The
Worst of All Possible Reactions
The heart, Blaise Pascal said, "has its reasons which reason knows nothing
of." Something in us longs, hopes, maybe even at times believes that this is not
the way things were supposed to be. Our desire fights the assault of death upon
life. And so people with terminal illnesses get married. Prisoners in a
concentration camp plant flowers. Lovers long divorced still reach out in the
night to embrace one who is no longer there. It's like the phantom pain
experienced by those who have lost a limb. Feelings still emanate from that
region where once was a crucial part of them. Our hearts know a similar reality.
At some deep level, we refuse to accept the fact that this is the way things
are, or must be, or always will be.
Simone Weil was right; there are only two things that pierce the human heart: beauty and affliction. Moments we wish would last forever and moments we wish had never begun. The playwright Christopher Fry wrote,
The inescapable dramatic situation for us all is that we have no idea what our situation is. We may be mortal. What then? We may be immortal. What then? We are plunged into an existence fantastic to the point of nightmare, and however hard we rationalize, or however firm our religious faith, however closely we dog the heels of science or wheel among the starts of mysticism, we can not really make head or tail of it. ("A Playwright Speaks: How Lost, How Amazed, How Miraculous We Are")
And what does Fry say we do with our dilemma? The worst of all possible reactions:
We get used to it. We get broken into it so gradually we scarcely notice it.
Simone Weil was right; there are only two things that pierce the human heart: beauty and affliction. Moments we wish would last forever and moments we wish had never begun. The playwright Christopher Fry wrote,
The inescapable dramatic situation for us all is that we have no idea what our situation is. We may be mortal. What then? We may be immortal. What then? We are plunged into an existence fantastic to the point of nightmare, and however hard we rationalize, or however firm our religious faith, however closely we dog the heels of science or wheel among the starts of mysticism, we can not really make head or tail of it. ("A Playwright Speaks: How Lost, How Amazed, How Miraculous We Are")
And what does Fry say we do with our dilemma? The worst of all possible reactions:
We get used to it. We get broken into it so gradually we scarcely notice it.
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