The Act of Creating Art is Terror Management

“Man is literally split in two: he has an awareness of his own splendid uniqueness in that he sticks out of nature with a towering majesty, and yet he goes back into the ground a few feet in order to blindly and dumbly rot and disappear forever. It is a terrifying dilemma to be in and to have to live with.

Man has a symbolic identity that brings him sharply out of nature. He is a symbolic self, a creature with a name, a life history. He is a creator with a mind that soars out to speculate about atoms and infinity, who can place himself imaginatively at a point in space and contemplate bemusedly his own planet. This immense expansion, this dexterity, this ethereality, this self-consciousness gives to man literally the status of a small god in nature, as the Renaissance thinkers knew.

The knowledge of death is reflective and conceptual, and animals are spared it. They live and they disappear with the same thoughtlessness: a few minutes of fear, a few seconds of anguish, and it is over. But to live a whole lifetime with the fate of death haunting one’s dreams and even the most sun-filled days—that’s something else.”

— Ernest Becker, The Denial of Death

THE MOST IMPORTANT QUESTIONS WE CAN ASK OURSELVES
What’s the most important question, or questions, that a human being can ask? Have you ever thought about that? I have. A lot. For me, and I believe for all humanity, the most important questions revolve around existence. Why am I here? What’s my purpose? Is there a meaning to life? If there is, what is it?

These are the questions that started me on my journey almost 40 years ago. For most of my life, I’ve used photography to explore these questions. Examining why some people are treated differently than others and pondering why the gulf between individuals exists. It was the beginning of my quest to understand what drives human behavior. There is the direct question of purpose, too. Religions were created to answer these questions, but they answer them based on faith, not empirical evidence. There’s evidence that the earliest homo sapiens invented and practiced some kind of religion. Humans have always depended on some kind of supernatural belief. Why is this? The answer is simple: to deal with the knowledge of death and quell the existential anxiety that arises from that knowledge. Death anxiety is a powerful driver in daily life, and most people never know that it is directing their lives. We do all kinds of things to distract ourselves from consciously thinking about our deaths. These distractions can be good or bad. Religions have been the main staple for staving off death anxiety for millennia. Things have changed in the last 300 years. The Enlightenment and the Industrial Revolution (technology) have given rise to people leaving religion and leaning on new constructs to quell their death anxiety. This is why Friedrich Nietzsche said, “God is dead.” He was referring to technology, money, fame, etc., freedom from religion, and personal growth. A form of terror management.

Human beings have an unconscious desire for immortality. We simply can’t face the fact of death or non-existence; it’s what we fear most, whether we know it or not, and most don’t. Ernest Becker wrote, “Man is literally split in two: he has an awareness of his own splendid uniqueness in that he sticks out of nature with a towering majesty, and yet he goes back into the ground a few feet in order blindly and dumbly to rot and disappear forever”. This quote is from Becker's 1973 book, The Denial of Death.

Pessimistic philosophers would tell you that life is a mistake. The overabundance of consciousness (the knowledge of mortality) is an evolutionary misstep. Peter Zapfee talks about the “suffering of brotherhood,” saying that the true knowledge of how much pain and suffering there is in the world is unbearable. The "brotherhood of suffering" is a concept in The Last Messiah by Peter Wessel Zapffe. In the parable, a paralyzed hunter recognizes that the animal's fear and hunger are similar to his own. The hunter then feels a great psalm about the brotherhood of suffering among everything alive.

Zapffe believed that the human condition is tragically overdeveloped and that the world is beyond humanity's need for meaning. He viewed the world as unable to provide any answers to fundamental existential questions.

While I’m not a pessimist, I can see the value of arguments like Zapffe’s. There are no answers to these big questions. There are only distractions to keep us from thinking about them. That’s what terror management theory addresses. How we distract ourselves from the reality of living—that there is no meaning or purpose in life. And that we will die and be forgotten.

The illusions or cultural constructs (cultural worldviews) we lean on to quell our death anxiety are everywhere: religion, politics, having children, getting married, sports, money, fame, degrees, awards, jobs, social status, drugs, alcohol, shopping (tranquilizing with the trivial)—anything to bolster our self-esteem and keep the existential anxiety repressed—and it works, and it works well. If you spend any time on social media, you can easily spot what people rely on to buffer their anxiety. I’ve seen people deeply identify with their vehicles, photography achievements, how long they’ve been married, their new clothes and “look,” the celebrity they met or the concert they attended, and so many other (too much information) things that are meaningless and trivial. What they don’t understand is that no one really cares.

Humans have evolved to suppress or repress this knowledge—to distract ourselves and deny our mortality. We had to, or we wouldn’t have survived. I read a book a while ago called "Denial: Self-Deception, False Beliefs, and the Origins of the Human Mind" by Ajit Varki and Danny Brower. The book presents a theory on the origins of the human species. It explains why denial is a key to being human. The authors argue that humans separated themselves from other creatures because they became self-aware of their own and others' mortality. They then developed a way to deny that mortality. The book offers a warning about the dangers of our ability to ignore reality. It asks why other intelligent animals have not evolved like humans. The authors' answer is that humans have crossed a major psychological evolutionary barrier by developing the ability to deny reality. The theory of mind (TOM) plays a big role in this evolutionary step. I highly recommend reading the book.

Where does that leave us? Well, for some of us who don’t lean on some of the aforementioned illusions, there is art. Art is our distraction and our buffer. The coping mechanism we use to repress the knowledge of our deaths works well. It gives us meaning and significance and makes us feel like we are part of something bigger than ourselves—that maybe our art will live on after we are gone (symbolic immortality). Regardless of what we do, what we create, or where it ends up or not, the function of art is an important one.

WHY DO WE MAKE ART?
No one is going to save the world by making art. That’s not difficult to understand, and I think we can all agree on that. However, living a creative life can bring peace and satisfaction. And it can bolster your self-esteem. That’s really the function of art. It’s to allow creative people to transfer their existential anxiety onto an object (sublimation), into music, or onto a written page. I’ll talk more about this in a minute. So, we make art to keep our neurosis in check. To bring us meaning and significance and to quell our death anxiety. That’s the function of art. And if people like it after all of that, great! But that’s not the reason or function of art.

THE TWO THINGS THAT I HAVE GREAT CONFIDENCE IN SAYING ARE TRUE
I’ve studied the theories of Ernest Becker, Solomon, et al. (TMT) since 2018. And for the past two years, I’ve engaged with these ideas more deeply than I ever have before. Through these studies, I’m convinced of a couple of things.

CREATING ART IS TERROR MANAGEMENT
First, creating art is done in the service of terror management (TMT). One of the ubiquitous characteristics of human art throughout history and across cultures is the attempt to come to terms with mortality and achieve symbolic forms of immortality. In essence, saying, “I was here” or “remember me!” And the act itself buffers our existential dread. I’m convinced of that. There have been many philosophers, even beyond Becker, who have eluded to this. Peter Zapfee called in sublimation. He said it was the best form of terror management, but few people could do it. He wrote in his essay, The Last Messiah (1933), "Sublimation is the refocusing of energy away from negative outlets toward positive ones. Through stylistic or artistic gifts, the very pain of living can sometimes be converted into valuable experiences. Positive impulses engage the evil and put it to their own ends, fastening onto its pictorial, dramatic, heroic, lyric, or even comic aspects. To write a tragedy, one must to some extent free oneself from—betray—the very feeling of tragedy and regard it from an outer, e.g., aesthetic, point of view. Here is, by the way, an opportunity for the wildest round-dancing through ever higher ironic levels into a most embarrassing circulus vitiosus. Here one can chase one's ego across numerous habitats, enjoying the capacity of the various layers of consciousness to dispel one another. The present essay is a typical attempt at sublimation. The author does not suffer; he is filling pages and is going to be published in a journal."

Ernest Becker wrote, “Both the artist and the neurotic bite off more than they can chew, but the artist spews it back out again and chews it over in an objectified way, as an external, active work project. The neurotic can’t marshal this creative response embodied in a specific work, and so he chokes on his introversions.”

In essence, we’re all neurotic to some degree. It’s part and parcel of the dilemma of existing. The creative life offers something that no other form of terror management can: a literal outlet for existential terror.

Becker goes on to say, "The only way to work on perfection is in the form of an objective work that is fully under your control and is perfectible in some real ways. Either you eat up yourself and others around you, trying for perfection; or you objectify that imperfection in a work, on which you then unleash your creative powers. In this sense, some kind of objective creativity is the only answer man has to the problem of life.

The creative person becomes, in art, literature, and religion the mediator of natural terror and the indicator of a new way to triumph over it. He reveals the darkness and the dread of the human condition and fabricates a new symbolic transcendence over it. This has been the function of the creative deviant from the shamans through Shakespeare.

Otto Rank asked why the artist so often avoids clinical neurosis when he is so much a candidate for it because of his vivid imagination, his openness to the finest and broadest aspects of experience, his isolation from the cultural world-view that satisfies everyone else. The answer is that he takes in the world, but instead of being oppressed by it he reworks it in his own personality and recreates it in the work of art. The neurotic is precisely the one who cannot create.” Ernest Becker, The Denial of Death, 1973

TRIBALISM AND “OTHERING”
And secondly, the way we form tribes and go after the “other” whoever that may be to you. This is what my project (In the Shadow of Sun Mountain: The Psychology of Othering and the Origins of Evil) is about. I’m explaining the reasons for genocide, ethnocide, racism, xenophobia, hate, etc. through these theories. I’ve found that people often talk about these events but never give any solid reasons for why they happen. That’s one of my objectives in this work. I’ve also written quite an extensive section about my own journey. Starting with my own death awareness around the age of eight. I share life stories of death, othering, and the negative effects of in-groups and out-groups. In all of that, I revisited my interest in photography. How I started, what I’ve been interested in, and how this work is really the culmination of 35 plus years of thinking, wondering, and pursuing these ideas.

I recently read a great article on Alternet.org by Bobby Azarian. He is a cognitive neuroscientist and the author of the book The Romance of Reality: How the Universe Organizes Itself to Create Life, Consciousness, and Cosmic Complexity. He wrote, "Terror management theory is more relevant than ever because it provides an explanation for tribalism, which is really at the core of this mystery. The theory suggests that existential terror—which can be triggered by anything that is perceived to pose a threat to one’s existence—is the reason we adopt cultural worldviews, such as our religions, national identities, or political ideologies. In an attempt to mitigate our fears, we latch onto philosophies that give our lives meaning and direction in a chaotic world.

But how does this explain tribalism, exactly?

When we're fearful or threatened, we rally around those who share our worldviews. We become aggressive toward those who don't. More alarmingly, perceived threats or existential fears—immigrants, transgender people, gun grabbing, government conspiracies, humiliation at the hands of "liberal elites”—can stir up nationalism and sway voting habits toward presidential candidates with authoritarian personalities. For example, a study found that when primed to think about their deaths, American students who self-identified as conservatives showed increased support for drastic military interventions that could lead to mass civilian casualties overseas. Another study found that after the 9/11 terror attack, support for then-President George W. Bush spiked, ultimately resulting in his re-election."

My journey studying these theories has been life-altering. I find myself more understanding of human behavior and more tolerant and patient. I’m more open to people’s beliefs and what they lean on to quell their anxiety. As long as their beliefs aren’t hurting themselves or anyone else, I say go for it; we need to find meaning and significance in our lives to make this journey bearable.

I’m grateful and humble (or try to be) for each day I’m above ground. I’m in awe of life and the mystery of it all—my finitude and smallness are always present in my mind; I’m fully present to my cosmic insignificance. I understand that I really don’t know anything, and what I do know is very limited and only in a certain context. I have very little certainty about anything (save what I mentioned in this essay). Life is wonderful, but rarely, if ever, is it black and white. I walk in the world of the “hard place,” not the “rock place.” We are all trying our best to manage our existential terror, whether we know it or not, and most don’t.

The Last Messiah by Peter Wessel Zapffe (1933)

“The Last Messiah” by Peter Wessel Zapffe: An Overview and Analysis

Peter Wessel Zapffe - 1899-1990 Norwegian Pessimistic Philosopher

I encourage you to download the essay and read it, then come back to this analysis. It will put everything into context.

The Norwegian philosopher Peter Wessel Zapffe is little-known to most Anglophone readers. He was greatly inspired by Arthur Schopenhauer and has been called one of the “bleakest thinkers of all times and places.” Zapffe was also an avid mountaineer and a friend of fellow Norwegian philosopher—and originator of deep ecology—Arne Næss. His only major work is his doctoral dissertation, On the Tragic (1941), which has never been translated into any other language, although an English translation is currently in the works. Justin Weinberg, writing for Daily Nous, says that On the Tragic is “an achievement that alone ranks him as one of the most original and incisive thinkers of the past century.” Fortunately, though, we can familiarize ourselves with some of the themes and ideas expressed in this work through a short essay that Zapffe wrote, one of his few works to ever be translated into English.

"The Last Messiah" is a 1933 essay that encapsulates Zapffe’s view on the human condition and stands out as an important work in the sphere of philosophical pessimism. The views expressed can be classified as a kind of evolutionary existentialism in that Zapffe propounds a view on the nature of human existence that incorporates an evolutionary perspective. "The Last Messiah" summarizes the thoughts that Zapffe would later express in On the Tragic. The horror writer Thomas Ligotti also frequently references Zapffe’s essay in his pessimistic nonfiction work The Conspiracy Against the Human Race: A Contrivance of Horror (2010).

Zapffe’s Analysis of the Human Condition in "The Last Messiah"

For Zapffe, existential angst, despair, and depression are due to our overly evolved intellect. He believed — as he argues in "The Last Messiah"—that we have an overabundance of consciousness, we essentially think too much for our own good. He refers to the human being as “a biological paradox, an abomination, an absurdity, an exaggeration of disastrous nature.” Rust Cohle, a nihilistic character in the series True Detective, expresses the same view: "I think human consciousness is a tragic misstep in evolution."

“Man beholds the earth, and it is breathing like a great lung; whenever it exhales, delightful life swarms from all its pores and reaches out toward the sun, but when it inhales, a moan of rupture passes through the multitude, and corpses whip the ground like bouts of hail.”

— Peter Zapffe, The Last Messiah

In his essay, Zapffe goes on to say that we are a species that “had been armed too heavily”—for after all, what animal needs to be aware of its own mortality, or needs to be so prone to anxiety? For Zapffe, our becoming mentally over-equipped has resulted in us becoming “fearful of life itself,” of our “very being." The degree to which we are conscious of reality, which is unlike any other species, also means that we have become acutely aware of the suffering of billions of people and sentient life on the planet. Aldous Huxley, in his novel Chrome Yellow (1921), wrote:

If one had an imagination vivid enough and a sympathy sufficiently sensitive to comprehend and feel the sufferings of other people, one would never have a moment’s peace of mind.

Zapffe's point is that our imagination is so naturally vivid that we can't help but let "the suffering of human billions" enter our awareness through the "gateway of compassion." And such a clear-eyed view of reality is overwhelming. In a rather evocative passage, Zapffe writes:

The tragedy of a species becoming unfit for life by overevolving one ability is not confined to humankind. Thus, it is thought, for instance, that certain deer in paleontological times succumbed as they acquired overly-heavy horns. The mutations must be considered blind; they work and are thrown forth without any contact of interest with their environment. In depressive states, the mind may be seen in the image of such an antler, in all its fantastic splendor, pinning its bearer to the ground.

The species of deer that Zapffe has in mind is the Irish elk (Megaloceros giganteus), which thrived throughout Eurasia during the ecological epoch known as the Pleistocene (2.6 million to 11,700 years ago). The Irish elk had the largest antlers of any known deer, with a maximum span of 3.65 meters. Historically, the explanation given for the extinction of the Irish elk was that its antlers grew too large: the animals could no longer hold up their heads or feed properly—their antlers, according to this explanation, would also get entangled in trees, such as when trying to flee human hunters through forests. However, according to some researchers, the large antlers of the Irish elk may have had little to do with the extinction of the species. Yet regardless of whether the Irish elk's antlers did, indeed, weigh these creatures down, Zapffe's analogy is still illuminating in its own right.

A surplus of consciousness and intellect is the default state of affairs for the human species, although unlike the case of the deer that Zapffe alludes to, we have been able to save ourselves from going extinct. Zapffe posits that humans have come to cope and survive by repressing this surplus of consciousness. Without restricting our consciousness, Zapffe believed the human being would fall into “a state of relentless panic” or a ‘feeling of cosmic panic’, as he puts it. This follows a person’s realization that “[h]e is the universe’s helpless captive”; it comes from truly understanding the human predicament. In the 1990 documentary To Be a Human Being, he stated:

Man is a tragic animal. Not because of his smallness, but because he is too well endowed. Man has longings and spiritual demands that reality cannot fulfill. We have expectations of a just and moral world. Man requires meaning in a meaningless world.

“Daisies, Ponderosa Pine, and Stones (detail),” June 6, 2023 10” x 10” (25,4 x 25,4cm) RA-4 Color Reversal Print (made in camera, a direct positive, no negative)

Coping Mechanisms

In "The Last Messiah," Zapffe postulates four main methods humans have used for limiting the contents of their consciousness, including:

Isolation, which involves “a fully arbitrary dismissal from consciousness of all disturbing and destructive thought and feeling,” It is an avoidance of thinking about the human condition and the terrible truths that Zapffe believes this entails. He also describes the technique of isolation by quoting a certain "Engstrom," whose identity remains uncertain: “One should not think, it is just confusing.”

Anchoring involves the “fixation of points within, or construction of walls around, the liquid fray of consciousness.” This requires that we consistently focus our attention on a value or ideal (the examples Zapffe gives include "God, the Church, the State, morality, fate, the laws of life, the people, and the future”).

Distraction, which is when “one limits attention to the critical bounds by constantly enthralling it with impressions," prevents the mind from examining itself and becoming aware of the tragedy of human existence. It is easy to think of how we, in modern times, incessantly distract ourselves with external stimulation; some examples Zapffe gives include entertainment, sport, and radio.

Sublimation, which Zapffe calls “a matter of transformation rather than repression,” It involves turning “the very pain of living” into “valuable experiences.” He continues: “Positive impulses engage the evil and put it to their own ends, fastening onto its pictorial, dramatic, heroic, lyric, or even comic aspects.” He also notes that the essay "The Last Messiah" itself is an attempt at such sublimation. For Zapffe, sublimation is “the rarest of protective mechanisms." Most people can limit the contents of their consciousness using the previous three mechanisms, staving off existential angst and world-weariness. But when these forms of repression fail and the tragic cannot be ignored, sublimation offers a remedy, a way of turning the unignorable “pain of living” into creative, positive, and aesthetically valuable works.

Is There No Room for Joy?

Comparisons have been made between Zapffe’s views on the human condition and sublimation to the thought of Friedrich Nietzsche. In The Gay Science (1882), Nietzsche writes: “Higher human beings distinguish themselves from the lower by seeing and hearing, and thoughtfully seeing and hearing, immeasurably more”. But this higher degree of sensitivity, of looking deeply into life, results in suffering. In The Birth of Tragedy (1872), Nietzsche, like Zapffe, defends the remedial effects of art: “The truly serious task of art…[is] to save the eye from gazing into the horrors of night and to deliver the subject by the healing balm of illusion from the spasms of the agitations of the will.”

When the first three repression techniques outline by Zapffe fail, which they do for a minority of people, then creative expression may be the only available means of coping with the “horrors of night," as Nietzsche put it. Arguably, the rarity of sublimation helps to explain why geniuses are also rare, as creative work is often the only saving grace for those people deeply attuned to the fullness of the human predicament. In the words of Aristotle: “No great genius has ever existed without a touch of madness.” Elsewhere Aristotle stated: “Those who have become eminent in philosophy, politics, poetry, and the arts have all had tendencies toward melancholia.” Many studies have indeed found links between psychopathology and creativity, with many such studies discussed in Dean Keith Simonton’s book Origins of Genius (1999).

To save oneself from becoming overwhelmed, panicked, and despondent, creative work acts as a protective mechanism, as Zapffe argues, although such creative expression may be regarded as more valuable than simply protection against consciousness; it can be thought of as providing the very meaning that people yearn for, which Zapffe believes is unobtainable. Nietzsche, for instance, maintained that “To live is to suffer, to survive is to find some meaning in the suffering.” The psychiatrist Viktor Frankl also echoed the view that meaning can be found in our relationship to suffering. It is possible to transcend the sense of meaningless and hopelessness we have by creating something genuinely valuable and meaningful.

Here we can make a distinction between cosmic nihilism, which paints the universe as inherently meaningless and terrestrial nihilism, which treats all of human life and activity as meaningless. Even pessimistic philosophers such as David Benatar concede that human life can be meaningful. We don’t have to fall into terrestrial nihilism, as well as cosmic nihilism. By advancing meaning in terrestrial, human affairs, the panic that Zapffe alludes to may only hold true when we take the cosmic perspective. Furthermore, if meaning can be found in transforming one’s own suffering or that of others, then this could entail actions that go beyond sublimation. There seems to be discoverable meaning for people — such as being of service to others or serving something bigger than oneself — that could be defined as an intrinsic part of the human condition, rather than a way of escaping the human condition.

On Zapffe’s point that our surplus of consciousness is to blame for the unique experience of existential angst and depression, I think it could be equally claimed that this surplus also enables converse feelings of existential joy. Of course, it can be disputed as to whether the existential angst is what comes more easily, but at least in cases of rarefied genius, so those people who cannot repress consciousness like the majority do, there is often a great capacity for joy, as well as sorrow. This seems to hinge on these people’s sensitivity to the totality of one’s individual consciousness, the human condition in general, and the world at large. Thus, just as despair can accompany any ordinary day, in solitude with one’s mind, so can ecstasy. One becomes open to the wide range of human experience and emotion, and privy to its depths and intensities.

As a case in point, Nietzsche experienced extreme states of suffering, both physical and psychological in nature, and focused much of his work on the problem of human suffering; but Nietzsche nonetheless seemed open to intense joys as well. He writes:

The intensities of my feeling make me shudder and laugh; several times I could not leave the room for the ridiculous reason that my eyes were inflamed — from what? Each time, I had wept too much on my previous day’s walk, not sentimental tears but tears of joy; I sang and talked nonsense, filled with a glimpse of things which put me in advance of all other men.

In the preface to The Gay Science, he also spoke of the elation and hopefulness that can follow a confrontation with suffering:

This book might need more than one preface; and in the end there would still be room for doubting whether someone who has not experienced something similar could, by means of prefaces, be brought closer to the experience of this book. It seems to be written in the language of the wind that brings a thaw: it contains high spirits, unrest, contradiction, and April weather, so that one is constantly reminded of winter’s nearness as well as of the triumph over winter that is coming, must come, perhaps has already come. . . Gratitude flows forth incessantly, as if that which was most unexpected had just happened — the gratitude of a convalescent — for recovery was what was most unexpected. "Gay Science": this signifies saturnalia of a mind that has patiently resisted a terrible, long pressure — patiently, severely, coldly, without yielding, but also without hope — and is now all of a sudden attacked by hope, by hope for health, by the intoxication of recovery. Is it any wonder that in the process much that is unreasonable and foolish comes to light, much wanton tenderness, lavished even on problems that have a prickly hide, not made to be fondled and lured? This entire book is really nothing but an amusement after long privation and powerlessness, the jubilation of returning strength, of a reawakened faith in a tomorrow and a day after tomorrow, of a sudden sense and anticipation of a future, of impending adventures, of reopened seas, of goals that are permitted and believed in again.

“Flowering Ponderosa Pine,” June 6, 2023 10” x 10” (25,4 x 25,4cm) RA-4 Color Reversal Print (made in camera, a direct positive, no negative)

On Zapffe’s Evolutionary Existentialism

While the argument could be made that Zapffe is perhaps unduly pessimistic in his outlook, I do think he delivers a keen insight into the human condition by focusing on the evolutionary perspective. It seems clear that our biological, evolutionary imperatives do not always closely align with human well-being and, at least on some accounts, such imperatives seem diametrically opposed to our happiness. For example, in Buddhism, craving is cast as the root of human suffering, yet craving serves a crucial biological and evolutionary function; it makes us constantly feel unsatisfied with what is, projecting satisfaction on what could be, causing us to constantly strive, but never gaining lasting satisfaction, only temporary satisfaction. But this treadmill of desire is what keeps us motivated to survive and reproduce.

Zapffe refers to the human organism as a “biological paradox,” but actually, I think while his analysis of the human condition may hold true, it is not so hard to see why the human intellect is as it is, even if it leads to the unique human experience of existential angst. Evolutionary trade-offs are commonplace. There are countless examples of where an advantageous change in one trait leads to a disadvantageous change in another trait. In the case of humans, we can easily see that our degree of intellect as advantageous in a strictly biological context, but at the same time we can say that we have too much intellect and awareness, that it makes us prone to a wide spectrum of negative states, from rumination to horrific despair.

However, in evolutionary terms, we might posit that the benefits of our highly (or overly) evolved intellect outweigh the downsides, even if experientially, for the individual, those downsides entail existential panic and an indefatigable kind of discomfort. Zapffe notes, however, that most people avoid the real horrors of seeing the human predicament clearly, with “[p]ure example of life-panic [being] presumably rare.” This is because “the protective mechanisms are refined and automatic and to some extent unremitting.” Evolution is not a perfect system of design, so even if the protective mechanisms don’t successfully work for all individuals or don’t work all the time, with life-panic sometimes rising to the surface, our overly evolved intellect is nevertheless beneficial overall, within a strictly evolutionary framework. So long as we have the four repressional techniques in place, working for most people most of the time, it seems the human species can avoid extinction.

Thus, the human situation is unique, undoubtedly, but I would not necessarily view it as paradoxical from an evolutionary perspective, although it is paradoxical in the sense that, as a consequence of biological evolution, we have the intellectual capacity to question life itself and even reject it, a capacity absent from members of any other species, who we presume are merely directed by biological impulses, without protest or question.

Zapffe’s other characterization of the species as an “absurdity” is probably quite apt. It certainly fits in with Albert Camus’ description of the human condition in The Myth of Sisyphus, in which Camus analogizes human life with that of the king Sisyphus, who in Greek mythology was said to have been punished by Zeus for his self-aggrandizement and forced to eternally roll a giant boulder up a hill, watch it roll down, and then have to roll it up again. For Camus, human life is comparable to this absurd activity, in that our condition and the world do not meet our desires: we want meaning, a fundamental reason for our existence, but we are unable to find such a meaning or purpose. This is a point that Zapffe also underscores. The boulder is the meaning we try to construct (be it scientific, metaphysical, or religious), but they inevitably fail to meet our need for meaning (according to Camus, anyway), and this causes us to construct another meaning, with the process repeating itself, like in the case of Sisyphus.

One potential criticism I would level against Zapffe’s "The Last Messiah" essay is that the mind may already — naturally — repress consciousness, without any artificial methods of repression in place. This is known as the "reducing valve theory" of the mind, expounded by philosophers such as Henri Bergson and C.D. Broad, and then later popularized by Aldous Huxley in The Doors of Perception (1954). This theory also appears to be with more modern research on human consciousness. For example, research has demonstrated that the human brain has evolved a large-scale network — called the default mode network (DMN) — that represses consciousness, to limit the amount of information reaching conscious awareness. Thus, the repression of consciousness seems to be biological and inbuilt, and not just artificial, as Zapffe argues.

More importantly, however, if you disable this repressional capacity of the brain, which occurs under the influence of psychedelics, this results in even more information becoming available to our awareness, an even greater abundance of consciousness. Under Zapffe’s assumptions, this would nail us down to the ground even more powerfully. Yet increased depression is not what is seen when this happens. Instead, the opposite often occurs. Such antidepressant effects can also be maintained in the long-term.

This might not be a knock-down argument against Zapffe’s main point, of course, since you might want to counter and say that the psychedelic state is but another way of fighting the default, unpleasant state of human consciousness, along with the four repressional techniques that Zapffe outlines. However, I think this research does seem to point to the fact that human consciousness is not always imprisoning and that there is the possibility of having a surplus of consciousness without falling into existential panic, even in the absence of repressional techniques.

Antinatalism in "The Last Messiah"

Based on his rather bleak diagnosis of the human species, Zapffe puts forward his notion of "the last messiah": “[a] man who has fathomed life and its cosmic ground, and whose pain is the Earth’s collective pain.” Such a messiah would, in Zapffe’s mind, cause outrage among the general public, with passionate calls made for his death, just as in the case of other messiahs. But the vital message of this last messiah is starkly different from those messiahs preceding him; in fact, whereas most messiahs have life-affirming messages, this last messiah has a life-denying one: “Know yourselves — be infertile, and let the earth be silent after ye.” This is the best solution available to us, according to Zapffe.

Such a view is a proclamation of antinatalism, a philosophy that recommends we desist from procreation, also professed by philosophers such as Emil Cioran. It is certainly antithetical to the more pronatalist values found in the Bible, such as when God declared to humanity: “Be fruitful and multiply” (Genesis 1:28). Zapffe’s antinatalist philosophy is also succinctly summed up in his statement: “To bear children into this world is like carrying wood to a burning house.” Zapffe took antinatalism seriously and remained childless throughout his life. Elsewhere, he said:

In accordance with my conception of life, I have chosen not to bring children into the world. A coin is examined, and only after careful deliberation, given to a beggar, whereas a child is flung out into the cosmic brutality without hesitation.

Zapffe, as we can see, takes an extremely pessimistic view of the human condition. In many people’s eyes, it may be too pessimistic to be considered realistic, which is what most philosophical pessimists aim for in their thought. Zapffe’s evolutionary existentialism could also be accurate, yet still narrow in excluding the joyous mode of being available to us, which can remain even after we reject all of the repressional techniques that Zapffe describes. Perhaps existential panic comes easily, but this does not mean existential joy is always out of reach. After all, our abundance of consciousness — our level of self-awareness — also gives us the unique capacity to rejoice about our existence.

I found this article by Sam Woolfe on partially examined life. I did edit it, but I left the main ideas in tact.

Finding Meaning in the Meaninglessness

“Light” This is dead Rocky Mountain barley and a small cactus flower that is blooming. This is a 10” x 10” (25,4 x 25,4 cm) RA-4 color reversal direct print (made in the camera). This is about 1 second overexposed - I really like the diptych of these.

““Man’s main concern is not to gain pleasure or to avoid pain but rather to see a meaning in his life. That is why man is even ready to suffer, on the condition, to be sure, that his suffering has a meaning.””

— Viktor Frankl, Man's Search for Meaning

This coming Saturday, April 22, 2023, I’m going to read the sixth chapter of “The Worm at the Core: On the Role of Death in Life” on my YouTube show. This chapter is about symbolic immortality. What is symbolic immortality? It’s the flip side of the coin of human desiring or striving for immorality. One side of the coin is literal immortality (last week’s read), and the other is symbolic immortality. It’s a big driving force in our lives. And it’s very interesting in terms of terror management theory. If you can, join me for the reading, I’m sure you’ll find something vaguely interesting if you’re reading this.

The book really starts to take off with this chapter. To this point, the authors have laid the groundwork for the reasons we lean on repression, denial, and the transcendence of death. They’ve addressed how we use our parents when we’re children for our self-esteem, and then we separate, or individuate, and lean on culture for the all-important tools to repress or deny the knowledge of our impending death and to build self-esteem (which acts as a buffer to death anxiety). They’ve given both historical references and modern empirical evidence about how we respond to death awareness. For me, this is where these theories really take off and we begin to connect the dots.

“Humans are incredibly intelligent. On consciousness: It takes a ridiculously sophisticated cognitive apparatus to render yourself the object of your own subjective inquiry. ”

— Soren Kierkegaard

Since human beings acquired consciousness or became aware that they existed, nonexistence has become a frightening reality. Mortality is on our minds and in our thoughts; it consumes us, and we need a way to buffer, repress, or transcend it. This is true, whether we know it or not, and most don’t (it’s an unconscious activity, like most psychological events). We are so embedded or ensconced in our cultural worldview that we’re blind to what motivates our activities, shapes our desires, and drives us on a daily basis. For me, this is the most revealing feature of these ideas. We’re so far down the rabbit hole (repressing the anxiety) that we can’t make sense of these theories; we don’t understand them. That’s what they’re designed to do: keep us from thinking about becoming worm food. And over tens of thousands of years, they have become so deeply embedded in our psychological landscape that we are shielded from the knowledge of death—at least for the most part.

One way we deal with the terror of death is to transcend it; we mainly use culture to do that. Technology, religion, art, ritual, myth, family, politics, relationships, money, etc.—these all provide some form of immortality for us or ways to repress or buffer existential dread. Why are we so afraid of dying? It’s not the actual event of death that gives us anxiety (some do have anxiety about how they will die), but the knowledge of it. We are living and existing in a meaningless world. We won’t be remembered. It’s the impermanence and insignificance that give us anxiety and dread. We want to be remembered; better yet, we don’t want to die!

“Ernest Becker called this desperation ‘the ache of cosmic specialness.’ Becker states what is patently obvious to most: as humans, we constantly put ourselves at the center of the universe.”

— The Denial of Death

“Life & Light” is a 20” x 20” (51 x 51 cm) these are RA-4 color reversal direct prints (made in the camera).

As Ernest Becker, the author of “The Denial of Death” (1973), pointed out, Freud was wrong. It’s not our sexual drive that motivates our behavior and psychological gymnastics; it’s our fear of death. Peter Zapffe, a Norwegian philosopher, also addressed these theories in his 1933 essay, “The Last Messiah.” Zapffe cites four coping mechanisms we use to repress death anxiety. For Zapffe, our becoming mentally over-equipped has resulted in us becoming “fearful of life itself" and of our “very being." The degree to which we are conscious of reality, which is unlike any other species, also means that we have become acutely aware of the suffering of billions of people and sentient life on the planet, as well as the planet itself.

“The Last Messiah” starts like this (bold for emphasis):

“One night in long bygone times, man awoke and saw himself.

He saw that he was naked under cosmos, homeless in his own body. All things dissolved before his testing thought, wonder above wonder, horror above horror unfolded in his mind.

Then woman too awoke and said it was time to go and slay. And he fetched his bow and arrow, a fruit of the marriage of spirit and hand, and went outside beneath the stars. But as the beasts arrived at their waterholes where he expected them of habit, he felt no more the tiger’s bound in his blood, but a great psalm about the brotherhood of suffering between everything alive.

That day he did not return with prey, and when they found him by the next new moon, he was sitting dead by the waterhole.”

Sublimation, which Zapffe calls “a matter of transformation rather than repression,” It involves turning “the very pain of living” into “valuable experiences.” He continues: “Positive impulses engage the evil and put it to their own ends, fastening onto its pictorial, dramatic, heroic, lyric, or even comic aspects.” He also notes that the essay "The Last Messiah" itself is an attempt at such sublimation. For Zapffe, sublimation is “the rarest of protective mechanisms." Most people can limit the contents of their consciousness using the previous three mechanisms (isolation, anchoring, and distraction), staving off existential angst and world-weariness. But when these forms of repression fail and the tragic cannot be ignored, sublimation offers a remedy, a way of turning the unignorable “pain of living” into creative, positive, aesthetically valuable works. (Partially Examined Life) This is where I find myself—deep into sublimation.

Meaning and Meaninglessness
Everyone has the responsibility to create meaning in their lives. There is nothing inherently meaningful in life. Life is primarily a biological process; it goes on whether we believe in something or not; it simply doesn’t matter; the world goes on. When people ask, “What is the meaning of life?” They are missing the point; there is no meaning; you have to create it, find it, search it out, apply it, and live it. The question should be, “What is the meaning in life?” Your life. Whatever that might be, I believe whatever you do to create meaning is a good thing as long as it doesn’t hurt or infringe on other people's ways of creating meaning.

If you’re religious or have a certain faith or belief in an afterlife and believe in a deity, no problem. If you belong to a sports club or a political group and find meaning and significance there, no problem. If you have a hobby—gardening, cooking, sewing, writing, painting, or photography—that’s great! If it bolsters your self-esteem, makes you feel significant, and gives you meaning, you’re on the right track.

The problem is that, a lot of times, unconscious beliefs infringe on other people's cultural worldviews; it creates hurt, discrimination, oppression, and even death (this usually happens to members of marginalized groups). Everyone needs to find something that provides them with meaning and significance. This isn’t about being right or wrong; it’s about being human and feeding self-esteem to buffer death anxiety. We all suffer from this condition (the human condition). No one gets to say, "That doesn’t apply to me." It applies to everyone.

I’m not a nihilist, but there is some truth in the “nothingness” that nihilists ascribe to, especially existential nihilism. Nietzsche said, "To live is to suffer. To survive is to find some meaning in the suffering." I do ascribe to that idea.

William Shakespeare wrote:
"Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more. It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing."

I titled this essay “Finding Meaning in the Meaninglessness.” It’s a difficult thing to admit, but everything is meaningless. Everything. For context, when I say meaningless, I mean it in the cosmic sense, not the personal sense. For me, all of my pictures, all of my writings and books, all of my thoughts, my degrees, my life experiences, all of my accomplishments, even my existence, are all meaningless. It’s true, and I’m fine with that truth. What I’ve found is that, while I understand this fact in the cosmic sense, it doesn’t preclude me from finding meaning and significance for myself. All of the aforementioned things are very meaningful, significant, and important to me, including my wife and daughter, who are at the top of my meaningful list, and my friendships and relationships outside of my family.

I’ve created, experienced, and lived all of it for my mental health and well-being, not for some bigger purpose or to change the world. It’s wonderful to be alive most of the time. I’m in awe of the beauty where I live. I’m amazed at the progress human beings have made over the millennia. It’s truly amazing. I’m grateful to wake up every morning.

On the surface, it may seem that I’m trying to change the world through my work, but I’m not. If no one ever read a word I’ve written, looked at a picture I’ve made, or listened to my philosophies about life, it wouldn’t matter—because it doesn’t. They’re not meaningful or important to the bigger scheme of things (cosmic); I get that, and I’m okay with that. I’ve come to terms with it. It doesn’t depress or demotivate me either. In fact, in a lot of ways, it’s freeing and maybe even emancipating in ways. It encourages me even more to express and create.

The only thing I’ve tried to do (intentionally) in my life is encourage people to consider people who are different from them as fully human and try not to do harm to “the other.” And now, with my new work, I’m trying to help people understand what these important ideas have to offer. It would be a much better world, at least for the time we’re here, if we could come to terms with our mortality. As Albert Camus said, “There is only one liberty, to come to terms with death, thereafter anything is possible.”

Meaning in a Meaningless World

Peter Zapffe said, "Man is a tragic animal. Not because of his smallness, but because he is too well endowed. Man has longings and spiritual demands that reality cannot fulfill. We have expectations of a just and moral world. Man requires meaning in a meaningless world."

Like others, Zapffe was convinced that our consciousness was an evolutionary misstep. A mistake. To have a "surplus" of consciousness is too much for us to bear. We shrink from living and are afraid to die because of it. We don't necessarily fear death or dying, but rather the prospect of being forgotten—the consequences of dying. We fear impermanence and insignificance. That’s what’s unbearable to us; that’s what drives us to distractions, illusions, and denial.

Moreover, we find ourselves in a world that has no meaning. The only meaning is what we create for ourselves, and in the cosmic picture, it’s all meaningless. This idea is central to my work. This conflict creates anxiety that we need to buffer, and if we can’t buffer it, a lot of times it will manifest as anger or violence, and we will take it out on the person or people who are challenging our buffering mechanism (othering). In other words, if you challenge my worldview (my coping mechanism for death anxiety), I may lash out and want to convert you to my worldview or destroy you.

I’ve come to understand why I gravitate toward making art and having a creative life. Reading the works of the great thinkers and philosophers, it's clear to me what my attraction is to pursuing creativity versus other ways I could buffer my existential anxiety. Nietzsche said, "The truly serious task of art is to save the eye from gazing into the horrors of night and to deliver the subject by the healing balm of illusion from the spasms of the agitations of the will." That resonates deeply with me. My life has consisted of trying to unravel the problem of "othering" through art. Over the years, I’ve pulled on the threads of artists, thinkers, and philosophers before me (and those who are contemporary to me) and have used art to explore human behavior as well as buffer my own existential terror. I’m very aware of how I’ve intellectualized my impending death. Socrates claimed that the practice of philosophy in life is really a dress rehearsal for what comes in death: “… those who practice philosophy in the right way are in training for dying, and they fear death least of all men.”

When Nietzsche talks about the "truly serious task of art" being to save the eye from gazing into the horrors of night and deliver the subject from the spasms of the agitations of the will, he is speaking about the power of art to provide a form of psychological relief from existential terror.

Nietzsche believed that human existence was marked by suffering and that our awareness of this suffering could be overwhelming. In his view, the role of art was to provide a kind of escape from existential terror by creating a "healing balm of illusion" that would allow us to momentarily forget about our problems and experience a sense of peace and tranquility. I would add to that; I would argue that it allows the artist to transfer the anxiety to the work—to exercise it out of the mind, if you will. Peter Zapffe called this “sublimation”; he said it was rare but the best way to buffer anxiety. It’s rare because the majority of people choose not to have a creative life.

At the same time, Nietzsche recognized that the experience of art was not just about escaping from reality. He believed that great art had the power to transform our understanding of the world and to challenge our assumptions about what is real and what is possible.

In short, Nietzsche's comment about art's "serious task" shows how art has the power to both temporarily calm our existential terror and give our lives meaning—or at least an illusion of meaning and value.

True Detective Rust Cohle: Pessimistic Philosophy

You may not be into these kinds of series; they might be too gruesome or too real for a lot of people. This is such a well-written dialogue. I can’t believe the writer is pulling this character (Rust Cohle) straight from Peter Wessel Zapffe’s “The Last Messiah.” I’ve written a few times about Zapffe. The giant Irish elk story and the evolutionary mistake with its antlers are analogous to our consciousness and intelligence. The deeper I dive, the more I find Zapffe.

I know most people find this heavy and dark. I understand that. At the same time, I see it as the ultimate truth. This is our condition, whether we want to admit it or not. Most don’t.

We're Animals, With One Caveat

I’ve never considered or really pondered the fact that I’m an animal. You’re an animal, too. What does this mean, or why does it matter?

It plays a significant role in the theory that I’ve been working on and studying for this project. It demonstrates the need for humans to isolate themselves (psychologically) from other animals. It’s a critical part of believing in our illusions—illusions to alleviate our death anxiety.

It doesn’t surprise me, though. As I peel this onion of human behavior, each layer reveals something new. I see where all of this fits and why it is the way it is—we need it this way to get out of bed in the morning,

These are cultural constructs to convince ourselves that we're "more" or "above" the animals. But we’re not. The evidence is in the way we hide our bodily functions and how we eat; hiding our animality is very apparent in things like "bathrooms," "plates, cups, forks, spoons, and tables," as well as "making toasts with drinks." Think about it. Observe other animals; how do they handle these functions and tasks?

These are all cultural constructs to help us disguise or hide our animal nature—you’ll never see other animals doing these things. We even disguise our food with names like "steak" or "hot dog." Those words have no real meaning as they apply to food. They are simply used to disguise what we’re doing.

We even disguise sex, the most animalistic behavior of all. We wrap it in "love" and make it something special, rather than simply acknowledging that it's an act of reproduction—an evolutionary drive just like survival. And we do it just like the rest of the animals. This is one of the reasons there are so many taboos, rituals, and rules around sex in different cultures. Ernest Becker said, “The distinctive human problem from time immemorial has been the need to spiritualize human life, to lift it onto a special immortal plane, beyond the cycles of life and death that characterize all other organisms. This is one of the reasons that sexuality has from the beginning been under taboos; it had to be lifted from the plane of physical fertilization to a spiritual one.”

Because of its animalistic nature, it’s an act that most reminds us of our mortality. That’s why we create all of the celebrations around it: flowers, chocolate hearts, “love letters,” fancy dinners, lingerie, holidays, etc. We want to elevate it as an act of “love” way beyond what the “animals” do; we make it “special” because we’re “special.”

It’s a difficult topic to unpack in the context of death anxiety. However, at its core, it reveals our animal nature and what we’ll devise in order to never face it or even admit what it really is.

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“Yet, at the same time, as the Eastern sages also knew, man is a worm and food for worms. This is the paradox: he is out of nature and hopelessly in it; he is dual, up in the stars and yet housed in a heart-pumping, breath-gasping body that once belonged to a fish and still carries the gill-marks to prove it. His body is a material fleshy casing that is alien to him in many ways—the strangest and most repugnant way being that it aches and bleeds and will decay and die. Man is literally split in two: he has an awareness of his own splendid uniqueness in that he sticks out of nature with a towering majesty, and yet he goes back into the ground a few feet in order to blindly and dumbly rot and disappear forever. It is a terrifying dilemma to be in and to have to live with. The lower animals are, of course, spared this painful contradiction, as they lack a symbolic identity and the self-consciousness that goes with it. They merely act and move reflexively as they are driven by their instincts. If they pause at all, it is only a physical pause; inside they are anonymous, and even their faces have no name. They live in a world without time, pulsating, as it were, in a state of dumb being. This is what has made it so simple to shoot down whole herds of buffalo or elephants. The animals don't know that death is happening and continue grazing placidly while others drop alongside them. The knowledge of death is reflective and conceptual, and animals are spared it. They live and they disappear with the same thoughtlessness: a few minutes of fear, a few seconds of anguish, and it is over. But to live a whole lifetime with the fate of death haunting one's dreams and even the most sun-filled days—that's something else.” Ernest Becker, The Denial of Death

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If we accept that we are animals, we are reminded that we will die and become “food for worms,” as Becker said—just like all of the other animals.

If you’ve seen the movie "Elephant Man," the line spoken by John Merrick really solidifies this idea. He said, "I am not an animal! I am a human being. I am a man." I know he was saying this in reference to his birth defect and appearance (the way he was being treated), but the argument still stands about how we feel about denying our animality and how insistent we are to separate ourselves from all other living things.

There can be a religious component to this belief. I understand why that is as well. In order to have the illusion of (literal) immortality, which we desire, there has to be something that sets us apart. Some religions even go as far as telling man to "take dominion over all living things and all of earth" (paraphrased). It’s easy to see how humans can believe that they are above other life. There’s another component to this: "Man was created in the image of God." This escalates into an even bigger problem. If you ask most religious people if they believe they’re an animal, they will say, "No, I’m special, created in the image of God; how could I be an animal?" This is what I was referring to in my post about Becker’s hero system. This is the religious component of that theory. It’s an effective illusion if one can maintain it. Both Friedrich Nietzsche and Ernest Becker believed that religion was no longer a valid hero system because of advances in science and technology, and because of these advances, most people have “moved on.” That’s where Nietzsche’s infamous quote came from: "God is dead." This was the idea behind it. Religion acted as a buffer against death anxiety for most people for thousands of years, all over the world, in all kinds of religions. In the last 200 years, we’ve become much more secular and tend to look to culture for our defense against death anxiety. Here again, you can see where we have denied our animality with these religious tenets—placing ourselves above every living thing and the earth itself.

What’s the caveat? What makes us different from animals? We have consciousness, or awareness, of our mortality. Your dog or cat doesn’t know that they’re going to die. They’re completely in the moment of “now.” There are no rabbits talking about being the best rabbit alive! Animals exist with instincts to survive and reproduce. At times, they may have the fight-or-flight instinct and be very afraid, but once out of danger, they never think about it again. In our unconscious mind, we are constantly in fight-or-flight mode. William James said, “There is always a panic rumbling beneath the surface of consciousness.” That panic comes from the knowledge of our impending death. Other animals don’t have this; that’s really the only thing that makes us different. It fascinates me to look at how we live and act, denying the inevitable (our death) and trying to hide the fact that we are animals. We would show our animality if we didn't have this knowledge. We would be exactly the same as all of the other animals.

I’m slowly, but surely, putting these pieces together. These are the pieces of these theories that show us who we are and why we are the way we are: human behavior. I’m specifically interested in the reasons we commit evil acts and how our death anxiety is revealed through acts of genocide, racism, bigotry, xenophobia, and “othering.” We have so much to learn about these topics. In the end, I hope to share a tiny piece about the role that art can play in disclosing ways to deal with these big topics.

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“Denial of death, or, in psychodynamic terms, repression of death anxiety, generally results in banal and/or malignant outcomes—for example, preoccupation with shopping or the need to eradicate people who do not share our beliefs in a self-righteous quest to rid the world of evil. Repressed death anxiety is often projected onto other groups who are declared to be the all-encompassing repositories of evil and who must be destroyed so that life on earth will become what it is purported to be in heaven.”

Sheldon Solomon author of “The Worm at the Core: The Role of Death in Life

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