmonies.

You know, I recall the words of Tarkovsky when he said that to understand a work of art, one must possess no less genius than that which created it. Likewise, Cicero, I believe in his Tusculan Disputations, speaks of how the capacity to comprehend something is equal to the genius of its creator. I believe you can be proud of yourselves. And so can I. And may the gods grant us every fortune.

 

[tiokapaws]

Those people I love, my mind, and all the art I get to both view and create and imagine.

 

[etherealgoddess]

Usually, one thinks about such things either at the end of life or in catastrophic circumstances, and so it happened that I recently found myself in them. And I began to ponder: what is the most important thing in my life? The most precious and significant? And I couldn't come up with anything.

The first thing that came to mind was a memory from childhood: being in my mother's arms as she rocked me, wrapped in a blanket, in the yard on a summer evening under a strong, warm wind. That is the earliest and first memory of my life. The second was deep, dreamless sleep. But I decided to dismiss such experiences because they are animalistic, and therefore-worthless. I'm sure you don't understand what I mean; let me explain. For example, when I was given Promedol (a narcotic opiate) several times before surgeries, I experienced the same serenity as in that childhood memory - so what, should I say that serenity from a narcotic opiate is the most significant thing in my life? Of course not. The same goes for deep sleep: we cannot assign value to unconscious states. Forgive me, I am not a poet.

And then I realized that what is truly valuable and significant in my entire life is not graduating from university, a good position, a wonderful family, buying my favorite brands like Lanvin, Marni, MM6, dinosaur teeth, meteorite rings- I didn't even think about those things. They all seem so petty and insignificant, so empty. No, the most valuable thing turned out to be the time I spent with books. My activities... like studying the entire cartography of the Pre-Raphaelites on Wikimedia Commons, exploring architecture, noting down my favorites -and then learning their descriptions, founding years, details, specific locations, overall views. None of this will ever be useful to me anywhere, yet I consider these pursuits the most valuable in my entire life.

I was very interested in the method of memorizing large amounts of information- it's called the Memory Palace. I have fountain pens and notebooks where I've copied numerous notes from books. I've memorized what I've written by heart - various pieces of information, such as how in 1807 Napoleon bought the entire ancient part of the Borghese collection in Rome, which is now in the Louvre, and which pieces remained - Raphael, Caravaggio - I know every one. I know the "Dies Irae" by heart, passages from the Iliad in Greek, and how many meters high the vaults of Santa Croce are. Before going to sleep, I often retreat into my Memory Palace and fall asleep there.

Forgive me, towards the end I've exhausted myself and don't know how to conclude. Perhaps you could answer the question:
What is the most important, valuable, and significant thing in your life?

My physical and emotional health is the most important. You have the freedom to do anything and get back on your feet as long as you have health.

 

[Dür Ktulhu]

And you know, I started crying

Here is this fan video — those who are familiar with and feel close to Star Wars, please take a look. I often cry when I watch it.

 

[SoLowHollow48]

Thoughtfulness. I aspire to be the people who continuously choose to do good despite judgment from others and all the things they must sacrifice. The world becomes more and more livable with people like that.

My friends, my neighbors, my family members... thoughtfulness makes things easier. It gives meaning to labor. It gives meaning to staying alive and refusing to go before my time actually comes.

 

[TwistedNightmares]

My partner, my cat, my close online friends, and some of my possessions.
Nothing else matters to me.

 

[Dür Ktulhu]

The opening exposition of Andrei Tarkovsky's "Mirror" is an incredibly euphoric scene, and I'm about to prove it to you.



But first, the text. In 1889, Anton Pavlovich Chekhov wrote to his friend Suvorin, describing the long, painful process of casting off internal chains. Here is that letter in its entirety (he is speaking of the young generation and of himself):

"What writers belonging to the upper class have received from nature for nothing, plebeians purchase at the cost of their youth. Write a story, if you will, about a young man, the son of a serf, a former grocery boy, choirboy, high-school student, and university student, brought up to respect rank, to kiss the hands of priests, to truckle to the ideas of others- a young man who expressed gratitude for every piece of bread, who was frequently whipped, who trudged to his lessons without galoshes, who brawled, tortured animals, loved dining with rich relatives, and was hypocritical before God and men without the slightest need, merely out of a sense of his own insignificance -write about how this young man squeezes the slave out of himself, drop by drop, and how, waking up one fine morning, he feels that the blood coursing through his veins is no longer that of a slave, but truly that of a human being."

Now, look at what Tarkovsky does in the very first scene of "Mirror."
Chekhov spoke of a morning when you wake up and feel real human blood in your veins. Tarkovsky decided to show that morning.

And he reproduces it with surgical precision.
On screen-a teenager being treated for stuttering through a hypnosis session. A bead of sweat on his forehead. A spasm in his throat. The agonizing effort to force out a sound. The hypnotist counts, pressures, breaks down the resistance. And then—a clean exhale, a pure word: "I can speak."

This is Chekhov's "fine morning," made manifest. Tarkovsky presents it as a rebirth. The slave in this boy is his muteness, his inability to be heard. And when he squeezes out that fear, drop by drop, when the air flows freely and the word emerges without effort- in that moment, the blood coursing through his veins is indeed no longer that of a slave, but truly that of a human being.

Do you understand, you petty souls, the meaning of the words "I can speak!" ?

 

[Dür Ktulhu]

And he reproduces it with surgical precision.

And now just imagine- I forgot to mention - the scene is shot in one single take..

 

[Abyss Dweller]

It changes with time and what I feel like doing, right now I really-really enjoy studying using my cool notebook and cool pen :D

 

[Cloud Busting]

Spite.

Life feels like an empty black hole. It's all an endless abyss. I can't wait for this Groundhog Day to end. Yet I refuse to sit on my ass moping. I want to do something.

I suppose the reduction of suffering. I see choosing to live and doing it well and being healthy as a reflection of this. Tho I strive to do so honestly and authentically rather than artificially.

 

[Dür Ktulhu]

Before we talk about Ingmar Bergman's great film, we need to clear some space. Because today's conversation is not for those who whine about everyday troubles, and here's why.
There is suffering that makes a person human. And then there's the pathetic rummaging through one's own complexes, unworthy even of a fleeting glance - as Dante said, they are not worth words: a glance, and then move on. I'll be blunt - I have no sympathy here for people who suffer from physical limitations, lost or unrequited love, the loss of loved ones, social phobia, or any other form of inadequacy. All of this is, of course, unpleasant. But it's trivial. It's garbage. Such suffering requires no courage - only self-pity, and pity is the lot of the weak. Weakness is always deficient, and the deficient has no right to lay claim to the sublime.

Not every suffering is worthy. Yes, exactly - there are categories, classifications, properties. Aristotle gives an affirmative answer as well - this lends credibility to my own thoughts. I am convinced there is no subjectivity or shades of gray here. There is a clear list of what you must and are obligated to love, what to avoid, and what to strive for. You have no choice. Anyone who does not comply will end up on the list of spiritual proscriptions and moral freaks - like those drowning in the Styx in Delacroix's painting.

When I read the complaints of a transgender person on our beloved SaSu, I, as Kierkegaard said, "laugh heartily." But it would be funny if it weren't so sad.

Indeed, Dostoevsky's words are just: he said there have been hundreds of suicides, but not a single genuine, Faustian one.
No suffering deserves respect if it is not connected to existential problems of existence and remains alien to philosophy.
If you do not labor in the field of philosophers, then you are cattle in a pen - as Shakespeare said: such a man is something like an animal. And Aristotle is right when he literally states that the lives of people who do not strive for knowledge should not be taken seriously. Nicomachean Ethics

But enough of the prelude. Let us move on to what I sat down to write this post for.

Today I want to introduce you to one of the greatest films of all time - The Seventh Seal by Ingmar Bergman, 1957.
It tells the story of a medieval knight wandering through a land devastated by the plague. He encounters Death and, trying to postpone the inevitable, challenges Him to a game of chess in exchange for more time- as long as he hasn't lost, he remains alive.
He uses this time for one final attempt to get an answer to the ultimate question of existence: what is the meaning of all this? And does God exist?
But of course, the answer he seeks is never found. In my opinion, this film is the most valuable in terms of its depth of meaning in the history of cinema.

The horror that Bergman conveys through the hero's confession is what the philosopher Albert Camus called the Absurd.
According to Camus, the solution is to accept our helplessness and the emptiness of life, but without despair. One who manages to achieve this, he calls an absurd man. Such a person would stop searching for meaning and simply enjoy life amidst the absurd -freely deciding how to live, creating their own small meaning.
But how- looking at all this nightmare, the horrors of life, and its meaninglessness - how can we not succumb to despair? One answer is to look at life through the lens of humor.
But what if Camus is wrong? What if God or meaning does exist after all? According to Kierkegaard, this question is a trap- reason will never lead us to an answer; there is always doubt and the possibility of error. Instead, he advises making a leap of faith - deciding that God exists, or deciding that God does not exist, and living accordingly.
So, when the final hour strikes - there is nothing left to learn, no great revelation, only the simple end of life. And so everything ends, and no mystery is solved — because there never was one.
In conclusion, I will offer another paraphrase of Kierkegaard, urging one to take the path of knowledge, bringing you back, dear reader, to my introduction: We do not know where we are going or why. But while we are on the way, we might as well get the most out of our journey.