Thursday, April 19, 2007
Man cannot help but seek meaning in chaos. A hurricane, a tidal wave, a swarm of locusts: man asks, "Why! Why! What is the meaning of this? Is it my fault?" He makes offerings to his false gods in the vain hope that they will help him imbue the meaningless with meaning, and thereby satisfy his selfish desire to be at blame. But when the source of chaos is not capricious nature but another man, how much more compelling we find this drive. Surely, despite the chaos in his actions, he must, deep down, be like me. Surely, there is a kernel of humanity in him, a soul which reflects myself, a reason which can be understood? But the "reasons" of the mad are by their very nature without reason. These are the same folly: "what is the meaning of this shape within the clouds?"; what is the meaning of the writings on a madman's arm?