Umberto Eco

I have come to believe that the whole world is an enigma, a harmless enigma that is made terrible by our own mad attempt to interpret it as though it had an underlying truth.

I have come to believe that the whole world is an enigma, a harmless enigma that is made terrible by our own mad attempt to interpret it as though it had an underlying truth.

– Umberto Eco –

Foucault’s Pendulum

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Frithjof Schuon

Existentialism” is a thinkingThat no longer wishes to think; this means the destructionOf the true thinking that constitutes man.The existentialist fanaticsDislocate their brains for nothing — it is only a case ofSelf-delusion and self-promotion.For to think truly means: recollection.Let the fools spin their foolishness.—–“Daseinsphilosophie” — sie ist ein DenkenDes Nichtmehr-Denkenwollens: so ZerstörungDes wahren Denkens, das den Menschen macht.Die Existenz-Fanatiker verrenkenSich das Gehirn für nichts — nur SelbstbetörungUnd Selbstbespiegelung kommt in Betracht.Denn wirklich denken heißet: sich besinnen.Und lasst die Narren ihre Torheit spinnen.

Camus

Heidegger considers the human condition coldly and announces that existence is humiliated. The only reality is “anxiety” in the whole chain of being. To the man lost in the world and its diversions this anxiety is a brief, fleeting fear. But if that fear becomes conscious of itself, it becomes anguish, the perpetual climate of the lucid man “in whom existence is concentrated.” This professor of philosophy writes without trembling and in the most abstract language in the world that “the finite and limited character of human existence is more primordial than man himself.” His interest in Kant extends only to recognizing the restricted character of his “pure Reason.” This is to conclude at the end of his analyses that “the world can no longer offer anything to the man filled with anguish.” This anxiety seems to him so much more important than all the categories in the world that he thinks and talks only of it. He enumerates its aspects: boredom when the ordinary man strives to quash it in him and benumb it; terror when the mind contemplates death. He too does not separate consciousness from the absurd. The consciousness of death is the call of anxiety and “existence then delivers itself its own summons through the intermediary of consciousness.” It is the very voice of anguish and it adjures existence “to return from its loss in the anonymous They.” For him, too, one must not sleep, but must keep alert until the consummation. He stands in this absurd world and points out its ephemeral character. He seeks his way amid these ruins.

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