Excerpts from A REASON FOR LIVING.
Excerpts from the book A REASON FOR LIVING
by the writer and philosopher Laurent Grenier
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Excerpt from the chapter "Denial"
The doctor came to my bedside. His reputation had preceded him. It was rumored he was at the top of his profession and downright honest. I respected his high standing and feared his straightforwardness. He explained my injury, its severity and irreversibility (the spinal cord, once damaged, does not repair itself), and concluded without more ado, “You’ll never walk again. I’m sorry.”
I understood his words. Their meaning, however, did not make sense to me. Either he was wrong – despite his expertise as an eminent neurologist, he was human and hence fallible – or my life had become absurd: I was permanently deprived of the freedom to do what I desired to do for my happiness. This second alternative was unbearable. In an effort to dismiss it, I questioned the doctor’s statement with stubborn skepticism. I wanted this man to admit that his science was not a godly omniscience, or that he had reasons to think what he did, but also to doubt it. The implicit “think” was the chink in his statement – the humanness of it, by which it could be faulted. Thoughts never completely mirror their objects. They are reflections that proceed from the brain and rely on the senses for information, brain and senses being limited, one in intellectual capacity, the others in perceptual range. They are an imperfect representation of things, based on experience, not an absolute reproduction of what these things really are.
I reveled in the difference between knowledge and reality, like two overlapping circles where the first one is smaller than the second. This difference implied a margin of ignorance, in proportion to which there was room for unexpected phenomena – miracles that would be regarded as natural once the laws behind them had been discovered. Possibly there was room for my full recovery.
I urged the doctor to concede that such a recovery was conceivable, if we allowed for unknown forces, which faith could awaken. “Extraordinary things do happen, but….” To that restriction I was deaf. I desperately needed to trust I would walk again, and this need overrode the pressure to credit the doctor’s prediction, which was the most probable. The reason for my attitude exceeded reason. My heart held the balance of my judgment and made it tilt to the most desirable opinion, which was the least tenable. Such was my weakness, a common human fault: What is considered unlivable is spontaneously considered unbelievable. Doubt is maintained until the burden of proof is overwhelming, and sometimes beyond this critical threshold, in which case denial becomes mental illness.
I exploited the supposed imperfection of the doctor’s prediction. This imperfection was like a hole in the ground beneath a fence; I enlarged it forcibly until I could escape the prison of this prediction. In plain English, I indulged in fantasy under the pretext of an expanded rationality. Again I was hopeful and cheerful, though less than before and with difficulty. The doctor figured I was not ready for the truth and he had wasted his time. He left with a mix of compassion and frustration in his eyes.
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Excerpt from the chapter "Bitterness"
Everything considered, our existence pivots on a single fact: To gain wisdom, happiness, and nobility – which constitute a trinity of values that amount to one good as our fundamental purpose – we have to struggle for them. Life is a battle, and a tough one at that, against the numerous evils of the world; I vouch for the truth of this popular image. Yet, this image overstresses the outside evils, portrayed as enemies we combat, while the worst evil is a seducer inside us by the name of laziness, which loves easiness. The right way is a hard way. But then, a battle without struggle is a victory without glory. Pride is our prize.
What about defeat? Twenty-four years after my diving accident, as paralyzed now as I was then, despite my struggle for recovery, I understand this concept quite well. I also know that being defeated is never tantamount to losing the battle, except when it means death or such a severe disability that life is hopelessly reduced to coma or agony. Generally, if we suffer a defeat on one front, we can enjoy a victory on another.
Let us contemplate a second popular image, which complements the first: Life is a journey. Here our fundamental purpose takes the form of a destination. The beauty of this destination is that we can travel to it in a multitude of ways. We may choose one of them and always use it. We may even regard it as the only way that truly suits us. In fact, our situation is open to change and we are capable of acquiring new habits that can become our chosen way, our second nature, as did our old habits. Therefore, if an irreversible change in our situation renders our habits impossible, it is an obstacle marking the end of a way that was our life until then, but it is also an opportunity to start afresh and gain wisdom, happiness, and nobility through different habits. We may die, in a sense, and live again.
Be that as it may, the more our habits are old and dear to us, the more we grieve over this end and recoil at this start. Only with a pioneer spirit – which must be awakened against our long having settled into these habits – can we discover a new, satisfying way. Only with courage and time can we learn to accept the change. Spontaneously we deny it or aim to reverse it, unless it is undeniably real and irreversible. In this case, the feeling of loss is immediate. I picture a young man who has lost his legs in a car accident. In other cases, there is room for denial or false hopes. We fight the truth obstinately, desperately, and surrender to it at last when it captures us inescapably.
Into the third month of my rehabilitation, I had not quite reached that point of surrender. I hung on for dear life to my hope of recovering, which was now frailer than ever. My persistent failure to recover had weakened this hope further, and there was an increasing risk that it would break and let me fall into despair. In my view, dominated by an unrealistic goal, the progress I made was insignificant. I suffered disappointment after disappointment, despite my perseverance in every part of my therapy.
I was still unable to eat properly, even with a hand strap and a swivel utensil. My mobility and strength had increased from virtually nothing, on the day of my diving accident, to little more, half a year later. I had some muscular activity in the shoulders and the arms, though none in the triceps and almost none in the wrists, and that was all. My hands drooped and trembled when I strained to raise them to my mouth over and over.
Nevertheless, the orderly insisted I eat on my own. “Stop complaining and try again. Practice makes perfect.” I sat in bed, frustrated and humiliated, with my swivel spoon attached to my hand strap, and a towel – a bib of sorts – hanging from my neck. The orderly knew what practice makes in the early stages: a perfect mess! After a number of clumsy and laborious attempts at spooning up the soup, the bowl was near empty, and so was my stomach. The towel was soiled extensively with spillage. I was both fed up and underfed.
Following the soup, I sucked the cranberry juice and the milk through a straw with a welcome ease. I still had the salad, the main dish, and the Jell-O to wrestle with. I gazed at these opponents one by one. In the left front corner of my tray, the salad appeared formidable. It was slippery with Kraft dressing and I was poorly geared up for the match. I had failed to switch from my swivel spoon to my swivel fork, which would have given me a better fighting chance, but was unwieldy. I had dropped it on the floor while the orderly was tending a patient in another room. “Too bad!” I said to myself, “Let’s get this fight over with.” And I won, by a dirty trick: I chased the pieces of lettuce, tomato, radish, and cucumber that escaped from me – sometimes landing on the tray, sometimes on the towel – until I caught them between my free hand and my swivel spoon, and heaved them into my mouth.
I also won, by the same dirty trick, against the main dish. Actually, I lost in part. As my free hand was trying to hold the spoon steady, to prevent the peas from spilling, it slipped. The spoon sprang like a catapult and showered peas on my roommate: a stroke victim in his eighties who sat for supper on the edge of his bed, with his back turned to me. “Huh,” he uttered, after a pause. He felt his head, then the sheet around him.
The orderly walked in. “What’s wrong, pop?” (The old man showed him a pea in his shaky right hand. His left hand lay paralyzed by his side.) “You spilled a few peas, I see. Oh, watch it! One, two, three peas behind you, and another on your pillow! Good grief, still more peas, here, there, and everywhere! Please stay put while I clear up this mess.” (The old man was now muttering incoherently.) “What did you say? Peas, none on your plate. Well, of course. They all went on your bed! Anyway, don’t worry. You’ll do better next time.”
I knew what my roommate was attempting to say. He could not have spilled peas on his bed, since he had none on his plate to start with. I was the culprit. I was also guilty of not confessing the truth. Why? I had a poor excuse: I saw humor in the misunderstanding that my silence permitted; hence I overlooked my dishonor in this silence. I laughed inwardly at the expense of my roommate, who felt confused, shamed, and wronged.
I have since wondered what drives people to laugh at farcical situations that are humiliating or painful to others. Is it risibility plus detachment or malice? I think so. In other words, people laugh firstly because they perceive these situations as ludicrous and secondly because they are oblivious or insensitive to the suffering of those involved, or they gloat over it.
Sometimes the others, who are laughed at, laugh as well. They may suffer and cry within, while they appear to take everything in stride and make fun of themselves. Or their feeling of dignity may be so strong, their ability to cope so effective, and their sense of humor so keen that they are unshaken by their humiliation or their pain and can joke about it.
Through the years, I have met such remarkable persons, who had much experience and wisdom. When their situation turned rather bad, they said, “I have seen worse,” and they kept cheerful. To them, a trouble that was not disastrous was petty, a mere inconvenience not worthy of a single tear. They did not indulge in wistful, wasteful thoughts either. They simply dealt with things in the most favorable way. I admire their no-nonsense attitude toward life, which can prove messy. I imagine their motto: Don’t whine, nor cuss; tackle the muss and clear it up, or grin and bear it!
All in all, they were well-adjusted realists who believed detriment and merriment can coexist when the former leaves room for something that makes life worth living, loving, despite everything. The secret is balance: The worse the detriment, the better this something must be to compensate for it and bring merriment. Great achievers are often great sufferers who had the will and the ability to redeem their condition with a profound dignity and joy in the pursuit and attainment of a high goal. Other great sufferers, of lesser will and ability, either lived passively and bitterly or killed themselves. In short, suffering enervates the weak and motivates the strong. Yet, beware! The strong may be weak at first and yield to morbid temptations or contemplate suicide for some considerable time; but at last they discover and develop the strength beneath their weakness, like a seed that lies in the parched soil of a neglected pot and needs the care of a flower lover to grow and bloom, and generate wonder.
The orderly stepped toward my bedside after he had helped my roommate. “What about you, lad; how is your supper coming along?” The towel hanging from my neck was covered with food stains, and I still had peas in my plate plus Jell-O in my saucer. “Okay, I suppose; I gave it my best shot.” I smiled as I thought of the old man – my accidental target – who sat on the bed next to mine. The orderly smiled back without understanding my pun. “It wasn’t too difficult, I gather.”
Suddenly, he cast his eyes on the towel, which resembled the bib of a messy child. “The towel, hmm, yea. Ha ha! Forgive me for laughing. At least you managed on your own. That’s a good thing. Where is your swivel fork? Oh! There, on the floor. Have you finished eating?” (I nodded.) “No more peas, no Jell-O?” (I shook my head.) “So be it.” He took the towel – which he made into a ball – and the tray, then left the room. “It wasn’t too difficult,” easy for him to say. I felt like answering, “Try to eat with your feet and you’ll get some idea of what a piece of cake it was!”
I chafed under his misjudgment and his mockery. My pride was hurt, like that of my roommate earlier. Poetic justice. My head resounded with the orderly’s laugh: a slap in my face that woke me up to my condition after a moment of thoughtless humor. A once powerful and confident young man, I was now as helpless and diffident as a baby trapped in a highchair and unable to eat properly on its own. I measured the gap between these two situations – a gap so huge I could never clear it to return to things as they were before, save with the help of a miracle. My faith in the possibility of such a miracle was withering, while my sorrow was ripening: a bitter fruit, embittered by the taste of ridicule.
Only with a complete loss of hope would sorrow reach its height and begin its transformation into resignation. Only with time and vitality would this resignation mature into satisfaction, as it would include, besides a submissiveness toward an impossible dream, a willingness to live as happily as possible within the confines of reality. Only then would the bitter fruit of sorrow truly be ripe and finally become sweet.
I was a long way from this advanced stage in maturation. I was still a dreamer, though I realized more and more that my idea of recovery, which had fuelled my rehabilitation effort since the beginning, was nothing but a vapor, a fantastic goal never to be reached. I was not ready yet to despair of recovering, especially since paralysis depressed me in the extreme, despite the love and the care I received. In short, my standpoint on paralysis was at a standstill. I believed that an able body is indispensable to a satisfying life.
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Excerpt from the chapter "Death Wish"
One gray and windy November afternoon, I was looking out through the dining-room window while waiting to go to bed, disgusted with life and the man who made it worse. For the second time that day, my urinary catheter was obstructed and I had a headache; my pants were drenched in urine due to intermittent leakage around the catheter. Outside, the trees were almost bare. Their remaining leaves fluttered like butterflies trapped in sap and struggling for freedom. Some of them struggled free and flew off into space. I was envious of their airy flight, though it had grim implications. They were falling to the ground and dying in the process. Their escape was their death.
“November sucks,” someone once lamented. Unhappy people are disheartened further by its usual dismalness, whereas happy ones are glad to be alive whatever the weather. Their happiness is a place in the sun throughout the year and every clear day is merely a bonus. I can identify with these happy people as surely as I could identify with these unhappy ones some twenty years ago. I hate to think I nearly ruined my chances of basking in this happiness. I did not have to die to fly from misery like a butterfly from entrapment; I had to grow out of this misery by improving my attitude and my situation. Within my limits, an unsuspected liberation was in the making. My prison was a cocoon.
Greatly to my relief, the strapping bully was eventually dismissed for abusing his power. I guess the doctor and the other board members finally realized that the countless times I had been mistreated – forced to sit or lie indefinitely in my own urine or excrement, or in excruciating pain, while being mocked by this bully or exposed to the curiosity and embarrassment of whoever happened to be around, to name but a few instances of distress and mortification – were no pieces of fiction for their entertainment.
Although I freed myself from mistreatment without recourse to cruelty, I am shamed by the thought that I often came close to having recourse to it. I would have badly crippled and embittered a man whose tyranny had not called for such savagery and could be toppled by civilized means. I was particularly seized with shame a few years later when this man drove me to a shopping mall. He was then divorced from his wife and working as a bus driver for the handicapped. His amiable and reserved manner toward me betrayed a pang of conscience; I felt sorry for him. In the end he said goodbye to me and I wished him a good day.
I understand now that keeping on the straight and narrow can be like walking a tightrope. The greater the difficulty of staying the course, the greater the risk of falling. I am proud that I mustered enough forbearance and fortitude in my divided soul to resist committing cruelty and suicide. I am also humbled by the temptation that almost debased and destroyed me.
Is there a threshold beyond which I would have criminally or lethally snapped? Are souls comparable to planks that vary in flexibility, from one type of wood to another, and can bend under pressure up to a point, then break? I believe so, though souls are different in that they can develop their flexibility and reduce the pressure to which they are subjected. Attitudes and situations can be changed. This possibility of change, however, is not unlimited. Sometimes life is infinitely and insuperably grim; sometimes people are unreservedly and unavoidably ferocious. In such extreme cases even the best of us would choose death or violence as a last resort, and who could blame them?
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Excerpt from the chapter "Poetic Instinct"
At the rehabilitation facility, I wrote as part of my occupational therapy. Writing meant nothing to me at first – that is, nothing more than the act of typing on an electric typewriter. It was only an exercise, designed to improve my condition, and an off-putting exercise at that. It put me off because the many aids I needed to perform it brought out my disability. “What do you want me to type?” I asked my occupational therapist unenthusiastically. “Whatever crosses your mind, Laurent,” she answered, hoping liberty would stimulate my creativity. My mind went blank. It was a bad start to my writing career.
She was a lovely and kindly young woman whose heart-warming smile was so sought-after she could have smiled for a living. She had reinforced each of my wrists with a plastic splint that covered part of the hand and forearm. To this splint she had attached a short rubberized stick that projected downward from the palm. She had also placed each of my arms into a jointed metal apparatus that supported the elbow with a rest and secured it with straps. This entire setup enabled me to type, awkwardly, laboriously, at a snail’s pace, but in the end a trail of words testified to my relative success.
During most of my six-month stay in the rehabilitation facility, I exercised in this manner about twice a week for half an hour. I grew a little stronger, which dispensed with my need for the jointed metal apparatus. I began to like the typing exercise above all others. However disabled I was, I had acquired the ability to use the typewriter more or less effectively, if slowly, to write what I pleased. I never stopped wishing this ability were clear of disability and I could type faster, by my own unaided efforts, yet for the half-hour I spent typing or thinking about what to type I felt rather free. This made a welcome change from the desperately confining aspects of my life. While I was in God’s power for better or worse – and mostly for worse to all appearances – I had control over my thoughts and over their expression by means of the typewriter. This opened the doors to my own brand of creation, issued from my mind and seemingly not restrained by the laws of nature, except for its physical manifestation, which was difficult, but not impossible.
When I left the rehabilitation facility for the nursing home, I had very little to show for my creative efforts. They had resulted in pages of personal matters, sometimes prosaic, sometimes poetic, a mix of blah-blah-blah and nitty-gritty, written for the sake of writing or to loved ones. Save a few treasured passages, everything had landed where it belonged: in the trash can. Actually, even these passages were of questionable value. I had not been entirely honest for feeling self-conscious – inhibited by my notion that what I wrote could or would be read and by my sense of image that proceeded from my sense of pride. Seldom had I revealed my true state of mind, which comprised frustration, depression, and apprehension. I had guarded against pity with a brave front: plenty of good humor and positive attitude; virtually none of the opposites.
One of the rare times I had revealed my true state of mind was when my girlfriend had broken up with me. This painful event had precipitated my awakening to my incurable paralysis; I had lost my dream together with my love. Never before had reality been so detestably real. Only then and later, especially at the group home, had my brave front broken down. I had written numerous laments of greater truth and value than my previous attempted prose or poetry.
My laments were an outlet for grief in the same way as a cry is an outlet for pain. Their poetic nature came second to their cathartic function. They released emotional tension as instinctively as a cry does. Social expectations had inhibited this release until my emotional tension had overthrown this inhibitor. This overthrow implied an overflow of emotional tension, plus another factor: The inhibiting effect of the social expectations had diminished as I had reached the conclusion that my laments were excusable, given the loss of nearly everything I loved. My grief had finally come out, which had brought on some relief.
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Excerpt from the chapter "Happiness"
From the creative explosion marking the outset of the universe to our advanced human stage in evolution, some fifteen billion years have elapsed. This advanced stage refers to the natural abilities and the cultural realizations of our species. While these natural abilities have virtually not changed in the last hundred thousand years, these cultural realizations have progressed exponentially over the same period. The former depend on a biological memory – the genetic information that is stored in human cells and can be transmitted through reproduction. The latter depend on a social memory – the didactic information that is stored in human libraries and can be transmitted through education. Together these two memories and modes of transmission supply the necessary tools to perpetuate and ameliorate humanity. The problem is that humans rarely use these tools to the maximum. They reproduce very well; more than five billion people testify to that; but they could do better in every other respect, witness the many instances of weakness and wickedness that tarnish their image.
Having said this, their existence can never be perfect. The worthiness and especially the effectiveness of their efforts will always be limited and perfectible. Such is their human condition. They can achieve great things, thank God! Yet this greatness cannot be absolute, thank God again! This imperfection hides a sublime advantage that can only be fathomed and cherished by a life lover. It ensures the maintenance of a dynamic state in pursuit of fulfillment, which is essential for the act, the dignity, and the joy of living.
Conversely, the attainment of infinite health, strength, pleasure, wisdom, glory, wealth, and every other object of one's desires would amount to an infinite satisfaction that would kill these desires. This attainment is impossible because it is incompatible with life. Perfection and death go together like two inseparable lovers in a single tomb. They send a shiver down my spine. Who can look on death as the ideal of life? Perfection is fit for a stone. It may appeal to a wretchedly tired soul in dire need of a rest. Dead, however, would this soul not adopt the opposite stance after a lengthy bout of mineral tranquility? Would it not dream of having a second chance to live and love life?
Many may think that the human condition could be better without being perfect. What is the meaning of this betterment, which bears no relation to the one that ought to be accomplished by human means within the limits of this condition? Do many wish God would increase these means or reduce these limits? For what purpose? To make life easier? Closer to death! Can they not see the beauty of the imperfection as it is? Can they not appreciate that the peak of human fulfillment entails a steep mountain to climb and the constant risk of falling?
Admittedly, it is hard not to lament one's challenging human condition while painfully struggling to rise to the challenge, especially if the difficulties are serious and numerous in the extreme. Correlatively, it is hard then not to reckon that there is room for improvement in the creation. I for one have long indulged in this sort of lamenting and reckoning. With hindsight, I am now in a good position to size up my error. God was not to blame for my unhappiness at the time; my attitude was at fault. I had failed to realize that the extreme difficulties I was faced with were exceptional opportunities for spiritual development and enlightenment, just as an obstacle can keep ivy in the dark and become the instrument of its ascension to a superior place in the sun.
I do not regret having gone through years of foolishness and suffering. I count them as labor pains for the birth of wisdom and happiness. They accentuate the brightness of my later years inasmuch as their gloominess contrasts with it. This brightness is spiritual, a sense of purpose and serenity that transcends my physical disability and pain, which are incurably restricting and excruciating. My body has remained practically as it was, whereas my spirit has improved significantly. I resemble someone who is using the same glass, but has changed its content from a nauseous brew to a luscious nectar.
What if the worst had come to the worst? I could have lacked the means of turning my ill fortune to good account. Whether this lack would have been due to a mental disorder that was without hope or to adverse circumstances that were without hope does not matter. The point is that my life would then have been hopeless, seemingly absurd. In fact, it would have had a meaning from a broader viewpoint portraying it as an unfortunate event in the life of humanity, capable of fulfillment. My individual existence is a minute aspect of my human existence. I look at myself past my ego and identify with the divine principle within me, which is common to all humans, to say nothing of everything else in the universe. I am fundamentally it and consequently us.
Still, life is too hard and too risky in the eyes of many. By contrast, others are such proponents of a virile existence, demanding great courage and giving great pride, that they are ready to leave the coziness of their home to scale Mount Everest and breast the elements for the sheer joy of conquering the summit. Whatever the perspective, the nature of things remains unchanged. There are rules, necessities and duties, and limits, possibilities and impossibilities. Until doom, one can accept them and make the best of them, much to one's pleasure and honor, or one can do the opposite and suffer the consequences. The choice between these two options is the very essence of freedom. Personally, I have no use for the second option: a self-inflicted misery that is without the slightest doubt a pitiable way of life.
The first option, on the other hand, is a pleasurable and honorable alternative that I find compelling, though uphill. It is applicable to any situation encountered in the course of one's living venture, provided one is not unfortunate to the point of being hopelessly unable to cope. The range of this applicability corresponds with the range of one's adaptability. It is normally considerable, despite the tendency to cling to old gratifying habits even after they have become impracticable or unsuitable, owing to a change of situation. One can be weaned from such habits onto new gratifying habits, in the same way as a baby can be weaned onto solids. The more the change is significant and one is reluctant to adapt to it, the more the weaning process is difficult and long in producing the desired effect. Again, the only option worthy of one's attention consists in taking things as they come and making the most of them, for one's sake and that of others. The reverse is foolish and harmful, a deplorable waste of humanity.
On the whole, the power to live in a well-adjusted and high-minded way and the freedom to choose this way in preference to the alternate, illegitimate, way are the foundations of the life one builds. The exercise of this power does not necessarily imply a principled resignation toward the status quo. One may be faced with a remediable evil that calls for a struggle to remedy it, effectively and rightly. In that case, living in a well-adjusted and high-minded way entails accepting the need for this struggle and the means of waging it, and sparing no effort to attain one's end. Ills are a test of will, an opportunity to show dignity.
They are also an opportunity to probe and appraise one's inner resources. Over the years, I have improved my situation and especially my attitude, whose negativity was the most unfavorable and improvable aspect of my life. In so doing, I have discovered my true richness. Nature has endowed me with an adaptable capacity for happiness within the limits of my changeable reality. According to my observations, this capacity is not unusually great, compared with that of most people. I am even tempted to think it is somewhat lagging behind. Eleven years plus to adapt in triumph to my physical disability is no feat for the Guinness Book of World Records!
During that time, the riddle of life had more or less baffled me. Yet, laboriously, with the help of many books and much thought, I had managed by degrees to clear it up, enough to find a meaning to my life. This riddle is comparable to a mire: The slower you go through it, the deeper you get into it. Perhaps thinkers are commonly untalented in the art of living and their saving grace is their dogged determination to redeem this lack of talent by dint of studying the human soul. Amusingly enough, these untalented individuals are often perceived as gifted, once they have seen the light and reflected it with the numerous mirrors of an elaborate analysis, after a tentative and protracted search in the dark.
This sort of overcompensation is typical of people who experience difficulties in a certain area, but refuse to admit defeat. While some fare well in this area with a minimum of effort, they try hard to overcome these difficulties, with the result that they often fare better than the others. Their redeeming feature is their willpower in the face of their shortcoming, which they use as a reason to redouble their efforts, not as an excuse to throw in the towel. This is a recipe for a worthy success. They discipline and surpass themselves, and thus proudly turn things around.
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