A Passage to India - Life and Freud's Death Instinct (Again)

The following chestnut from Forster describes an aspect of life I'm sure everyone has acknowledged at some point in a kind of nihilistic confrontation of our insignificance. And it is the last line of the paragraph which I get quite excited over as it once again conjures up Freud's theory of Thanatos, or the Death Drive, in which we all aim at reducing stimulus to absolute zero - achievable only in death. There's a lot of material out there for elucidation, but i especially like the following article: http://www.artsandopinion.com/2007_v6_n3/lewis-29.htm

'Most of life is so dull that there is nothing to be said about it, and the books and talk that would describe it as interesting are obliged to exaggerate, in the hope of justifying their own existence. Inside its cocoon of work or social obligation, the human spirit slumbers for the most part, registering the distinction between pleasure and pain, but not nearly as alert as we pretend. There are periods in the most thrilling day during which nothing happens, and though we continue to exclaim 'I do enjoy myself' or 'I am horrified' we are insincere. 'As far as i feel anything, it is enjoyment, horror' - it's no more than that really, and a perfectly adjusted organism would be silent.' -p.145

I warn you, as soon as you starting reading Freud, you'll see him everywhere in everything...

A Passage to India - Life Between Worlds

There's a wondeful passage that seems to define life as a transcient trifle where what is really important is the snatching and appreciation of moments of beauty, for it is beauty that characterises this quick burst of humanity and makes it beyond bearable, but enjoyable:

'The poem had done no 'good' to anyone, but it was a passing reminder, a breath from the divine lips of beauty, a nightingale between two worlds of dust. Less explicit than the call to Krishna, it voiced our loneliness nevertheless, our isolation, our need for the Friend who never comes yet is not entirely disproved.' - p.119

Religion vs Beauty. It recalls a particular metaphor in a poem I can't for the life of me recall where life is reduced to a bird flying in from the cold to enjoy the warmth and tremendous excitement of a festive feast in an instant before exiting through another open window. Two worlds of dust separated by life.

If anyone knows the poem, please put me out of my misery, there's a connection awaiting conclusion.

Women in Love - Deus Ex Machina

The following again is from Gerald Crich's stock of crystalised visions and presents a beautiful yet perhaps obtuse bit of prose communicating an extension to his beliefs around man's purpose in life, productivity and industry - read previous post first: Man's Purpose 

[Bear in mind, Gerald Crich is a colliery owner/ manager]

Immediately he SAW the firm, he realised what he could do. He had a
fight to fight with Matter, with the earth and the coal it enclosed.
This was the sole idea, to turn upon the inanimate matter of the
underground, and reduce it to his will. And for this fight with matter,
one must have perfect instruments in perfect organisation, a mechanism
so subtle and harmonious in its workings that it represents the single
mind of man, and by its relentless repetition of given movement, will
accomplish a purpose irresistibly, inhumanly. It was this inhuman
principle in the mechanism he wanted to construct that inspired Gerald
with an almost religious exaltation. He, the man, could interpose a
perfect, changeless, godlike medium between himself and the Matter he
had to subjugate. There were two opposites, his will and the resistant
Matter of the earth. And between these he could establish the very
expression of his will, the incarnation of his power, a great and
perfect machine, a system, an activity of pure order, pure mechanical
repetition, repetition ad infinitum, hence eternal and infinite. He
found his eternal and his infinite in the pure machine-principle of
perfect co-ordination into one pure, complex, infinitely repeated
motion, like the spinning of a wheel; but a productive spinning, as the
revolving of the universe may be called a productive spinning, a
productive repetition through eternity, to infinity. And this is the
Godmotion, this productive repetition ad infinitum. And Gerald was the
God of the machine, Deus ex Machina. And the whole productive will of
man was the Godhead.

He had his life-work now, to extend over the earth a great and perfect
system in which the will of man ran smooth and unthwarted, timeless, a
Godhead in process. -pp.197-98

Anyone working in consultancy, performance improvement, business effectiveness etc. should take heart and certainly commit this passage to memory as it will invariably provide greater credence to such work in effect imbuing it with a most profound and ultimately deified significance.

But something that interests and maybe puzzles me is whether the passage fundamentally equates godliness to automation? hmmmmm...... Honestly, I don't have a clear idea of how to interpret this passage, but what I do know is that I like it and it sounds very interesting - as always, extremely keen to read any thoughts and comments

Women in Love - The Meaning of Life; Man's Purpose

My past few posts have concerned Death and Freud's theories regarding the Death Instinct or Death Wish that highlights a physiological compulsion to negate all stimulus to ultimately return to an inorganic state.  As a result, the characters in DHLawrence's Women in Love who seem to demonstrate this tendency towards death also present questions regarding the meaning of life but in most cases fail to really define what life has to offer as they are preoccupied with death.  In the following passage, Gerald Crich lends his assistance.  He is a colliery manager and injects the novel with some fantastic writings on industry and modernisation.  First, his fundamental views on life:

His vision had suddenly
crystallised. Suddenly he had conceived the pure instrumentality of
mankind. There had been so much humanitarianism, so much talk of
sufferings and feelings. It was ridiculous. The sufferings and feelings
of individuals did not matter in the least. They were mere conditions,
like the weather. What mattered was the pure instrumentality of the
individual. As a man as of a knife: does it cut well? Nothing else
mattered.

Everything in the world has its function, and is good or not good in so
far as it fulfils this function more or less perfectly. Was a miner a
good miner? Then he was complete. Was a manager a good manager? That
was enough. Gerald himself, who was responsible for all this industry,
was he a good director? If he were, he had fulfilled his life. The rest
was by-play.-p.193

Contextualise with those other ruminations:

Between the Desire and the Spasm 

The Death Instinct, Love and Tennyson 

Death and The Afterlife