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tomasz99's review against another edition
5.0
Rezonowała ze mną podczas jej czytania i dużo przemyśleń mamy podobnych. Końcówka niestety bardzo niesatysfakcjonująca.
rickyturner's review against another edition
5.0
I've never found a piece of writing before that so vividly mirrors my own spiritual process as this. My life was very different than Tolstoy's, of course, and the Russian Orthodox church is extremely different from the fundamentalist Baptist church I grew up in, but the observations are the same, and the struggle to find the truth and warmth of Jesus in spite of it all is the same.
I love reading Tolstoy's religious writings, because he is one of the few in the category that I have found that isn't afraid to say exactly what he's feeling or thinking. Many Christians try to be diplomatic, so as not to offend or lead people astray. This is largely because Christian authors are put on a pedestal that they don't belong on. Tolstoy says exactly what he's feeling, and though he wasn't right about everything, it provides a very raw and honest look at the spiritual journey of a troubled thinker.
Best 25 cents I've ever spent.
I love reading Tolstoy's religious writings, because he is one of the few in the category that I have found that isn't afraid to say exactly what he's feeling or thinking. Many Christians try to be diplomatic, so as not to offend or lead people astray. This is largely because Christian authors are put on a pedestal that they don't belong on. Tolstoy says exactly what he's feeling, and though he wasn't right about everything, it provides a very raw and honest look at the spiritual journey of a troubled thinker.
Best 25 cents I've ever spent.
rvandenboomgaard's review against another edition
5.0
This work initiated a seminal turn in my perspective. Although I cannot, will not, nor want to explain this right now, I do feel, intuit and believe it without a doubt.
Tolstoj brilliantly touches upon a theme that I have been considering since the start of my studies in philosophy; the inadequacy of pure rationality in the living of our lives.
Tolstoj argues, although less emphatically so, that rationality can ultimately only lead to negative conclusions, to denial; never to positive conclusions, to affirmation. Or at least this is the case in relation to the question of the meaning of life. All of this follows, and founds, his contemplation of the logical necessity of suicide. In this work, one of many things he discusses is his struggle with the inclination he has to commit suicide in face of the meaninglessness of life.
And indeed, when following the rational route, bound and founded by restrictive, one-dimensional, purely meaningless logic, there is no other option; if life is indeed meaningless, and indeed evil, why continue living it?
Still, despite the depths he has reached already in these contemplations, there is a fickle power that withholds him from the act; and it is not simple, cowardly fear. No, it is the nagging sense that something is wrong in his argumentation. That there is something he has not taken into account in his contemplations of the necessity of suicide in the face of the meaninglessness of life.
This something is the inadequacy of rationality, the notion that there are more explicative faculties that do not follow the means of rationality. At first, Tolstoj speaks of irrationality. Later, this becomes belief. Initially, this is belief as performed in institutionalised religion, the very system of which he discarded at the start of this text, and at the start of his life.
Then, he notices that it is not the belief of a religion, as there is a multitude of religions; all professing the truth, and all professing the falsity of the others. Still, Tolstoj recognises there is something to belief. This dynamic he explains by the inherent necessity of force, coercion, subjugation that is native in humans, and in the streamlining of human relations.
What he comes to, then, is a more general or transcendent form of belief. Belief as a counterweight or counterpart to rationality. Belief as that which provides the irrational reason, the reason that is not subject to knowing, for the living of life. And this he has found not in the thought of all the wise, no, those were mere digressions from the path of life, parasites on the fruits of the labour of its fields.
Tolstoj found this wisdom in those we tend to deem unwise, uneducated and without sovereignty; the simple people, those that work to support the life of the generations, the species. They do not wonder about the meaning of life, and although this — indeed — often has to do with an incapacity to see the rational implications of the question of the meaning of life, as the question itself they do see, they simply live it from the belief they have therein.
Now, I would say this belief has nothing to do with God. Merely with that which we mean when we use the moniker ‘God’. Truthfully, I believe that ‘God’ is — in most cases — a substitution for our individual self. With belief in our self, possibly our self as part of an indefinite whole, the absolute, most troubles of life would be resolved. Rationally, this definitely does not work out, is completely incorrect.
Luckily, that might very well not be all there is to life.
Tolstoj brilliantly touches upon a theme that I have been considering since the start of my studies in philosophy; the inadequacy of pure rationality in the living of our lives.
Tolstoj argues, although less emphatically so, that rationality can ultimately only lead to negative conclusions, to denial; never to positive conclusions, to affirmation. Or at least this is the case in relation to the question of the meaning of life. All of this follows, and founds, his contemplation of the logical necessity of suicide. In this work, one of many things he discusses is his struggle with the inclination he has to commit suicide in face of the meaninglessness of life.
And indeed, when following the rational route, bound and founded by restrictive, one-dimensional, purely meaningless logic, there is no other option; if life is indeed meaningless, and indeed evil, why continue living it?
Still, despite the depths he has reached already in these contemplations, there is a fickle power that withholds him from the act; and it is not simple, cowardly fear. No, it is the nagging sense that something is wrong in his argumentation. That there is something he has not taken into account in his contemplations of the necessity of suicide in the face of the meaninglessness of life.
This something is the inadequacy of rationality, the notion that there are more explicative faculties that do not follow the means of rationality. At first, Tolstoj speaks of irrationality. Later, this becomes belief. Initially, this is belief as performed in institutionalised religion, the very system of which he discarded at the start of this text, and at the start of his life.
Then, he notices that it is not the belief of a religion, as there is a multitude of religions; all professing the truth, and all professing the falsity of the others. Still, Tolstoj recognises there is something to belief. This dynamic he explains by the inherent necessity of force, coercion, subjugation that is native in humans, and in the streamlining of human relations.
What he comes to, then, is a more general or transcendent form of belief. Belief as a counterweight or counterpart to rationality. Belief as that which provides the irrational reason, the reason that is not subject to knowing, for the living of life. And this he has found not in the thought of all the wise, no, those were mere digressions from the path of life, parasites on the fruits of the labour of its fields.
Tolstoj found this wisdom in those we tend to deem unwise, uneducated and without sovereignty; the simple people, those that work to support the life of the generations, the species. They do not wonder about the meaning of life, and although this — indeed — often has to do with an incapacity to see the rational implications of the question of the meaning of life, as the question itself they do see, they simply live it from the belief they have therein.
Now, I would say this belief has nothing to do with God. Merely with that which we mean when we use the moniker ‘God’. Truthfully, I believe that ‘God’ is — in most cases — a substitution for our individual self. With belief in our self, possibly our self as part of an indefinite whole, the absolute, most troubles of life would be resolved. Rationally, this definitely does not work out, is completely incorrect.
Luckily, that might very well not be all there is to life.
deboraha's review against another edition
challenging
hopeful
informative
reflective
medium-paced
4.25
emelir's review
3.0
‘’(...) thousands of us, contradicting and abusing one another, published and wrote with the aim of teaching others. Failing to notice that we knew nothing, that we did not know the answer to the most basic question of life – what is good and what is evil – we all spoke at the same time, never listening to one another. At times we indulged and praised each other in order to be indulged and praised in return, at other times we grew angry and shrieked at each other, just as if we were in a madhouse. (...) It is now clear to me that there was no difference between our behaviour and that of people in a madhouse; but at the time I only dimly suspected this and, like all madmen, I thought everyone was mad except myself.’’
Jag har svårt att riktigt samla tankarna kring denna lilla bok. Det är visserligen Tolstojs personliga bekännelser kring sitt sökande efter meningen med livet, men i en stor del av boken står han mest bara och trampar omkring. Han upprepar gång på gång hur det inte finns någon mening med livet, och att skapa sin egen mening finner han inte är tillräckligt. I sin existentiella kris lämnar han även sin tro bakom sig. Inte ens den kan ge honom de svar han söker. Han vänder sig till Schopenhauer, Salomo, och Buddha. Men även där tar det stopp. Ingen tycks kunna ge honom ett svar som är tillfredsställande nog i jakten efter mening. Han påpekar likväl hur otroligt förödande det är att alla stora tänkare, genom alla tider, någon gång har burit på tankar som liknar hans egna. Men ändå har det inte uppkommit något ordentligt svar på vad meningen med livet faktiskt är (enligt honom då). Vilket enbart bidrar till en ännu starkare förtvivlan hos honom. Men tillslut leder dock hans envisa trampande till att han börjar söka sig bortom sin egen vardag, och bortom de lärda personerna i hans omgivning och allt han någonsin vetat om. Han söker sig istället till det vanliga folket där han finner något som är genuint och av värde. Ett annat typ av liv, och där kristendomen är ständigt närvarande (men på ett annat vis än i hans egen klasstillhörighet). Här finner han någon slags mening, och med tiden börjar han likväl att hitta tillbaka till sin egen tro. Men denna gång från en ny synvinkel – alla nya erfarenheter och lärdomar har kommit att lägga ett nytt ljus över Gud. Och där börjar hans mening med livet att uppenbara sig.
Det kanske var en lite halvdålig idé att gå direkt från Cioran till Tolstoj i dessa tankar, för om Cioran slår ner gräset till jorden, så går Tolstoj där med en slö lie och liksom tafatt slår ner några strån här och var. Han är pessimistisk till livet, men inte tillräckligt för att det ska ge någonting. Han ställer sig mest emot det som tidigare har sagts, och tycker inte att någonting är tillräckligt (förrän han hittar tillbaka till sin tro då). Allt är fel, och alla har fel typ. Vilket blir lite tröttsamt tillslut. Men ja, det det är ju också en bok som består av hans personliga bekännelser så det får ju vara så liksom. Tror jag mest bara saknade Ciorans humoristiska butterhet :))
Jag har svårt att riktigt samla tankarna kring denna lilla bok. Det är visserligen Tolstojs personliga bekännelser kring sitt sökande efter meningen med livet, men i en stor del av boken står han mest bara och trampar omkring. Han upprepar gång på gång hur det inte finns någon mening med livet, och att skapa sin egen mening finner han inte är tillräckligt. I sin existentiella kris lämnar han även sin tro bakom sig. Inte ens den kan ge honom de svar han söker. Han vänder sig till Schopenhauer, Salomo, och Buddha. Men även där tar det stopp. Ingen tycks kunna ge honom ett svar som är tillfredsställande nog i jakten efter mening. Han påpekar likväl hur otroligt förödande det är att alla stora tänkare, genom alla tider, någon gång har burit på tankar som liknar hans egna. Men ändå har det inte uppkommit något ordentligt svar på vad meningen med livet faktiskt är (enligt honom då). Vilket enbart bidrar till en ännu starkare förtvivlan hos honom. Men tillslut leder dock hans envisa trampande till att han börjar söka sig bortom sin egen vardag, och bortom de lärda personerna i hans omgivning och allt han någonsin vetat om. Han söker sig istället till det vanliga folket där han finner något som är genuint och av värde. Ett annat typ av liv, och där kristendomen är ständigt närvarande (men på ett annat vis än i hans egen klasstillhörighet). Här finner han någon slags mening, och med tiden börjar han likväl att hitta tillbaka till sin egen tro. Men denna gång från en ny synvinkel – alla nya erfarenheter och lärdomar har kommit att lägga ett nytt ljus över Gud. Och där börjar hans mening med livet att uppenbara sig.
Det kanske var en lite halvdålig idé att gå direkt från Cioran till Tolstoj i dessa tankar, för om Cioran slår ner gräset till jorden, så går Tolstoj där med en slö lie och liksom tafatt slår ner några strån här och var. Han är pessimistisk till livet, men inte tillräckligt för att det ska ge någonting. Han ställer sig mest emot det som tidigare har sagts, och tycker inte att någonting är tillräckligt (förrän han hittar tillbaka till sin tro då). Allt är fel, och alla har fel typ. Vilket blir lite tröttsamt tillslut. Men ja, det det är ju också en bok som består av hans personliga bekännelser så det får ju vara så liksom. Tror jag mest bara saknade Ciorans humoristiska butterhet :))
alihaider's review against another edition
challenging
dark
hopeful
informative
inspiring
mysterious
reflective
tense
slow-paced
5.0