Anti-natalism is the belief that humans should not breed. It is believed that humans should not breed because human lives contain suffering, which is bad, and bringing a life into existence will be to subject it to suffering—ergo, breeding is bad. The folks over at The Right Stuff have written a diatribe against this belief and in doing so have made some errors and false statements. These errors need correcting. Continue reading
I have succummbed once again to the devilish midnight succubus of procrastination. My wobbly stabilizing peg-leg pseudopharmacopoeia of glucose and caffeine have become brittle under the weight of fatigue and I reckon my eyelids could slam down with greater force right now than a right hook of Ali in his prime. My sole consolation in this time of deep regret is that I can call “procrastination” by its true, magical, scientific first name! You’re the Planning Fallacy, you sneaky, underhanded, black-eye waste of time! I’ve got the jump on you now, you surreptitious drain of effervescence! “Planning fallacy!” *snicker* “Planning fallacy!” *guffaw* I point my determined and not-droopy middle finger at you and laugh. I huff air and guffaw like a stoner taking a hit. I point my finger at you because you’re at a distance. You’re far away and receding ever farther like a vehicle from a hit-and-run victim and your named and depersonalized form rolls bloodily behind me on the road of my history, a tattered rag, torn and pulled to pieces by this triumphalist victor, whose fisted hand, weighted down by a tiredness of countless sleepless ages, bears downwards and strikes and rends into pieces innumerable your partite and dessicated corpse. You’ve no more power over me, Planning Fantasy, you wax-eyed piece of clay! You did not plan for this!
“Anthropomorphobia is the term for the anxiety evoked when inanimate forms begin to display human qualities.” I suppose that those who believe humans to be nothing more than impotent puppets pulled by the strings of determined, immutable scientific laws would be horrified to witness themselves becoming aware, as though possessed, of a creeping understanding that humans do act with control over their desires and perform their numberless evils and horrors with a gleefully conscious intent; or imagine the face of one whom once believed this when they discover that they have no control whatsoever over the actions they to perform, but are pulled into the performance of them like an inert body in a raging, insuperable torrent. Others suggest that perhaps what pulls them is not a series of causes and events that is as inanimate and insentient as they are, but that they are the plaything of the malignant hand of a great and unfathomably powerful being, who cares so little for their welfare that he removes from them all power of control over their own fate and crowns himself the ruler of their souls to do whatever to its inscrutable will is deemed most pleasurable. It is not known in which of these three potentials is housed the greater horror.
Cross-posted from here.
A suicidal person walks into a bar one dozen times. The immutability of life hits him in the face and he leaves.
“This is something I must consider, he says to himself, that life is a fact of life and that I must get used to it. Besides, I do not know what death is, and to want what I do not know is a folly that alone, perhaps, of all follies, is deserving of a final renunciation.”
Consequently he descends into a sofa and remains there, satisfied that death, not being sought, shall not seek. A few years later a disaffected man walks into a bar and leaves with injuries on a stretcher. Finding himself on a hospital bed, he looks at his reflection on the wall above him and returns to the thoughts of his youth.
“It seems I cannot run away from death, but neither can I run toward it. I knew this before, and thereby had made my life stable, weary, and had it worn down by routine into a heap of shapeless rubble. What, then, if in all directions I can see only lifelessness, impotence, and effacement, am I to do with my self?”
Something hits him, and this time the suicidal impulse is too strong. He is knocked out. The first zombie begins to walk the streets of earth, opening and closing its mouth, in the sway of insatiable, empty hunger, eating the illusion of humanity that is as air before it to be dispered with a perfunctory breath: “Yes, No, O.K., Whatever.”