A good friend asked me the other day if philosophy inclines one to depression. I was stunned. Then I thought, well, I guess there have been a few depressive - or frankly crazy - philosophers. Schopenhauer doesn't come across as the life and soul of the party. Nietzsche was mad as a box of frogs by the end. James Stuart Mill had a breakdown. But then you've got cheery old David Hume and apparently Kant was encouraging, kind and engaged as far as his students were concerned. The Stoics would never counter depression and Socrates seemed equanamous in the face of death. John Grey appears curmudgeonly - as does Simon Critchley - but neither appear depressed. I think Galen Strawson's experienced the black dogs, but not A.C. Grayling*. Though I don't really know, of course. Mostly, they come across as energetic and enthusiastic when I hear living philosophers speak.
This thought made me consider Albert Camus' Myth of Sisyphus, which suggests that the real problem of philosophy is whether or not to commit suicide. Or if not to kill oneself, how about another cup of coffee? Camus didn't seem to think existence was depressing so much as futile. In his view, that's OK. It is absurd - so create your own meaning, and be happy!
For me, philosophy is an antidote for depression and a protection against anxiety, frustration and anger. I remember that the therapist of one friend who suffered depression recommended ratiocination as an alternative. Thinking things through. Not the things that might depress him: lack of money or work, loss of freedom, past trauma, fear of the situation he was in. No, thinking about ideas and values, politics and philosophy, ethics and projects.
I agree. Nothing grabs my mind more than thinking through a concept or argument. I feel energised and enlivened by the process. Even if I don't get to a conclusion, there are bursts of clarity, moments of synthesis, glances at inspiration.
People have always said to me that I 'think too much'. That is absolute rubbish. When I am in a depression there is an absence of thinking, or at least a turgid quality to thought. The depression is not about thoughts. It's not about real life situations or experiences - though they might trigger it. The depression is a mood and a flattening, an affect. And the mood isn't even usually sadness. It's flatness. No life, no energy, no inspiration, no clarity, no synthesis. It is the exact opposite of thinking.
Thinking is active and there is inaction in depression.
Worrying, fretting and ruminating are different. They're not active thinking: they're like the default mode network on overdrive. So fire up the pre-frontal cortex - do philosophy!
I think my friend's idea about philosophy being depressing relates to her view of my interests. I don't like rom-coms or sit-coms or soaps or chick-lit or any of the usual fare of cheery everyday folk. I don't like musicals. I like Ibsen and Chekhov. I like tragedies and hard-hitting dramas. I like inconclusive, thought provoking novels where things don't all work out for the best. These things don't depress me. What depresses me is superficiality and commercialism; image consciousness and pseudoscience; intelligent people not using their minds; fit people not using their bodies. In my own life, there is nothing depressing but sometimes I lack focus and meaning. The time I've had during this pandemic has given me the chance to create that meaning and focus, and to fully realise that it is intrinsic, not extrinsic, in origin. I may be rolling a rock up a hill, but I am 'happy'.
Happiness, for me, is about having purpose. It's not about laughter or pleasure. Don't get me wrong, I like laughter and pleasure, but I need the happiness-of-purpose.
I've wondered before about the individuality of words. That came up in a philosophy discussion I attended online the other night. The subject was 'What is hope?' And for me hope is a different thing from what it seemed to be for others. It is not the optimistic idea that things will turn out for the best. It is not a faith in the goodness of the future. Nor is it a wish that things will turn out for the best. No, it is the drive that seeks you keeping working to make the future better. It is a call to action, not a complacency. If you cannot imagine a realistic better state - despair; doubt that there is any chance of being able to do anything - scepticism or pessimism, then you do nothing and, self-creating prophecy, nothing gets better. You have to imagine, based on knowledge and experience, then work out a plan, based on realistic expectations and acquired knowledge, and then act. That, to me, is hope.
Others said, I can live without hope, because I have developed an inner tranquillity. And I thought, 'Selfish! Complacent!' I know, I know, I should not judge, haven't I said that somewhere before?!? I didn't say it, I tried to understand... and I guess that is a fine coping mechanism when the alternative is despair. Faced with a world of suffering and absurdity, feel the futility of ending poverty - or the pandemic - and OK, tranquillity has real merits.
Some said that false hope can lead those with a terminal diagnosis to spend fortunes on 'miracle cures', putting themselves and their families through a roller-coaster of emotions and possible hardship. But false hope, without evidence and knowledge, that to me is as unlike what I feel 'hope' is as lust is from compassion, though both can bear the label 'love'.
Then there was the way in which health can be moralised: she gave up hope and so she died. As though failing to hope is a failure of courage. My definition of hope may take courage, indeed, I think it does; the courage to imagine and to plan and to attempt to execute. But a terminal patient cannot be expected to imagine, plan and execute a cure! What is being condemned is her failure to have a positive outlook. Why should she: she is dying. She knows she is dying. Perhaps the more compassionate act on the part of those around her is not to tell her to have hope and to be positive, but to help her to come to terms with her mortality, help her say her goodbyes to all those people and things that she loves. Our culture seems to have some sense of entitlement to immortality. An adolescent dream.
My hope is akin to that expressed by Martin Hagglund and by Susan Neiman: you know your project may not succeed, but like a polar explorer preparing for an expedition, you have attempted to plan it to the last detail, to make it realistic, by accumulating knowledge and building experience, by analysing reality, and so, all that work done,you believe that there is a possibility and so you are going to try, give it your full commitment and your effort. That is hope.
* I mentioned A. C. Grayling - and indeed a podcast which I listened to this morning really inspired me to write this. The podcast is a great introduction to a whole range of philosophical topics but this edition was an interview with Grayling. His explanation of what is special about philosophy for him really excited me. Yes, I thought, I see! Have a listen: he's charming and it brings what can seem a far removed discipline right into practical focus.
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