ON THE ART AND SCIENCE OF LIVING

Is living an art or a science? The immediate answer, begging to fly off the tongue, is “both.” Remember my reference to chess? There, it is also called a sport, which gives the answer its final improvement, as “all of the above.”

But the answer, so easy in chess, is not that easy when the same question is asked about life. In fact, there is an undeniable incompatibility between living the life as a science, and living it as an art. On the other hand, I would be reluctant in this entry to consider living the life as a sport even though it is an easily conceivable option, and perhaps, an interesting subject of discussion in its own right. The reason why I am not too eager to indulge in it here is that it stands rather apart from the title pair and hardly qualifies as a participant in the discussion going on in this entry, except to say that, at least metaphorically, both the impulsive art of living, and the methodical science of living, can be viewed as games of sorts, and, therefore, both can be lived as a “sport.” After all, the madman German in Tchaikovsky’s variation on Pushkin’s Queen of Spades, may be quite right, proclaiming:

 

“What is our life? --- A game!!!”

Incidentally, my wife’s definition of life as an “experiment,” uncannily combines all three elements in one: a scientific experiment, an artistic experiment, and a “game of hazard” experiment, where the appreciation of the randomness of its outcome comes out in an even sharper relief.

I won’t be seduced into comparing a life of “responsibility,” which would suggest some approximation to an admirably rational life of science, to the irresponsible and reckless life of a profligate (but let us not call him a “sportsman,” please!) even if the convenient word “art” would be the rascal’s most natural excuse. In fact, the most compelling reason to arbitrarily approve of the life of science and to condemn the life of art, would be precisely this kind of superficial distinction.

For better or for worse, although I used to be routinely stereotyped as an authentic scholar, in my scholastic / professional life, in the depths of my consciousness I always knew that I was an artist of life. But, instead of taking it as a given and learning to live in harmony with myself, I was constantly engaged in a stubborn fight with this unwelcome realization. Still, whenever in my life I was trying to develop certain habits characteristic of a life of science to sort of artificially cultivate within me an imported seed of scholastic dedication, I would soon be reminded, in a face-to-face with myself, that such a life was against my nature. Most ironically, there must have been plenty of people out there, most of them dead by now, but some still alive, who would have bet their paycheck on me belonging to the “life sportsman” category, and there is no sense in fighting that impression. I confess that this impression is exceedingly powerful…

Whether it needed to be seen as one of my shortcomings, and therefore corrected, or a distinctive personality trait, to live with for the rest of my life, in case I wanted to be me, and not somebody else, was hardly a case for psychology, but rather, a matter of personal philosophical consideration.

And, once again, it was Nietzsche to the rescue… Not that I ever wanted to live my life by the standards of his “approval” (such a thought never even entered my head), but it was always nice to find an authoritative excuse for the natural eccentricity of my character (which however I was always anxious to suppress, to the best of my ability in all of my social contacts) in the persona of the great thinker, for whom I have had the greatest respect and admiration, regardless of whether I agreed with some of his specific views, or not…

So, here, again, are a few gems from Nietzsche’s On the Advantage and Disadvantage of History for Life, Section 7.---

On life as an art--- “That is just how it is with all things great ‘which without some madness ne’er succeed,’ as Hans Sachs says in (Richard Wagner’s) Die Meistersinger. But every people, every man, who wants to become ripe needs such an enveloping madness, such a protective and veiling cloud.”

And now, on life as a “science:” “One sees cause to triumph in the fact that ‘science now begins to rule life.’ Perhaps this will be achieved, but surely a life like this is not worth much, as opposed to a life ruled not by knowledge, but by instincts and powerful illusion. But then, it is not to be an age of finished, ripe personalities, but of common, maximally useful labor.”

It is clear here, without any additional superfluous comment on my part, where Nietzsche’s sympathies are invested. And as I am endlessly blaming myself these days for having failed to live my life scientifically, it is not so much that I regret following Nietzsche’s choices (after all, I have probably lived according to my own nature), as I regret not realizing, from the early beginning of my conscious being, the whole gamut of the inevitable implications which living according to my nature was to entail, and not making the necessary conclusions and adjustments.