icarus fallen

4 II 2008

As I was purchasing a book, i.e. Leibniz’s Philosophical Essays, today in Harvard Bookstore, the cashier looked at the title–then, after looking at me for a second, asked with some doubt–

“Is this for a class or for yourself?”

I was rather dismayed at the remark. I thought it was meant as a doubt on my choice of books; but I have certainly bought more obscure books in the past–regardless of the fact that the book indeed is for a rather obscure class on Leibniz’s political philosophy–in which, despite its good intentions of hosting its first meeting in an auditorium with the capacity of more than 200 people, comprises of a good company of one professor, two or three graduate students, and about two from the college–
and my presumptuous acts have never caused suspicion from cashier.

“So what difference does it make?” I answered with a question.

“Well, if it is for a class, the book is tax exempt, otherwise it will be the usual.”

On that note, of course, I answered that the book was indeed for a class. I have been a frequent visitor to the Bookstore for more than two years now; and I was never told that our state exempts tax for textbooks–perhaps it was just negligence, but perhaps it is one of those laws not remembered by many. I find this business rather strange: the government taxes on used books–books whose original purchase must have already included the tax–but leaves those “for educational purpose” untaxed out of its sheer good will to “support education”. Yet what difference does it really make? I could easily have purchased books ranging from Leibniz to Derrida on my own–as I have frequently done so in the past–and would that not be considered education? The decision to exempt tax is entirely arbitrary by the will of the cashier–how does he know which is for a class or for the buyer “himself”?

The question of tax-exemption reminded me of something, so I inquired–”So it’s just like the Bible?” As a carry-over benefit from the puritan days, Massachusetts have exempted taxes on all Bibles–at least how it was. But may be not so quick–

“Yeah, that’s true. In fact, you can buy Bibles, Korans, and other texts and they are all tax-free.”

Indeed, in this liberal-ridden state, we must now extend the historic privilege of the Bible to the Koran, and I suppose, following that logic, Li Hongzhi’s Zhuan Falun as well. These religious and quasi-religious texts, along with “designated textbooks”, are indeed more needed, if not superior, than other great books. Well, I suppose we can help the rest out by making them “required by class as well”–and soon enough, we’ll have make universities debase themselves to teach actual witchcraft rather than economics and government, you know, those higher forms of witchcraft.

For now, Leibniz, and his outdated teachings of iustitia est caritas sapientis sem benevolentia universalis–can enjoy a momentary break from taxation and negligence. The fate of his political philosophy (he’ll be mentioned as one of the fathers of calculus probably in every introductory college level math course around the world), however, will probably be the same. Like the last time that such course was offered in wartime Oxford (that’s 1939), the effort of Patrick Riley will fare no better than a much greater Ernst Cassirer, whose untimely insistence on German-language reading eventually reduced the course small enough to be held on a table in a nearby cafe. With that in mind, the five or six of us in this modern-day, and to a large extent anti-intellectual place, will make our adventure—perhaps with a heart benevolentia, but probably without the will universalis.

28 I 2008

I have brought up something rather silly to make my mundane e-mail correspondences slightly less than boring:

“Thanks for your reply. I’m just rather bored by the people I deal with too-often recently. You know, to host a party for many and to find yourself to be the only one definitely not-belonging there is rather a bad exercise. Taken as a collective, they need neither philosophy nor, for all intents and purposes, reason in making choices. (exceptions exist and do not require mention here to demonstrate their significance). Hence, for both their peace and mine, I should eschew frequent interaction with people–at least when I see them I will not be bored from both their character and nuances of seeing them everyday. Predictability is boring; just as foreseeing other people breaking up is boring (hence you bet on it to make it worse, but slightly more interesting), foreseeing people making choices for their future in accordance and against their nature but nonetheless following predictable path, too, is boring. Therefore, by staying away from people, most of the time, i will at least be exempted from passing judgments on people too often–which I will as soon as I interact with people. No, these statements aren’t emotional; nor are they completely rational–but I think they reflect something intrinsic of a superfluous man. As for your points–they are good, and I shall comment on them to the best of my ability.

1. well, sure–but that’s rather difficult. by having others to “share my happiness and sorrow”, am I to be equal with them? No, the subject is always judging, and therefore, cannot really take others as equals. Or else I won’t be able to legitimately laugh at others’ follies, and my own, to lose my subjective monopoly on judgment.

2. the idea of the philosopher king, just like Aristotle’s notion of contemplative life, is quite absurd; it just gives a place for philosophers, most of whom are completely superfluous to the function of a society. I mean, people who philosophize (too much) might as well see themselves as superfluous; that way at least they don’t have to pretend to be boring old people.

3. well, when I make people embarrassed or feel bad, I intend to do so out of pure spitefulness. I’m not acting for their good; but merely making them feel bad and realize their insufficiencies. Seeing people embarrassed or whatnot will at least make me feel slightly less-than-bored.

Well; enough to be said by a bored individual. At least reading your letter and replying it with this solipsist response is anything but boring. Take them seriously–or not. Regardless I’m already amused–probably to your annoyance, too. Now for the adventure:

‘What is Man that Thou art mindful of?’”

Enough said; for our current condition I have nothing more to offer than a simple reversion of Marx:
“Marx said something along the line to instruct the proletariats that they have nothing to lose but their chains, and a world to gain. And what about us? we have everything to lose, except for our chains, and no world to gain. “

I think I will remain bored for quite sometime; meanwhile, I might as well write something to your amusement, whoever you are.

24 I 2008

While staying home in Christmas a month ago, I was left with some time of leisure and decided to take a look at Hegel’s Philosophy of History. Even though the text seems very insightful concerning the general notion, or rather, the spirit of history, few problems are evident: his facts are rather dated, his understanding of foreign cultures seem to grasp their appearance rather than essence, and, perhaps more importantly, the term “spirit” could easily be replaced by “god”. The linear passage of spirit from one civilization to th next and the ultimate praise of the Germanic culture bring further doubt onto the validity of its claims. If history truly were an idealist determinist subject, why does it end in two self-destructive wars in the beginning of last century? Should these apparent decadence of “spirit” be deemed historical accidents or ahistorical, independent events? Hegel, who lived a century earlier and belonged to the particularity of his historical context, cannot adequately answer this question.

In comparison, the philosophy of history of Raymond Aron a century later seemed to be a much more rational version of understanding that better captures reality. The very notion of his philosophy of history itself is but an attempt to understand the limit of historical objectivity rather than an all-fitting system of explanation that aims at the basis of historical knowledge. The foundation of his thought, then, is based on intellectual skepticism, whose doubts leads to a notion of probabilistic determinism guided by reason in plurality of interpretations:

The intelligibility of probabilistic determinism characterizes the world in which the life of the man of action unfolds; the intelligibility of psycho-existential comprehension is born of a meeting with others, a discovery and an enrichment of oneself. The intelligibility of works reveals both the meaning immanent in each of them and the law according to which they follow one from the other; meaning that express one aspect of man and his creative capacity, a law that reveals the essence of the search and its progress. Historical totality preserves this plurality, of which the philosopher takes note, an awareness to which is added, with the always provisional discovery of the unique and essential problem, the effort to make sense of a diversity of periods within human society in a drive toward a goal vaguely outlined by reason.[1]

11 I 2008

Leo Strauss, in presenting the conflict between natural right and history, seems to have based his judgment too much on the conflict between the former idea with a particular school, viz. historicism. According to Strauss, natural right stands for consistency that stands regardless of time, while historicism is a school of extreme relativism, in which no objective knowledge can be assumed without paying attention to historical particularities. Both cases, however, seem to be rather extremist: although natural right stands for that which is natural, or that which is observable universally and objectively, it does not have to be hostile to notions of historical consciousness. Notions of the natural itself, as Strauss demonstrates, changes over time; and it would be prejudice to assume that only the more aged one has claim of validity. Even if the notion itself contains possibility of objectivity, history brings development of its understanding and should not be rejected for objectivity. On the other hand, historical consciousness does not necessarily yield complete subjectivist understandings. Sure enough–each idea only takes shape in its particular historical framework; but this notion does not eliminate possibility of continuation and elements of objectivity in the course of history. To subscribe to this extreme form of relativism contains no fewer error than to follow historical determinism; specific facts particular to a setting and general trends both should be noted in our historical consciousness. The best we can do, in most cases, are but to use our reason to a certain extent to approximate the likelihood of things–any claim of Truth in completion should probably be rejected after skeptical scrutiny.
Regardless, Strauss’ analysis of the development from ancient natural right to modern natural law is very detailed and insightful. If things permit, I shall examine the rest of this book in detail.

8 I 2008

Simone Weil, in her Need for Roots, demonstrates the errors and severity of the problem of uprootedness. To Weil, the tradition of liberalism that started the French revolution and continued to her days has omitted the concept of roots, and hence, neglects the wellbeing of human souls. The liberal spirit of 1789, a product of the enlightenment, is based on the notion of rights; that is, belief on man’s potential to achieve things and to reserve realms of freedom for himself based on his shared identity with others, based on conditions of equality of being—regardless of whether it is universal manhood, common citizenship, or god that grants such equality. However, the notion of obligation is forgotten; rights, in the sense that Weil perceives, is an antithesis of obligation. While rights attempts to reduce boundaries for common grounds, to free oneself from burdens of birth and imposed requirements, obligation reminds oneself of the very fact that he is ultimately limited and has duties to fulfill. Otherwise rights become a fantasy without roots in human reality. Obligation serves as the moral guidance for rights; through its universal ability of limiting and directing man’s action, it is in itself transcendent and crucial to human reality:

The notion of rights, being of an objective order, is inseparable from the notions of existence and reality. This becomes apparent when the obligation descends to the realm of fact; consequently, it always involves to certain conditions. Obligations alone remain independent of conditions. They belong to a realm situated above all conditions, because it is situated above this world (4).

The concept of obligation, too, is universal, as “all human beings are bound by identical obligations, although these are performed in different ways according to particular circumstances” (4). It is one “not based upon any de facto situation… not based upon any convention… [but] an eternal one” (5). Hence, a question arises: since both rights and obligations inevitably draw upon a notion of universality; why is the seemingly more restrictive notion transcendent and the more liberal notion not? Weil attributes the error of the spirit of 1789 to its anthropocentric arrogance and concurrent desire for universality:

All [the men of 1789] recognized was the [realm] on the human plane. That is why they started off with the idea of rights. But at the same time they wanted to postulate absolute principles. This contradiction caused them to tumble into a confusion of language and ideas which is largely responsible for the present political and social confusion (4).

The enlightenment philosophés and their subsequent revolutionary protégés, by contemplating solely upon that which is human, while still upholding an obsession with the notion of progress, by upholding rights without an understanding of obligation, have created a gap between reality and idea, divine inspiration and human achievement. Hence, as Weil sees, “the liberating current of the eighteenth century found itself without historical roots: 1789 really was an open break” (110). Those who subscribe to the roots, patriots of the tradition and country of France, were executed as traitors, while those who prevailed believed in an illusion of national sovereignty, to revolution, to the belief in change. But these illusions are short lived: with the roots severed, those who want to remain patriots have to cling to the state, an unpopular notion. Hence the patriotic switched from the Left to the Right, from the populist to the aristocratic (111). The changing policy of the patriotic spirit demonstrates the contradiction within the fundamental notions of rights behind the French polity. Without a sense of obligation, the French revolutionary and liberal tradition, then, is an example of historical uprootedness.

4 I 2008

Rather than the product of a single visit, these thoughts reflect the collective impression on this particular city from both my current trip and the previous one from last August.

the Airport
This is where languages, partings, and first impressions intercept in its usual busy operations. Mechanical waiting lines is inundated by the vibrant shops and shoppers nearby. Movement natural or artificial contradicts the color of florescent light everywhere. Regardless of their nationalities, visitors become close to equals before immigration, knowing that their stay in this international hub is but temporary, and that travelers and exiles alike must make their way home, or elsewhere. Every twelve minutes one of those trains exchange one group of visitors for another for a mere hundred; the visit to this museum of walkers, however, will always be one way, unless you are one of those unfortunate souls trapped in time.

Wan Chai
A happy combination of small shops, meeting places, and luxurious hotels. Compared to its counterpart in Peking, the Grand Hyatt here has a darker, but perhaps more grandiose undertone imbued in its halls. Strangely, noodle shops, laundry shops, and the Joint Press shape my memory much more than the turtle like exhibition and convention center.

Causeway Bay
Layers and layers of shops and malls open until midnight. Neon lights illuminate the busy streets in the evenings, while pedestrians dressed in fashion linger on them, as if the night were more desirable than the day. Ten in the morning, I traversed in this once busy area to find few people around and few shops open. Caucasian faces and Latin alphabets on signs and shop windows make one forget that this place was, and perhaps will be, a part of a distant Oriental culture. Hidden behind the main street I saw signs of small bookshops, forced to retire to second and third floors. From the aged doorways and dirty stairs I climbed to another world that doesn’t seem to belong here. My world.

Central
Bank buildings, IFC, and professionally dressed men and women on the street without much expression reminds one that after all, this city is established and known for the dismal science. Sophisticated false consciousness is forgotten by the ephemeral glory; for now we, too, must crunch our numbers.

University
A city upon the hill noted for excellence and English education. This is a vertical place. In clotted space dorms, classrooms, auditoriums, and cafes paint together a completely different picture.

Mong Kok
Compared to Causeway Bay, this place belongs to a different class–infinitely more indigenous. At night, electronic and clothing shops attract much attention from street-goers, while long line waits for the movie theater. Independent sellers and their carts of goods form a street on their own, while booksellers pile themselves on top of one another in two apartment buildings. On one of them, after climbing up six or seven floors, one finds a second hand dealer of classics, and the one on top, a seller of treasure: books in both English and Chinese cover much of contemporary humanistic and social studies, from deconstruction to critical theory. Even the newest books–for instance, Peter Gay’s Modernism–are on display here. Its collection of vast interest form a great contrast to its tiny size. Nearby a rather sketchy cybercafe situates, and thus I, sitting here, find my morning full of color.

Lo Wu
As the train approaches China proper, scenes outside reminds one that despite all illusions, the concept of that particular nation long has penetrated the heart of this harbour. No, one needs not look outside to the China Petroleum station to remember that Chinese banks and businesses are everywhere on the streets of Hong Kong, and that the PLA, shaped in a strange rectangular building, occupies a key position in Central. The gate has long been opened. But outside of it, will one find those contemptible shops of fake goods, or a brave new world? Despite this ambiguity, I must leave, to return to homeland of my fear and love.

6 XII 2007

Simone Weil, in her collected writings Oppression and Liberty, reveals inconsistency within Marxism. In her essay “Prospects”, Weil recognizes that although a so-called Marxist state has been set up in Russia, oppression of the people still persists. The transfer of power, stabilized and reinforced by bureaucracy, “has transformed the dictatorship of the proletariat into a dictatorship exercised by itself” (26). The situation is the no better in Germany; the rise of national-socialism creates an alliance between the state and the capitalists. Hence, “what is serious is that nowhere are the worker organized in an independent manner” (27).

Weil, therefore, points to another direction: regardless of state ideology, the true problem that society faces and continues to practice is the oppression of the people. Although Marx successfully has shown that oppression within the capitalist system creates a self-contradiction that would ultimately “hinder production” and bring its own downfall, he fails to recognize that “in our day, any other oppressive system would hinder it in like manner”. Marx does not bring himself to explain “why oppression is invincible as long as it is useful, why the oppressed in revolt have never succeeded in founding a non-oppressive society… he leaves completely in the dark the general principles of the mechanism by which a given form of oppression is replaced by another” (56). With the hindsight of the establishment of USSR and formation of totalitarian states, Weil comes to understand that ideology that claims to free a certain group of the oppressed is in itself oppression.

Furthermore, in order for state apparatus to function, the use of power is necessary, and a distinction between man with power and man without power is created. The very nature of power, according to Weil, leads to more oppression, as man with power faces the two following two struggles against those he rule and his rivals ultimately bounds up; he who is with power is insecure, the nature of these two struggles calls for the man with power to make power itself more oppressive (63). This, in turn, only calls for more threats from his enemies and increase of the oppressiveness of power again. This analysis presents the instability of power, as Weil presents its nature in a vicious cycle:

For, owing to the fact that there is never power, but only a race for power, and that there is no term, no limit, no proportion set to this race, neither is there any limit or proportion set to the efforts that it exacts; those who give themselves up to it, compelled to do always better than their rivals, who in their turn strive to do better than they, must sacrifice not only the existence of the slaves, but their own also and that of their nearest and dearest; so it is that Agamemnon sacrificing his daughter lives again the capitalists who, to maintain their privileges, acquiesce lightheartedly in wars that may rob them of their sons (64).

Although Weil’s analysis is directed towards capitalist states, same can be applied to states that claim to be Marxist. Marx, because of his inconsistency in accepting the contradiction of both “the cult of science and utopian socialism”, cannot resolve to create a society where power structure can be abolished (161). It is from the sheer revolutionary spirit that Marx inherits which the ideology calls for revolutions, towards a society that his later “scientific” analysis cannot fully envision. The real social problem has yet to be solved; oppression stays, with or without Marxism.

30 XI 2007

Camus explores the theme of judgment and hypocrisy in his novel the Fall through the personal reflections of the narrator, Clamence. Clamence states that as a judge in Paris, he once had an almost “perfect” life: he had a successful career, helped the poor, and had his way with women. As a lawyer, Clamence judges others in every aspect of his action: and through his judgment of others, he himself feel “free of any duty, shielded from judgment as from penalty [of his defendants]” as “the judges punished and the defendants expiated” (26-27). Hence, through passing judgment on others, Clamence feels a sense of superiority over others; his motivation for defending the poor, pitying the miserable, too, results from this very sense, manifested in a form of moral hedonism:

But you can already imagine my satisfaction. I enjoyed my own nature to the fullest, and we all know that there lies happiness, although, to soothe one another mutually, we occasionally pretend to condemn such joys as selfishness. At least I enjoyed that part of my nature which reacted so appropriately to the widow and orphan that eventually, through exercise, it came to dominate my whole life (20).

Thus, Clamence is generous; for such generosity gives him a sense of control, so that he could become “the master of [his] liberties” (22). Camus, then, successfully portrays the psychology of judgment: it is a faculty that which allows oneself to be beyond the very judgment itself, a process of detachment that creates a sense of moral superiority for action resulted from judgment.

However, Camus soon questions the validity of this statement through Clamence’s encounter of a moral crisis. The incidence of witnessing a woman committing suicide without an urge to save her imbues a sense of guilt into him; the episode of his desire to run over the motorcyclist who deterred him from proceeding when traffic light changes to green makes Clamence realize that he, too, is not innocent, is capable of evil, and cannot be beyond judgment itself. This realization creates a sudden change in Clamence’s life; he closes his law practice and withdraws into a sort of amoral debauchery. At this point, then, Camus reflects the hypocrisy of judgment: its assumption of making one higher than others through judging others cannot hold true as the judge himself is equally guilty as the judged. However, at this stage, Clamence’s reaction is still largely negative: by refusing to judge, Clamence sinks to a state that is below himself and his capacities in cowardice of debauchery, a state of existence no better than that of judgment itself.

Clamence resolves this second stage of his life through his acceptance as a “judge-penitent”: he takes the position of the guilty himself, and nonetheless judges—through acceptance of human capacity of evil, he creates a community of man:

The more I accuse myself, the more I have a right to judge you. Even better, I provoke you into judging yourself, and this relieves me of that much of the burden. Ah, mon cher, we are odd, wretched creatures, and if we merely look back over our lives, there’s no lack of occasion to amaze and horrify ourselves. Just try. I shall listen, you may be sure, to your own confession with a great feeling of fraternity (141).

Hence, Camus’ solution to the problem of judging and hypocrisy does not lie in man’s complete withdrawal from judging; but instead one is to accept the hypocrisy as it is, and judge nonetheless from his understanding of human guilt.

26 XI 2007
I came across Mark Edward Lewis’ new book, The Early Chinese Empires: Qin and Han (Cambridge, 2007) last week and read it over the break. This book is the first in a new series on the history of imperial China. As the first in the series and a general survey of the period, Lewis does an adequate job: the book is divided into sections such as “the Geography of Empire”, “Imperial Cities”, “Rural Society”, “the Outer World”, “Kinship”, and “Law”, to present an impressionistic picture of the socio-political life at the time. An overall situation of early imperial China is demonstrated through description of imperial rule, organization of rural society and its taxation, kinship consisted of nuclear families, and the geographical difference between the guanzhong area and guandong area.

However, contrary to classical Chinese historiography, Lewis centers around system, institutions, and overall situation at the time without putting much emphasis on man and event. Hence, the book presents settings without specific characters: instead, one only feels the existence of a collective as the Qin and Han empire. Even opponents, such as Xiongnu and other nomadic groups, and internal elements of unrest such as late Han’s problem with permanent generals and religious uprisings, are presented to be a part of the holistic situation. Extraordinary characters and their influence on the course of history are largely deemphasized . In addition, the experimental interruption of Xin dynasty lacks emphasis in the book as well: despite its short presence, it exposed the weakness of a system, a transformation of power, and a re-evaluation of statecraft centered on a certain ideology. Hence, the overall impression of Lewis’ book is elusive at best: we are given the situation of the time without vivid characters. Even if they are presented–surely one cannot completely ignore Qin Shihuangdi, Li Si, Xiang Yu, Han Gaozu, Han Wudi, Wang Mang, and Han Guangwudi–they are vague and without dimensions at best, quite contrary to Sima Qian and Ban Gu’s vivid accounts of their lives.

Regardless of the book’s inadequacy in presenting character and events, its account of institutions for survey purposes is excellent. For example, the discourse on law is especially elucidating, emphasizing the important relation between language and law, the letter of the law versus the spirit of the law. Drawing insights upon Han scholar’s emphasis on Chunqiu Gongyangzhuan, Lewis states, “law, in this tradition of commentary, was the quintessential expression of the social powers of language” (238). Further analysis of the relationship between law and lanugae is evident in through Lewis’ explanation of Sima Qian’s criticism on those who follow too rigidly the letter of the law:

In short, one of the bases of [Sima Qian]’s critique was that law was a rigorous language which gave power to those who mastered its sutleties and permutations but did not always achieve justice as he or others perceived it…. Sima Qian’s negative view nevertheless defines law as a distinct form of technically regulated and hence powerful language (240).

Thus, an early question of legality and language is raised: law is a powerful language, and at the same time it is derived through utilization of language.

Regardless, Lewis argues: the understanding of later history of China is impossible without understanding its classical foundation in its social, political, legal, economic, geographical, and philosophical foundations. This book, despite its elusive nature on events at the time, nonetheless completes this task adequately.

21 XI 2007

In Albert Camus’ Plague, two characters with opposite motivations are portrayed with obvious human weakness; Rambert, the journalist from Paris, finds himself not belonging to the situation and wants to break through the quarantine. Cottard, on the other hand, desires the exact opposite: crime of past makes him believe that through the plague the past can be forgotten and that a new community is formed through the collective experience of the plague. Hence, Cottard is anything but excited to see the end of plague.

Through the character of Rambert, Camus explores the theme of commitment. Viewing himself as an outsider, as someone who doesn’t belong to the situation, Rambert initially sees his involvement in the situation as completely accidental and hence find himself justified to escape. Rambert’s excuse is the love he bears for his wife: though this point is proven false when Camus points out that for the most part Rambert’s mind is never on his love, but instead on his own situation. What he fail to recognize is that man has little control of his situation; a situation is given to man and he must face it and make decisions based on it. The people of Oran are given this situation of uncertain fear and death not by their choice: lot is chosen for them. Hence, Rambert belongs as much to the plague as the people of Oran: it is not a matter of whether one belongs or deserves to be in a situation, but that a situation is given to man without his choice, and he can only do what he can within the situation. The character of Rambert, after his failed attempt to escape, suddenly realizes this point and joins Dr. Rieux’s sanitary squad. This act is one of acknowledgement and commitment: acknowledgement that he, too, belongs to the community of the plague and commitment to act within his ability in an unalterable situation. As soon as the situation ends, Rambert is again free to leave this community, to become a foreigner again, and to return to his wife. But regardless he belongs before the situation is lifted. Hence, the plague serves as an act that creates a community that calls for commitment.

Cottard’s case also demonstrates the point that a situation such as the plague unites to create a community. As a man of crime, Cottard is first presented after his attempted suicide: his desire to do away from his past and himself completely after realization that community with those who are not guilty is impossible. Yet, the situation of the plague brings hope to Cottard: he recognizes that in the plague everyone is equal before death again, and that the government administration is no longer functional to track down his crimes. Hence, he happily enjoys this community and takes advantage of the situation through involvement with smuggling. Cottard is portrayed as an opposite to Rambert; although he recognizes the community from the very beginning, no event triggers him to commitment. He wishes the exact opposite, as if suffering of others means nothing to him as long as the illusion of his participation in the collective remains. Thus, Cottard becomes irrationally attached to a situation given to him, which ultimately causes his doom. When he plague is lifted and others celebrate life, Cottard, recognizing that his imagined community ceases to exist, becomes mad and chooses his own doom; the unbearable thought to be alone, to fear, to be wanted drives his senses to lunacy, even though no such action is meant to aim at him at any point yet. Without commitment, Cottard’s view of the community, ultimately, is flawed and illusionary at best.

The situation of a plague represents an absurd state of life; death happens, without any note, to man, upright or corrupt, alike. Its inception and end might as well have nothing to do with the work of the sanitary squad: and the death of Tarrou–a man who has deeply felt the plague within, who spend his life siding with the weak, who realizes that man are equally guilty–demostrate that people who commit to this form of voluntary and communal action, too, may perish through the plague without any reason. Yet what is one to do? It is precisely because of meaninglessness that he find the community of man indispensables, and commitment to protect it, a process to create meaning.