#insatiability

Todays Word Of The Day is: Gulosity

Insatiability by Stanislaw Ignacy Witkiewicz (Author), Louis Iribarne (Translator)

With wanting, suffering increases. Insatiability is like leprosy.

This is the moment where many traditions become confused. They take moments of ego-softening, silence, boundary dissolution, or cognitive quiet and inflate them into metaphysical omniscience. The experience may be real while the interpretation becomes grandiose. The paradox is that the human mind craves transcendence precisely because it experiences limitation. But the craving itself may be structurally endless. The ego wants escape from being a finite organism. Spirituality often becomes the continuation of ego by subtler means.

“I will become infinite.” “I will awaken.” “I will transcend suffering.” “I will merge with ultimate reality.”

The “I” survives by trying to become cosmic and immortal. The soul in Christianity is nothing more than a personal 'I'. I understand the death of the body, but... the soul...

So yes, there is wisdom in stopping the compulsive hunt for final metaphysical completion. Not because one has discovered ultimate truth, but because one recognizes the machinery of endless psychological reaching. But one should also avoid another trap, which is turning disillusionment itself into a frozen doctrine. “Nothing is possible, everything is meaningless, all seeking is stupid.” That too can become another identity structure, another final answer.

“Against the backdrop of these emotional transformations the pietistic drivel of Murti Bing slowly but surely began to infiltrate Genezip's stunted and metaphysics-hungry brain. The bulk of these potential and undeveloped feelings, states of mind, and thoughts—connected as they were with a sense of the world's infinite mystery and the personality that was as self-contained as a locked trunk—had failed to blossom into the structure, however rudimentary, of any genuinely religious feeling having God as its object; they had yet to crystallize or solidify into a system of primitive but nonetheless precise thoughts. Instead, they were gradually disintegrating into a sort of boneless, undifferentiated pulp. The vague and blurry outlines of a conceptual framework, composed as it was of unrelated parts (i.e., such banal notions as "maximal unity within duality"), could scarcely be expected to form an agent of mental crystallization and were tantamount to a superficial narcotic anesthetiving all intellectual endeavor in the embryonic stage. How nice it would have been to plug with any sort of cork that little hole leading to the bottomless abyss, as long as it enabled one to become reconciled with the monstrosity of existence, which was everywhere conspicuous. How nice it would have been to stretch out in some halfway perfect world as in some cozy easy chair—not forever, but only for a while, for just a moment of that sublime love which appeared so fragile in comparison to the ominous powers mounting on all sides. But the new faith could not bestow on Zipcio the strength to say, "No matter what happens, I'll weather the storm," nor the strength to stomach every conceivable sort of reality. Was it worthwhile trying to undertake something on a grand scale when it was impossible to decide the future in an unequivocal manner? What would life be like if the Chinese prevailed? And if, which was highly improbable and which no one seriously believed, Poland, that eternal bulwark, were to repel the Mongolian avalanche? In that case, the future would have looked even more uncertain. The ruins of an artificial fascism, Poland was being supported by a communist West and was inexorably threatened, if not by the Chinese then by its own communists. Genezip soon gave up trying to plumb the ultimate meaning of life's cruel harlequinade and contented himself with the fact that all the ultimate truths had already been conferred upon Murti Bing by the Maximal Unity—this much was apparent from his vision. Suffice it to say that anyone who has never had such a vision cannot possibly know how frightfully convincing they can be. It would be quite inappropriate to elucidate their entire system here; not even a dog would have had the patience to sit through an ordeal like that. It was something in between religion and philosophy which by itself was something utterly preposterous; everything was deliberately vague, improperly thought out; everything was wrapped in idea-masks whose sole purpose was to camouflage and eliminate problems of serious concern. The result? A simple-minded benevolence and stupefaction tolerating every conceivable act of violence. Or so thought all those who had contracted the disease of Murtibingitis acuta, as the quartermaster was fond of calling it (still?). The general tendency in this direction was greatly accelerated by the events of July; to unwind a little before the final catastrophe was the only thing approaching a common goal, as no one ventured to think in long-range terms anymore. Thus did those "yellow devils" pave the way for their ineluctable conquest; that is, by putting everyone to sleep and then strangling them. One of the few persons who did not submit to the New Faith was Hardonne. He felt not the slightest compulsion to, as he put it, decipher the "signs of the end in the sky of reason," and so he went on composing even wilder things, drank, indulged in the most depraved activities, and had his fill of girls—what more could he have wanted?

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