Jason Lieblang

Nihilism is based on the Latin word meaning ‘nothing’. The position of nihilism plays a significant part in Philosophy when it comes to exploring the realm of nothingness. The idea that there is nothing at all, that we know nothing at all, and the extinction of moral principles. However, in this sense, it is possible to incorporate the state of nothing into any possible scenario. The more modern discussion into the idea of nihilism is based on the realisation that nothing we do, create, love, or say has no valuable meaning at all.

Undeniably, this is seen as certainly quite melancholy. The question that arises from nihilism could sound a bit like this: is that really all there is? Are human beings on this planet that insignificant that all that we believe in is in fact just a ball of nothing?

The popularisation of nihilism originated from philosophy as a form of an accusation. The excuse that they are a nihilist, then uses against you stating you are in fact a nihilist are hardwired into the vocabulary of philosophers. Interesting enough, I wonder how modern society would act if someone used ‘you are a nihilist’ as an insult. How many people would actually burst into outrage?

Early on in The Idiot, Prince Myshkin tells the story of a man about to be executed who has an epiphany. When faced with the imminence of death, the convicted man felt time slow down to a point where “five minutes seemed … an infinite term” (64). The man became frustrated at this thought, thinking that if “life were returned to [him, he] would turn every minute into an entire age” and never waste a moment of his life (64). Despite this epiphanic moment, he still found that he “wasted many, many moments” after his life was spared.

While this is an extreme example of an epiphanic moment before an absolute sentence, I find that a similar realization often occurs in our everyday lives. Albeit on a much smaller scale and a more trivial matter, often I find myself feeling the same sense of mystical clarity the night before an assignment is due.

With an imminent deadline and an incomplete essay just hours before it is due, “the whole awful torture lies in the fact that there is certainly no escape” from it; there is no chance for an extension or aid of any sort (24). In such scenarios, I also find myself similarly dividing the remaining time: two more hours for writing, then thirty more minutes to review, a quick break for perhaps a cup of tea — then the final read before submitting.  These minutes seem “a vast wealth” of time, and I promise that with the next assignment “I would count every minute, and wouldn’t waste a thing for nothing” (65). However, much like the convict described in Dostoevsky’s The Idiot, I find with each passing week that I have not learned at all, and with many other assignments, “wasted many, many moments” (65).

In The Idiot, Dostoevsky communicates the moments before his execution, through Myshkin’s description of a scene for Adelaida to paint. He describes his surroundings in detail and becomes increasingly aware of the time that passes. He begins to regret the wasted moments in his life. Questions surrounding the possibility of being spared arises but the responsibility of living an intense life causes him to wish for death.  As Dostoevsky waited for his death, he gradually wanted to be executed as his fear for being unable to live a satisfying life became too much to tolerate. Eventually the challenge drives him mad as he was saved.

I, like many, assume that I will die of old age or sickness, opposed to a violent death early on in my life. However, if my life does suddenly ends, I don’t think that I’ll experience Dostoevsky’s crisis during the time span between realizing that I am dying and the end. I’ve always thought that dying would result in personal relief. Perhaps the violent means that I would be subjected to, for the purpose of this blog, would not be desirable but I believe that the seconds before the end of my life, I would be at peace with both dying and the life that I’ve lived.

The exquisitely beautiful, proud, yet also stubbornly self-destructive Nastasia Filipovna Brashkova in The Idiot was based on the equally fascinating figure of Polina Prokofyevna Suslova, who in addition to being mistress of Fyodor Dostoevsky was also a short story writer in her own rights. Not only was she the basis for Nastasia, Polina was the prototype for the vast majority of Dostoevsky’s great female protagonists, including Katerina in Crime and Punishment, Lizaveta Nikolaevna in The Possessed, both Katerina and Grushenka in the Brothers Karamazov, and the eponymous Polina in The Gambler. Much like Myshkin and Nastasia, Dostoevsky’s relationship with Polina was a painful and tumultuous one which ultimately resulted in lasting heartbreak for the novelist.

The two first met in  1861 when Polina was a 21 year old student attending a public reading by the 40 year Dostoevsky, who was at that time already a renowned writer and married to his first wife Maria who was at the time dying from consumption. Dostoevsky was enraptured by the attractive young woman and the two soon began a short but passionate affair. Polina repeatedly demanded the writer to leave his wife for her although when Dostoevsky proposed to her after his wife’s death, she turned him down. The relationship eventually ended  in the spring of 1863 due to Polina seeing other lovers and because of Dostoevsky’s increasingly worsening gambling addiction, which has landed him in considerable debt.

In a letter to Polina’s sister, Nadezhda (who interestingly was the first Russian female physician and gynecologist), Dostoevsky wrote that she was a “great egoist. Her egoism and her vanity are colossal. She demands everything of other people, all the perfections, and does not pardon the slightest imperfection in the light of other qualities that one may possess”, and that “I still love her, but I do not want to love her any more. She doesn’t deserve this love …”.

When she was 40 years old, she married the 24 year old Vasily Rozanov, who wrote in diary that he fell in love with her at first sight and that “she is the most wonderful woman I’ve ever met”. Rozanov has the reputation of being one of the most controversial writers of his time who was known for his paradoxical and self-contradicting political comments and held Dostoevsky as his boyhood idol.  Their marriage was an uneasy one as Polina often flirted  with Rozanov’s friends all the while making public scenes of jealousy herself, she was dismissive of Rozanov’s work and left him on two occasions only to be forgiven and begged to return, saying “there was something brilliant (in her temperament) that made me love her blindly and timidly despite all the suffering”. She finally left him in 1886, after six years of marriage although she did not divorce him for another 20 years out of spite, thereby making all the children Rozanov had with his later partner illegitimate.

Even after their relationship has terminated, Polina’s memory never left Dostoevsky’s mind as evidenced by the numerous appearances of proud and selfish heroines and doomed love affairs which were all variations her and their brief time together until the very end of Dostoevsky’s writing career. In the book The Three Loves of Dostoevsky, the critic Mark Slonim described  of Dostoevsky’s longing for Polina by saying “until his death he remembered her caress and slaps in the face. He was devoted to this seductive, cruel, unfaithful and tragic love.”

When reading Lieutenant Gustl by Arthur Schnitzler, modern rap music is probably not the first thing that’ll come to most people’s mind, but as I read the text I couldn’t help but be reminded of the song ‘GHOST!’ by Kid Cudi, released over a hundred years after Schnitzler’s classic. “Gotta get it through my thick head/I was so close to being dead, yeah” is how the song opens and Cudi continues by musing on the fact that he has continually failed to learn from his lessons in life. There is no sense of growth at the end as he seems convinced that people don’t understand him as well as being out of place in the world as a whole. Thinking about the two more thoroughly, I found myself pondering how many ideas that I share with artists that I personally admire and the connection that this creates with their work despite having never met or conversed with them in the flesh. There is something wonderful about the notion of Schnitlzer, a man of wealth and education, and Kid Cudi, a man who came from a working class family and had some run-ins with the law, sitting down to create two pieces of art that while on the surface are completely dissimilar, share many of the same tenets underneath.

It says something about Lt. Gustl that the first thing it reminded me of wasn’t Catcher in the Rye (where I held equal contempt for the insufferable first-person protagonist), but American Psycho. The more I think about it, the more the two texts’ similarities multiply, and the differences diverge more radically.

The interesting similarity beyond the text is in the authors themselves. Schnitzler, a bourgeois Jewish man, doubtless had no love lost for the churlish officer class that Gustl represents, such as Bret Eason Ellis, a notoriously filterless social satirist, viewed yuppies with visceral disgust. Both Gustl and Patrick Bateman are inwardly prejudiced, devoid of substance and represent the worst qualities of their given spheres. The main difference is how far their respective creators go in attempting to prove this.

Both Gustl and Bateman have no sense of self, or at least very little. Both obsess over appearance – Gustl is nearly driven to suicide by the implications of a slight to his image, whereas Bateman pays impossible amounts of attention to his brand-name clothing and accessories (the book is more saturated with luxury product namedropping than Watch the Throne). Both Gustl and Bateman are professionally incompetent, with Gustl having pursued the military because he couldn’t succeed anywhere else, and Bateman working a very lucrative job in Mergers and Acquisitions, at a company owned by his father (not once does he actually appear to be working in the novel or the film). Gustl has little personality and Bateman, short of his gruesome proclivities, has none at all. They are composites of others’ opinions, and fuss constantly over their image because, without it, they have nothing. One may go farther, and say that they are nothing, although they constitute different species of void.

Gustl, simply put, is not evil. Crude, chauvinistic, insecure, daft and hypocritical, yes, but not sociopathic. Bateman, as the title of his story proclaims, very much is. Over the course of the novel, Bateman proves himself to be an adulterer, drug abuser, serial rapist and multiple murderer. He never once betrays any vestige of guilt over his actions, and very rarely any fear of being caught. His first-person narrative segues from idle reflections on Phil Collins and the coloration of his calling cards to cannibalism and necrophilia without warning. There is no relatability in Bateman’s actions – he isn’t a normal person who pursues increasingly horrific depravities because of oversaturated culture or class enabling (although both help him along). He’s the worst kind of twisted mind, without any vestige of humanity to his name. Nothing Gustl does is anywhere near as horrific as what Bateman does on a regular basis.

At the end of things, both characters are a means of satire, and to an extent both are effective. Lt. Gustl was controversial on its release, and despite the vast distance between the explicitness of its subject matter, American Psycho received about the same measure of consternation, which says a great deal about hermeneutic distance, and also just about impales observers on Ellis’s extremely pointed observations regarding desensitization. What scares me is how, looking back on them, both of these stories were immediate at their time, and despite their topicality do not lack for readability in 2015.

Both Gustl in Schnitzler’s Lieutenant Gustl and ancient Japanese samurai/nobility have a deep sense of social obligations where suicide is considered an honorable death or punishment. There are quite a few differences between the methods of how one commits this act, in the name of pride, which I will now proceed to expand on and compare down below.

In feudal Japan,　はらきり (Harakiri) or せっぷく (Seppuku) is the act of disembowling one’s stomach. This act was most prominent in the 15th to 16th century and was mainly reserved for samurai and those of nobility, as a consequence of bringing shame to one’s high and recognizable status. However, it was condoned as a privilege and grace to be able to take one’s own life in this way.  Similar to Gustl’s social duty as an officer, where his position demands that he follow the expectations associated with his rank, Gustl must stay calm and professional where he may not deny/refuse a duel, nor may he allow his title to be offended.  Failure to do so results in social ostracization which then causes one to conclude that it is more “honourable” to take responsibility for one’s pride as well as avoid public shame by committing suicide.

Gustl is fearful of both death and scandal. He failed on numerous occasions to defend his sense of a strong and dominant masculinity against the baker. Not only did he fail to follow his social obligations but he was also humiliated in the process. The baker retorts, “Do you understand, you fool? … You, Lieutenant, just keep still now” (119), having no care for Gustl’s position as an officer by degrading him to a fool and commanding, in addition to speaking down on him. But as we all know (SPOILERS), Gustl excuses himself from the responsibility of committing suicide at the instance he hears news of the baker’s death. The fact still remains that Gustl is insecure and anxious. He was not in the position or authority to duel with the baker, but even if he had, he would be no match for him in terms of identity; the baker is older, much stronger, and self-aware. The least that Gustl could have done was to stand up for himself, yet his insecurity caused him to freeze and allow for the more capable baker to take control of the situation.

Samurai would commit seppuku regardless of any fear, as they were focused to remain noble even through death. Unlike Gustl, they had a commitment to their status where they were completely confident of their identity as a samurai and the code of conduct that they followed. Seppuku was an “honourable punishment” that even rivaling nobles/samurai were given when captured. Committing seppuku in battle meant controlling one’s life and continuing to take on a noble status; the act of committing seppuku allows the samurai to take control of their life and death, refusing to allow this power to fall into the enemy’s hands and thus, die honourably.

While suicide is considered an appropriate punishment for shamed officers such as Gustl, it was possible for seppuku to be executed with assistance. The earlier, ritual form of seppuku took place in the 11th century where the samurai was first clothed in a white kimono.  The candidate would then initiate seppuku by cutting their abdomen with a short dagger, moving it from the left upper body to the right. (It was believed that cutting the stomach would release the samurai’s spirit straight into the afterlife.) A かいしゃく人 (Kaishakunin) then steps in to finish the ritual by cleanly beheading the samurai once they have lowered their head. (Kaishakunins could be individuals who were close to the samurai.) A quick and accurate cut meant less suffering for the samurai and despite the assistance of death, these forms of seppuku were still considered “honourable”.

For the officers of the Viennese time, dueling and committing an “honourable” suicide were limited to only certain members of the noble class, where neither Jews nor women were allowed to participate. This was not the case for the principle of seppuku. Despite being reserved for samurai and nobility, it was acceptable for women and commoners to commit seppuku. The method of carrying out this act differed for women. Instead of using a short dagger, they would use a long knife or sharp hairpin to stab their heart. Although rare, seppuku could be used to demonstrate ultimate loyalty for the deceased or death of a loved one as well.

It appears that the most critical social obligation for the Viennese officers were their pride of masculinity. I wonder if Gustl, according to the principals of an officer, truly valued masculinity. Obviously he is anxious and insecure of how others perceive him and his “authority”. He is also very defensive, but I question if he is this way because he feels he must dominate other men or if he believes he is entitled to some other form of power due to his occupation. I assume it is the influence of both, as without a solid sense of masculinity, his status as an officer would deteriorate just as he tries to avoid the social obligation in his time: death after shame.

     In seminar, the idea of manufacturing a history first came up a few weeks ago — during the discussions on Rousseau. It appeared that Herder was among the first to express ideas for German cultural nationalism; it seemed that this was an example of reconstructing stories and using nostalgia for strategic purposes similar to what Rousseau had done in his second discourse. As the week progressed, the word ‘nostalgia’ seemed less and less appropriate in the German context — especially as ‘Sehnsucht’ was introduced. Although similar to nostalgia in the definition for longing, Sehnsucht seems to refer to more than simply a past setting. Sehnsucht appears to evade accurate translation, it only loosely describes a longing for elsewhere. Often referred to as an insatiable desire, the construction of a cultural identity in order to provoke sehnsucht must have been incredibly powerful.

      Knowing how powerful Sehnsucht can be, Professor Lieblang’s warning to not compartmentalize what we learn in Arts 1 and to try and understand the applications and presence of ideas across time becomes much more clear. As he briefly mentioned at the end of his lecture, the role that manufacturing pride played during the rise of Nazi rule is a testament to the re-emergence of ideas and how they can be manipulated to serve different purposes. A tool that was once used to culturally unify a nation could be used as propaganda promoting racial superiority — used carefully, Sehnsucht can be used to accomplish great and terrifying things.

One of the many questions The Earthquake in Chile is why Jeronimo decided to spare himself from the earthquake leading up to his suicide. Why would a man in a vehement state of grief deter his suicide when death was “offering itself to him at all times” (11)? The simple answer would be the natural instinct of survival that all humans share, or even animals, overcame his desire to kill himself. Yet this has an obvious paradoxical logic to it, how can one want to die but subsequently want to survive? Nevertheless, there is another reason why Jeronimo chose to survive, which conveniently corresponds to large scale disasters.

While pondering this question I was reminded of a book titled David and Goliath, underdogs, misfits, and the art of battling giants by Malcolm Gladwell, which focuses one chapter on the London bombings of WWII. The chapter asked why the nazis failed achieve their goal of demoralizing Britain or forcing surrender by bombing London repeatedly for 57 consecutive nights. The book used historical evidence to show that the bombings did not only accentuate national pride, but that many residents of London enjoyed being bombed. This seemingly perverse reaction, Gladwell argues, happens because of his theory of the “close call”, wherein most people enjoy the “challenge” of being hailed with explosives (or other disasters), providing they have a chance of surviving it. In The Earthquake in Chile, the theory of the “close call” helps us understand why Jeronimo didn’t simply let the earthquake kill him. While it isn’t addressed in the novella, one could assume that Jeronimo enjoyed the thrill of escaping from an earthquake, as would many others. Obviously not all disasters are enjoyable, but they can be provided there is a good chance of survival. Gladwell also argues that the “close call” effect is an extension of our natural desire for challenge, even, and especially when it threatens our life.

Ultimately, we can conclude that the human instinct of survival and our tendency to enjoy the thrill of disaster were enough for Jeronimo to overcome wish to die, even at the height of his grief. While most people would never to admit to enjoying the challenge of an earthquake, it is as much of an instinctual desire as our desire for survival.

It seems that for the past few weeks, the uncanny has been a recurring theme in both lectures and seminars. “The Sandman” was directly analyzed by Freud for a source of the uncanny, and in turn, the three short stories we’d read this week were questioned for the uncanny as well.

As I read “Fair-haired Eckbert”, I couldn’t help but notice a similarity it had to “The Sandman”: the character of the old woman appearing at different parts of the story, but under false aliases. Similar to how the Sandman disguised himself first as the lawyer Coppelius and then the barometer vendor Coppola, the old woman in “Eckbert” first disguises herself as Walther, Eckbert’s longtime friend, and then as Hugo, a knight whom Eckbert befriends after Bertha’s death.

Reading both stories, I had felt a certain sense of uncanny to both of these mysterious characters. Both had immense power and had shown up in the stories without explanation. They are also the only characters who possesses these magic powers in the story, which makes the readers further question their origins. Not only this, but both are set stories are set in realistic places, as the authors does not take advantage of the settings.

Could the uncanny lie in these facts?

It also fits well with Jentsch’s theory of the uncanny, that it stems from intellectual uncertainty. It also fits with Freud as well, with the idea of repetitiveness (also something he neglected to explore with his own analysis of the Sandman being the motif for the uncanny).

The Sandman and the old woman, both under disguises, set in real life, and appearing suddenly: all of these qualities gives a reader a sense of unease, as if what happened to Eckbert and Nathanael could happen easily in their lives.

It could be argued that this also occurs in Snow White, when the the Queen takes up disguises to visit Snow White in an attempt to kill her; this action happening multiple times. The Queen also has magical powers, but the realistic setting of the story contrasts the existence of such powers. However, with the knowledge that this story is a Grimms Fairytale, the fact that the Queen and her magical powers and talking mirror does not faze us.

So then, Freud would be right about the genre being something that could hinder the feeling of uncanny, but is that truly all it takes to take away that eerie sensation?

The similarities between these stories is something that should be explored, even more so when the question of our uncanny feelings are added.