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3.97 AVERAGE
3.97 AVERAGE
This short, honest essay summarises the existential reflections Tolstoy went through when he turned 50. In particular, on absurdism and meaning, as well as the limitations of knowledge as a conduit for truth.
I read chapters 11 and 12 twice hoping to better understand the role he places on faith, a pivotal element throughout the rest of the book, only to find this connection somewhat weak and unsubstantiated. Please do let me know in case you read it and see it differently.
You might want to pair this reading with authors such as Camus, Dostojevski and probably Frankl.
I read chapters 11 and 12 twice hoping to better understand the role he places on faith, a pivotal element throughout the rest of the book, only to find this connection somewhat weak and unsubstantiated. Please do let me know in case you read it and see it differently.
You might want to pair this reading with authors such as Camus, Dostojevski and probably Frankl.
I feel funny rating a book by this profound author but there it is. Some thought provoking insights and biographical information about my favorite writer.
reflective
slow-paced
reflective
slow-paced
challenging
dark
emotional
hopeful
inspiring
mysterious
reflective
dark
medium-paced
At times an interesting look into Tolstoy’s life, but also rather bleak, and as someone who also grew up religious and has since left it behind, I’m not convinced of his philosophical reasoning.
It is a fascinating look into the mind of a man looking for answers where there are none. His use of arithmetic shows his willingness to reduce the world to simple terms, in a quest to uncover what it means to live (or be good, or any number of things he's looking for). There is something uncomfortably nihilistic here, and I find myself wondering how Tolstoy would have contended with the world if he could have been confronted with more existential ideas (Beavoir/Sarte). While I don't agree with his conclusions, I enjoyed the insight into his development and shift in worldview.
Reading this after War and Peace and Anna Karenina feels somewhat like finding out Father Christmas is naughty or even a recovering kleptomaniac.
No literary masterpiece, but a beautifully honest series of breadcrumbs left behind by a man reasoning himself into faith. The rises and falls, the momentary joys and desperations and the mental circles many of us go through... are all presented here by that great author we thought surely would be steadfast in his own mind. But no! It seems we are all of us scared in the dark, shouting courage to each other, only sometimes at peace.
No literary masterpiece, but a beautifully honest series of breadcrumbs left behind by a man reasoning himself into faith. The rises and falls, the momentary joys and desperations and the mental circles many of us go through... are all presented here by that great author we thought surely would be steadfast in his own mind. But no! It seems we are all of us scared in the dark, shouting courage to each other, only sometimes at peace.
This book describes Tolstoy's struggle with depression. Though nominally Christian, he lacked belief in his early years. As he became a well-known writer, he found that people were congratulating him while he lived a life of debauchery. He is especially confused that people look to writers as teachers, while he himself does not know what he is teaching. Finding no satisfaction in life, he feels the desire to end it. Life, he feels, is a "stupid and eil practical joke someone is playing on me." When he consults philosophy, he finds the general thesis that life has no meaning. And science doesn't have much in the way of a practical answer.
For people of his social class, he says there are 4 answers: ignore it, engage in epicureanism, kill yourself, or live a knowingly meaningless life. But when he starts to look at how people actually live, this supposedly indubitable answer crumbles. The problem is one of comparison of different times -- life is finite but a proper meaning is (or at least feels like it should be) infinite. The only real answer to this is faith.
"Faith is the force of life. If a man lives, then he must have faith in something. If he did not believe that he had something he must live for, then he would not live."
In this light, we are parts of an infinite. Without faith, we just spin our wheels endlessly when it comes to meaning. Tolstoy finds his philosophy best represented by the "poor, the simple, the uneducated folk." They endure without question or resistance.
This is my favorite passage in the book:
"If a naked, hungry beggar should be taken from the crossroads and led into an enclosed area in a magnificent establishment to be given food and drink, and if he should then be made to move some kind of lever up and down, it is obvious that before determining why he was brought there to move the lever and whether the structure of the establishment was reasonable, the beggar must first work the lever. If he will work it, then he will see that it operates a pump, that the pump draws up water, and that the water flows into a garden. Then he will be taken from the enclosed area and set to another task, and then he will gather fruits and enter into the joy of his lord. As he rises from lower to higher concerns, understanding more and more about the structure of the establishment and becoming part of it, he will never think to ask why he is there, and there is no way he will ever come to reproach his master.
Thus the simple, uneducated working people, whom we look upon as animals, do the will of their master without ever reproaching him. But we, the wise, consume everything the master provides without doing what he asks of us; instead, we sit in a circle and speculate on why we should do something so stupid as moving this lever up and down. And we have hit upon an answer. We have figured it out that either the master is stupid or he does not exist, while we alone are wise; only we feel that we are good for nothing and that we must somehow get rid of ourselves."
The agonizing feeling Tolstoy had while he wanted to kill himself but didn't was the search for God. Then Tolstoy makes this point which always bothers me: while he believes in God, he lives and while he doesn't, he dies; therefore, he should believe in God."
Anyway, he realizes that luxury is just a shroud over life. "Man's task in life is to save his soul." He used to see faith as an arbitrary position. He saw it as "useless gibberish." But faith is something that cannot really be expressed because it is not a single answer, but as many as there are people.
For people of his social class, he says there are 4 answers: ignore it, engage in epicureanism, kill yourself, or live a knowingly meaningless life. But when he starts to look at how people actually live, this supposedly indubitable answer crumbles. The problem is one of comparison of different times -- life is finite but a proper meaning is (or at least feels like it should be) infinite. The only real answer to this is faith.
"Faith is the force of life. If a man lives, then he must have faith in something. If he did not believe that he had something he must live for, then he would not live."
In this light, we are parts of an infinite. Without faith, we just spin our wheels endlessly when it comes to meaning. Tolstoy finds his philosophy best represented by the "poor, the simple, the uneducated folk." They endure without question or resistance.
This is my favorite passage in the book:
"If a naked, hungry beggar should be taken from the crossroads and led into an enclosed area in a magnificent establishment to be given food and drink, and if he should then be made to move some kind of lever up and down, it is obvious that before determining why he was brought there to move the lever and whether the structure of the establishment was reasonable, the beggar must first work the lever. If he will work it, then he will see that it operates a pump, that the pump draws up water, and that the water flows into a garden. Then he will be taken from the enclosed area and set to another task, and then he will gather fruits and enter into the joy of his lord. As he rises from lower to higher concerns, understanding more and more about the structure of the establishment and becoming part of it, he will never think to ask why he is there, and there is no way he will ever come to reproach his master.
Thus the simple, uneducated working people, whom we look upon as animals, do the will of their master without ever reproaching him. But we, the wise, consume everything the master provides without doing what he asks of us; instead, we sit in a circle and speculate on why we should do something so stupid as moving this lever up and down. And we have hit upon an answer. We have figured it out that either the master is stupid or he does not exist, while we alone are wise; only we feel that we are good for nothing and that we must somehow get rid of ourselves."
The agonizing feeling Tolstoy had while he wanted to kill himself but didn't was the search for God. Then Tolstoy makes this point which always bothers me: while he believes in God, he lives and while he doesn't, he dies; therefore, he should believe in God."
Anyway, he realizes that luxury is just a shroud over life. "Man's task in life is to save his soul." He used to see faith as an arbitrary position. He saw it as "useless gibberish." But faith is something that cannot really be expressed because it is not a single answer, but as many as there are people.
challenging
reflective