Master Destre writhes in pain during his exegesis; the life-denying, degenerate ‘piety’ of his behaviour disturbs me. Yet, the excess of Sinistre’s self-affirmation and intransigience against the herd also seems a very pitiful way to be. Two opposites of character within the same bodypolitik.
The self denial of this priestly ideal to which Master Destre aspires; why, would he commit to such?
It is because to appreciate, or embrace upon that which satisfies one’s own pleasures, makes one lazy, it makes one forget about the suffering of others. One must lose even the chance of their own joy insofar as such an endeavour corrupts one’s will. To fall in love, to be close to the most perfect other, is to lose appreciation of great beauty. Destre fears the taking for granted of that which he appreciates the most. What a cruel feat to get used to, or to take for granted the one subject to whom one loves the most. What violence it is to negate such beauty by taking it for granted, so much a violence for Destre, that he shall deny it himself.
“I remember my old masters”, Destre says, “of whome denied themselves the greatest earthly joys, for the prospect for that which is beyond experience. The love of God far outweighs any mortal love; to go beyond experience and see the world in the way that only reason can, is a thirst that few have. Many who long for this transcendence may also deny the pleasures of immanence. Consider Newton; to deny the possibility of mortal love in pursuit of his studious affairs.”
“But we are not saintly ideals”, I reply to Destre. “Too few of us are demanded such an unfortunate goal to deny our own happiness, our own desires, our own projects beyond or complimentary to the grand aim.” Master Destre’s adherence to the Apollonian ascetic ideal is equally destructive as the ideal of excess.
“It seems too difficult, and too tragic,” Destre explains, “to go through the difficulties and tribulations of depending on another [yet, we both admit, is inevitable].” All life is difficult, all life is to suffer; to breathe is to inhale the poison that will eventually corrode our soft pink lungs, yet we cannot but rely on that nitrogenous compound that is air to sustain life.
Even in moderation, does the food that we need for sustinence corrode us slowly; do we deny our pleasure to eat? Do we deny our allowance? Perhaps we engage in what we cannot refuse; but we, as Destre and his priestly masters do, feel immense shame and guilt for engaging in such cockaygne behaviour.
To deny the self…is this the ultimate act of destruction, or strongest affirmation of our human superiority?
Antisophie
