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A review by hadeanstars
The Conquest of Happiness by Bertrand Russell
2.0
There is a consistent thread running through much of the new age spiritualism of our times, it is most easily rendered apparent through the understanding of the dichotomy between the head and the heart, the measurable of rational science and the immeasurable of non-rational wisdom; I have more than a passing familiarity with both; and I know in which direction I find the greater value. The debate polarises even the lowliest and most benighted thinkers, so of course it became especially interesting to me after reading Bertrand Russell’s classic of philosophical thinking: “The Conquest of Happiness”, because he makes a direct reference – albeit unintentionally – when he deconstructs the concept of Byronic Unhappiness. Ironically, Russell argues entirely from the head against the Byronic heart. When I first read the discussion – which I will summarise forthwith – I was initially sympathetic to Russell’s argument; but then, after walking ten miles by the sea and thinking it through, I am far less enamoured and I feel quite comfortable with declaring for Byron at this point.
Here is the argument. Russell claims that Byronic Unhappiness is propounded in the great man’s poetry, in the underlying angst of it which seems to suggest that “all is futility”, in the sense that people toil throughout the long days of their lives and in the end, it all comes to nought; thus – according to Byron, implicitly at least – the enlightened man understands this futility innately and is thus filled with a great yearning discontent, a void that cannot be filled – and here I am adding, because I feel that Byron would have understood this – by normal means. Russell argues though that this in itself does not make life an exercise in futility (and again, I don’t believe that even Byron would have drawn this conclusion, I actually think that Russell’s argument was based upon a false, or at least somewhat shaky premise) because there is still a practical point to things, yes, you may toil your whole life to procure material gain and then you can pass those results of your toil onto your children; the world goes on, all is as it should be and (crucially) there is no requirement to feel this existential angst as a result.
I think though that Russell has missed the point. Byron, surpassing the limiting strictures of the logical mind has entered into the numinous state; his angst is an end in itself, it is a feeling-toned experience of life that is its own justification; Byron lived (and died) in a near ongoing state of reverential ecstasy; he was the world’s first, and the archetypal birthing point of the rock star.
There is a story that tells of how Byron with the poet Shelley (and Shelley’s future wife Mary), spent a “wet, ungenial summer” at the home of his personal physician, John William Polidori in Switzerland, at the Villa Diodati by Lake Geneva. In that short, difficult time, Polidori wrote The Vampyre after being inspired by a tale of Byron’s making, the first example of the entire vampire genre; while Mary Shelley began the story that was eventually to become Frankenstein, while Byron himself composed the first fleeting thoughts which were to become his never fully-realised magnum opus: Don Juan.
Quite frankly, when one reads of such moments in time, Russell, and his theories, can get stuffed. Bertrand Russell for his own part is probably best known for his collaboration with Alfred Whitehead on Principia Mathematica (which has an alarmingly Newtonian ring to it), an attempt to prove that rational logic could answer the profound; I have not read it (nor shall I, I am no great mathematician), but detractors will tell you that it presupposes a prosaic universe, one that is intrinsically passionless and therefore by definition, does not require any grand Byronic tradition. Put simply, it appears that Russell, through a trick of fate that divested him of subjectively experiencing any great and raging emotional force, did not need to answer to such a condition. Russell went on to achieve another form of immortality, and it seems that each of these men became figureheads for their respective movements, Byron for the feeling man, and Russell for the thinking one, Russell, very much a man of his time has won out, and we live in a singularly rational age, and are undoubtedly the poorer for it. A pox on his philosophy (I say with only the gentlest malice), because neither he nor Byron for that matter, can escape the damning indictment of their individual natures. This (of course) is why there is an inevitable and inescapable realisation awaiting any person who has a view to discover meaning in this life; it is the blind watchmaker in reverse…
Here is the argument. Russell claims that Byronic Unhappiness is propounded in the great man’s poetry, in the underlying angst of it which seems to suggest that “all is futility”, in the sense that people toil throughout the long days of their lives and in the end, it all comes to nought; thus – according to Byron, implicitly at least – the enlightened man understands this futility innately and is thus filled with a great yearning discontent, a void that cannot be filled – and here I am adding, because I feel that Byron would have understood this – by normal means. Russell argues though that this in itself does not make life an exercise in futility (and again, I don’t believe that even Byron would have drawn this conclusion, I actually think that Russell’s argument was based upon a false, or at least somewhat shaky premise) because there is still a practical point to things, yes, you may toil your whole life to procure material gain and then you can pass those results of your toil onto your children; the world goes on, all is as it should be and (crucially) there is no requirement to feel this existential angst as a result.
I think though that Russell has missed the point. Byron, surpassing the limiting strictures of the logical mind has entered into the numinous state; his angst is an end in itself, it is a feeling-toned experience of life that is its own justification; Byron lived (and died) in a near ongoing state of reverential ecstasy; he was the world’s first, and the archetypal birthing point of the rock star.
There is a story that tells of how Byron with the poet Shelley (and Shelley’s future wife Mary), spent a “wet, ungenial summer” at the home of his personal physician, John William Polidori in Switzerland, at the Villa Diodati by Lake Geneva. In that short, difficult time, Polidori wrote The Vampyre after being inspired by a tale of Byron’s making, the first example of the entire vampire genre; while Mary Shelley began the story that was eventually to become Frankenstein, while Byron himself composed the first fleeting thoughts which were to become his never fully-realised magnum opus: Don Juan.
Quite frankly, when one reads of such moments in time, Russell, and his theories, can get stuffed. Bertrand Russell for his own part is probably best known for his collaboration with Alfred Whitehead on Principia Mathematica (which has an alarmingly Newtonian ring to it), an attempt to prove that rational logic could answer the profound; I have not read it (nor shall I, I am no great mathematician), but detractors will tell you that it presupposes a prosaic universe, one that is intrinsically passionless and therefore by definition, does not require any grand Byronic tradition. Put simply, it appears that Russell, through a trick of fate that divested him of subjectively experiencing any great and raging emotional force, did not need to answer to such a condition. Russell went on to achieve another form of immortality, and it seems that each of these men became figureheads for their respective movements, Byron for the feeling man, and Russell for the thinking one, Russell, very much a man of his time has won out, and we live in a singularly rational age, and are undoubtedly the poorer for it. A pox on his philosophy (I say with only the gentlest malice), because neither he nor Byron for that matter, can escape the damning indictment of their individual natures. This (of course) is why there is an inevitable and inescapable realisation awaiting any person who has a view to discover meaning in this life; it is the blind watchmaker in reverse…