On Autobiography

When one writes anything it is never specifically for oneself.  Even though we may say it is, and even the most honest of men have said it; however, there is still the realization and the desire to be read.  Even if one is at the same time afraid to be read, and wishes to destroy his work; which, has been the occasion of many great writers and almost the fate of many great classics.  Nonetheless, there is a desire in people who write to truly write; even if they know that what they write will not be known too many, if anyone.  Perhaps, it is because they are writing to be read by themselves at a later date?  Maybe it is a desire to confess and tell their story; to re-live their past experiences as they write it?  And thus we come to the two-fold purpose of writing.  It is to open yourself up to others for yourself.  For all great writing, that will never get old and never be timely, this is what is needed in the writer.  The writing must be you yourself, and when you write something there must be a piece of your soul in that writing that you might find frightful for someone else to read, and yet it is something that you wish others to know about you.  This is what is untimely in something that is written.

There are writers who decieve (entertain), they do not write of themselves or ‘confess’, they tell stories where only the most superficial parts of their being (soul) are visible.  These works are timely, and they are not written as a means to reach out to people and show them what is truly inside them, but to decieve them about themselves, or to not talk about themselves at all, and just tell a good story that follows a common formula for fiction.  The feeling the writer feels towards these writings is just as impersonal as a business man towards a good report that he has just sent off to his boss or a student who just finished writing an essay forced on him by his teacher.  This is what is timely in writing.

Thus writers of autobiographies can fall into these two categories.  One wishes to show himself as he is to himself, his friends, and the public.  The other wishes to show himself as he is not to the public (perhaps even to himself and his friends).  The former wishes to achieve a certain form of immortality for his life, by writing it on paper and letting it be remembered for years after he himself, who had these memories, has died.  The latter wishes for immediate fame, it is a tool for his own image and thus false and vain, and he may even wish to be remembered after he is dead, perhaps imagining that he might hear these praises?

If a person who writes an autobiography is young and of a noble heart he does so to ‘get his bearings straight’.  He uses it as a focus to see where he should go and what he should do in the future.  If one is older and at the end of one’s life it is that desire to re-live one’s life and to achieve that form of immortality that I stated above. 

We Hyperboreans

“We are hyperboreans; we know very well how far off we live.”
-Nietzsche.
I can be surrounded by people, and yet I will still feel alone; actually, I even feel more alone when surrounded by them. It is a feeling of complete isolation. I can be touching someone, but the gap between us will still feel too great for me. I will still feel that they can never come to where I am, and I will never go to where they are. I am guessing that this is the feeling that one gets when one becomes hyperborean:
“Neither by land nor by sea will you find the way to the hyperboreans.”
-Pindar
I cannot help but think that the reason for this is that we think differently from others – from everyone else! We dream things that they do not, and we cannot help but “roll our eyes” at what others dream for and want in life. We cannot be happy living as we do in a reclusive state: never doing anything to change the real world into that of our dreams. Having to suffer through modern life by working, socializing and being polite. It is exhausting constantly resisting to unleash an attack on an enemy, but what else can we do? For there is no real enemy to fight, and there is no real place to build. Thus our minds become tortured, wanting to act, but having no idea how to, and knowing that holding out is our best option. Our minds then became dark:
“We thirsted for lightning and deeds and were most remote from the happiness of the weakling “resignation.” In our atmosphere was a thunderstorm; the nature we are became dark – for we saw no way.
- Nietzsche
It is a difficult and depressing thing, but what else can I say? It is how I feel. When a man is separated from what he can do he cannot help but feel gloomy, like an athlete in his prime cut off from the sport he loves so much, and like that athlete who can only be happy again once he is reunited with that sport he knows so well; thus, we hyperboreans can only be happy when we are able to work towards a goal that we can affirm with our in most being, and therefore strive to make our dreams become reality; afterall, what is the formula to our happiness?
a Yes, a No, a straight line, a goal.
-Nietzsche