The Argus Imperative

You are unlikely to meet a snail that drawls on and on about how gooey or shiny or slow or drawly them snails are; even when they are called something stylish like "escargot" by the Spanish. You are unlikelier to find a civilized Spanish snail saying this because in all likelihood, the only civilized Spanish snails you meet will be dead appetizers or main courses in a casa somewhere!

Us humans though, are a different story. We do like to go on and on and on about ourselves. Analyzing ever little detail. Henry David Thoreau, one of the smarter humans to do so, had this to say:

"The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation... What is called resignation is confirmed desperation. From the desperate city you go into the desperate country, and have to console yourself with the bravery of minks and muskrats... A stereotyped but unconscious despair is concealed even under what are called the games and amusements of mankind. There is no play in them, for this comes after work. But it is a characteristic of wisdom not to do desperate things."

I actually used to agree with this guy... even when quoted out of intended context. It is a pessimistic view, and perhaps talk of Minks and Muksrats is just as disappointing as elaborately showing up Snails; but it does offer the escape route of wisdom.

And which one of us hasn't felt as though the life we live is a veneer covering something much darker? It is an act that begins with our first waking moment, and ends about 34 uncomfortable seconds before we fall asleep, finally face to face with the chasm of uncertainty and aloneness that we spent the day denying.

But increasingly, I'm beginning to understand that this "reasonable intelligence" that Thoreau talks about, or any elaborate philosophy and explanation it throws up isn't really the "way out" of desperation. It is a false comfort custom made for and by the myopic.

Really, any "reasonably intelligent" view is also a pessimistic view that speaks of futility and meaninglessness and so on. And anyone painfully analytical enough to try to live by it will simply kill himself or herself through a sheer "couldn't care less if I lived or died" attitude...

So what is it then that keeps us going?

I call it the Argus Imperative. We are our own Odysseuses, and we are our own pet dogs, caught up in an act of blind self loyalty that will not let us die peacefully with a last wag until we recognize ourselves for what we truly are; until we complete our own personal odyssey. (If you didn't get what I'm talking about, read the note at the bottom explaining Arguses in general).

Because you see, you cannot hope to understand what your odyssey is about until it actually ends (as in Odysseus' case)! Until one day you are finally face to face with a pinnacle of victory or with utter ruin, all your plans and purposes and actions are like the writhing motions of a salmon desperately swimming upstream past the Grizzly's jaws (the vast majority die before they lay eggs) and what's keeping you alive in the insufferable time before it ends is your Argus Imperative Personal Edition v1.0...

Sigh... enough animal metaphors I think. Aye, I be in a black mood. And I know why.

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Note: The Mythical Argus

In fact, there are five Arguses in Greek mythology... Argus (Argo) was the man that built a ship (the Argo) - thus lending his name to Jason and the Argonauts on their quest for the golden fleece.

Argus Panoptes (Argus "all eyes") was a hundred eyed giant that a jealous Hera set as a guard over Io (who was disguised as a cow) to keep her safe from Zeus' amorous attentions in Greek mythology. To free Io, Zeus got Hermes to take the guise of a shepherd and tell Argus boring stories that put all his eyes to sleep and then to behead him. Hera, in fond memory, preserved Argus' eyes in the tail of the peacock. (With a hundred eyes, imagine if this guy got myopic or hyperopic and needed glasses... hehe)

The relevant Argus here, was Odysseus' dog. At the end of Homer's "Odyssey", when Odysseus returns to his home disguised as a beggar, only his wet nurse Eurycleia and his faithful dog, Argus recognize him for who he truly is. Of course, once he recognizes his master, Argus dies in faithful bliss, as though he was hanging on just waiting for his return.

The other two Arguses in mythology are useless. More contemporarily though, Argus Filch is the caretaker of Hogwarts Castle in J K Rowling's Harry Potter series of books. A squib, the poor man is friendless except for his cat, Mrs. Norris; but is ever watchful - a nod to Argus Panoptes.

Ah the wonderful world of mythology!