tfl@security.UUCP (Tom Litant) (06/28/83)
What `existentialism' is is probably one of the hardest things to pin down, for at least two reasons: 1) There were many different `flavors' of existentialism, e.g., Atheist, Christian(e.g. Kierkegaard), and so on. 2) A number of the paradigm existentialists, e.g. Sartre, claimed that they weren't existentialists at all. However, an answer to your question, if I may be allowed to be overly superficial, comes from the fact that Existentialism has generally been a reaction against the earlier philosophical view that one's essence precedes one's existence. The Existentialists claim, on the contrary, that man's existence precedes his essence (excuse the non-gender neutral vocabulary), and that a meaningful existence involves spending one's life defining one's essence. Now, both theistic and non-theistic existentialism seem to agree that this is man's task, and not god's, although, of course, the latter denies the existence of said being. I guess that the impression one gets from most literary existentialism is that values are not defined absolutely, by fiat, by an absolute being, correct intuition, or whatever, which throws incredible responsibility and loneliness on to the shoulders of the individual (see Sartre's THE FLIES, for example). Beyond this, I believe that Existentialism has little to add to Philosophy (though it adds much to literature), though this could be due to my background in Contemporary Analytic Philosophy, which tends to be antagonistic towards Continental Philosophy. p.s. To those advocating what has been loosely termed "Absolute Value Systems" on the net, what does one do about such tribes as the Ichs (spelling?). If I recall correctly, this african tribe caused great consternation in the anthropology world by their cavalier disregard for what has been considered cross-cultural fundamental moral behavior. (e.g., mothers would steal food from their children at the expense of the child's life) Normative Ethics is always fun, but tends to generate more heat than light. ..............tom litant
don@allegra.UUCP (08/08/83)
The Horrible Cookbook Although I had slept late Saturday, 30 minutes of vigorous exercise and the reading of a book of stories by J. P. Sartre left me feeling wide awake and rather smug. The next big event of the day was dinner, something I always look forward to with enthusiasm. I decided to give in to the sudden urge to eat pancakes, and I rushed into the kitchen. Knowing that I was about to get my heart's desire gave me a rush of euphoria, and I had to suppress a giggle. We had several brands of mix in the cupboards, but they tend to produce flat, doughy pancakes. I knew we had flour and baking powder, but I didn't have a proper recipe. It was then that I remembered my housemate's cookbook which we never used. I got it out; a collection of home recipes submitted by women belonging to some club in Louisiana. Ah... some of the best food in the country can be found there, so I quickly looked up pancakes and found this: 1 oz. bread 1/4 c. skim milk 1 egg 2 pkg. Sweet & Low 1/2 tsp. vanilla Blend all ingredients together and "fry" in a Pam sprayed pan. Serve with dietetic pancake syrup. I was stupefied! I paged though the book a little and found things like chocolate pies made from Cool Whip and melted candy bars, but I kept coming back to the pancake recipe. Like the day I found our pet cat in the road with its cute little head run over, I was transfixed and nauseated by this brutal confrontation with Being and Existence. The image of mashing bread in skim milk to make batter was sickening. Needless to say, I was completely put off pancakes. My next thought was, 'what kind of woman would serve crap like this to her family', but the hatred welling up in me was suddenly choked as I pictured her. She was the Archetypical Mother walking towards the dinner table, her family basking in her maternal love and occasionally eyeing the casserole she carried with apprehension. For these children, life was good, but meals were strange encounters with the Absurd. Like helpless characters trapped in a Kafka story, they would watch their mother's secret smile as she unveiled a weird creation of hotdogs and pearl tapioce. I remembered how my father and I suffered after my mother discovered Hamburger Helper. No, it was not the woman's fault, it was the culture she was immersed in. This horrible cookbook was the first truly honest American cookbook. A person from France or Germany might now experience the bizarre petrochemical cuisine that is a part of our everyday life here. The disire for instant gratification was to blame! I closed the book and sighed. Then I rung up for a pizza.