Disexistentialism
Tuesday, January 14th, 2003 11:52 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
caddymanI have decided that Sartre was a tosser.
Existentialism tells us, amongst other things, that experience - and therefore memories - is of greater value than theory and speculation. We are defined by our experiences as we live life.
By that definition I either do not exist, or am barely a wraith flitting around this world. And I beg to differ, as would, I suspect, the poor woman at Victoria on whose foot I accidentally trod this morning.
The problem is this: I realised early on today that I cannot remember my life. I remember incidents in great detail, some less so. But vast tracts of my life may as well never happened for all the impact they have had on my little grey cells.
In some cases, I have clear memories of events which, according to people I trust, never happened. Unfortunately, these faux-memories appear to be rather more mundane and humdrum than the real ones. So much for escapist fantasies, then.
Most of the time this lack of memory causes me no problem at all. I don't mope about it, and am occasionally surprised when something of the past pops up and says 'hello' in the back of my head.
The notion that worried me when I thought about it, though, is 'what happens when I hit my dotage?'
I understand that as people get older, they can derive vast entertainment from recalling copious events from their past in great and searing detail; revisiting and enjoying their favourites with a clarity that grows more movie-like with the passing years.
I have sometimes felt that my life was a poor film noire movie. But only now do I realise just how badly it has been hacked around by the distributor.
I live in the vague hope that one day someone (hopefully me) will find and restore the missing reels, and I can sit back to enjoy the director's cut.
Sartre was a tosser.
Existentialism tells us, amongst other things, that experience - and therefore memories - is of greater value than theory and speculation. We are defined by our experiences as we live life.
By that definition I either do not exist, or am barely a wraith flitting around this world. And I beg to differ, as would, I suspect, the poor woman at Victoria on whose foot I accidentally trod this morning.
The problem is this: I realised early on today that I cannot remember my life. I remember incidents in great detail, some less so. But vast tracts of my life may as well never happened for all the impact they have had on my little grey cells.
In some cases, I have clear memories of events which, according to people I trust, never happened. Unfortunately, these faux-memories appear to be rather more mundane and humdrum than the real ones. So much for escapist fantasies, then.
Most of the time this lack of memory causes me no problem at all. I don't mope about it, and am occasionally surprised when something of the past pops up and says 'hello' in the back of my head.
The notion that worried me when I thought about it, though, is 'what happens when I hit my dotage?'
I understand that as people get older, they can derive vast entertainment from recalling copious events from their past in great and searing detail; revisiting and enjoying their favourites with a clarity that grows more movie-like with the passing years.
I have sometimes felt that my life was a poor film noire movie. But only now do I realise just how badly it has been hacked around by the distributor.
I live in the vague hope that one day someone (hopefully me) will find and restore the missing reels, and I can sit back to enjoy the director's cut.
Sartre was a tosser.
