When man became self-aware he also became aware of his own mortality. In order to salve his fear of death and his sorrow for the death of those he loved he created GOD. God is man's mythical 'savior' from his inevitable death. He dreams of an 'afterlife' in which he has a continued existence and in which he can imagine the continued existence of those he has loved. It is all myth. Though one were strong as seven, He too with death shall dwell, Nor wake with wings in heaven, Nor weep for pains in hell; Though one were fair as roses, His beauty clouds and closes; And well though love reposes, In the end it is not well. Pale, beyond porch and portal, Crowned with calm leaves, she stands Who gathers all things mortal With cold immortal hands; Her languid lips are sweeter Than love's who fears to greet her To men that mix and meet her From many times and lands. She waits for each and other, She waits for all men born; Forgets the earth her mother, The life of fruits and corn; And spring and seed and swallow Take wing for her and follow Where summer song rings hollow And flowers are put to scorn. There go the loves that wither, The old loves with wearier wings; And all dead years draw thither, And all disastrous things; Dead dreams of days forsaken, Blind buds that snows have shaken, Wild leaves that winds have taken, Red strays of ruined springs. We are not sure of sorrow, And joy was never sure; To-day will die to-morrow; Time stoops to no man's lure; And love, grown faint and fretful, With lips but half regretful Sighs, and with eyes forgetful Weeps that no loves endure. From too much love of living, From hope and fear set free, We thank with brief thanksgiving Whatever gods may be That no life lives for ever; That dead men rise up never; That even the weariest river Winds somewhere safe to sea. Then star nor sun shall waken, Nor any change of light: Nor sound of waters shaken, Nor any sound or sight: Nor wintry leaves nor vernal, Nor days nor things diurnal; Only the sleep eternal In an eternal night. Charles Algernon Swinburne....The Garden of Proserpine. 1866
I wonder if Donald Trump did really understand what he was putting himself into. The sharks in the business world are, more often than not, shredded by politicians.
Happened to see this in the Times: http://www.nytimes.com/2016/08/29/opinion/why-we-never-die.html?smid=tw-share He's working pretty hard at a pretty unconvincing thesis.
Ernest Becker Hmm. The Denial of Death. 1974. I know that year because it has several reasons for me to remember it. 1. I bought one of my most precious possessions that year. A grandfather clock. The year is embossed in gold so I see it every time I clean the clock. 2. I left my academic position in that year to start my own company. #2 connects to Ernest Becker. Ernest Becker was a classic example of the horribleness, and uselessness of being an academic. He spent his whole life shuffling from academic position to academic position. Working and reworking the same ideas trying to justify keeping his job. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ernest_Becker Yes he got to write a Pulitzer prize winning book. A Pulitzer gets you $10,000. Not enough to finance a down payment on a house. Won't even buy you a decent used car. There is an Ernest Becker Foundation. Funded by a rich doctor who read and liked the book and, having a lot of money, created a foundation. Why not. Becker himself died a relative pauper. The book is read by students who then put it into their book shelves and forget about it. When they die it sells for fifteen cents. His ideas were actually quite pedestrian. Swinburne is 1866. A lot of water under the bridge. Have I read him? His book used to be on my book shelves but it's not there any more. It must be in those boxes in the back of my garage waiting for me to die.
so how do you really feel about him and his book. I feel wrong laughing about that on a Sunday morning... but that was pretty humorous.